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 Posted: Sat Aug 05, 2006 11:01 am
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Posted: Sat Aug 05, 2006 11:02 am
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 18.0 - July '06 We find the best so you don't have to. IN THIS ISSUE:1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted and scouted by the best.3. Geek Chic - A Girl's Guide to Geekdom.4. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.5. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.6. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do. 7. Critic's Corner - Showcasing the talents of the renowned Laverne Terres...8. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some. PART I. Next Door Neighbors NEW! Working to improve Gaia's writing environment, The Gaian Press and Deus ex Machina are teaming up for the first time ever. Deus ex Machina is a private (yet active) guild of about 170 members with a hardworking moderation team that dedicates its time to attracting and entertaining their fellow guild members. Currently, a Masquerade is in the works for August 8th, and the public is invited to come and see. Their forums include casual and in-depth discussions, writing resources, roleplaying, and poetry. Just click the banner to visit them! Gaia's Beta Guild Like peanut butter and jelly, Marge and Homer, The Gaian Press and Gaia's Beta Guild have come together at last. See their guild here! It's a small, public little corner of Gaia with about 70 members and a simple, straightforward layout. Beta Lists are posted for those who want a beta or wish to be a beta, and discussions on editing tactics can be found in the Library subforum. So look no further, fellow writers; A good editor is just a click away!  PART II. Latest GossipSerieve ___~New Avatar Expressions! Change your style and liven things up a little. ___~ Word Bump! A fun new game that pays to play. It’s also a great vocabulary exercise! ___~So the other day I was trying to view some peoples’ profiles and all that came up was this cute background and a floating speak box! The New Profiles System looks neat, but you have to set it up first. , by Veive. Nail Viscera is heir to an infamous family of traitors. Captured by the Empire his ancestors left two centuries ago, he is brought to the capital city, a place rife with political corruption, depravity, and vice covered in a veneer of sexual repression. As a series of murders hold the bureaucrats hostage and a plot to destroy the city takes form, Nail finds himself fighting to save it for the same reason he fights his instilled self-hatred: if he won't, who will? Readers! If you have a writing-related site/guild/thread that you would like to advertise (or affiliate!) please PM Serieve or post in one of our public threads. Be warned though, we investigate first to see if it's suitable to be advertised and offer rejections if we find that they are not. No fee will be included, but donations are very much appreciated. In fact, all donators will be listed and thanked publicly in the Afterword. PART I. PoetryListed in alphabetical order by title.The Cake is Grimy, by Jasper RiddleDummy, by AderynMarionette, by Scary FairyPaint Me an Eternity, by Silver CyanideWhat Old Homeless Schizophrenics Think About In Their Particularly Lucid Moments., by Triste-chanThe Cake is GrimyBy Jasper Riddle(Just what have you done?)
Happy birthday to you,
(You sing under your breath, draw the candles on your cake)
Happy birthday to you,
(Another year wasted that you'll never get back)
Happy birthday, dear loser,
(The presents are dusty, mere memories long gone)
Happy birthday to you. DummyBy AderynBy day and night I pose
unwillingly, stretched and molded
like rubber putty.
While blind and deaf I observe
the strivings toward perfection,
discovering within devoid
senses utterly unfathomable
capacity.
Through space and time I reach
for gifts of
comprehension, compassion, and cheer;
for feelings, any feeling
I might be allowed.
Animation is lost, I know,
but what else can I hope for?MarionetteBy Scary FairySome old leather glove
signs the clouds with a two-cent pen;
perhaps I look of more value
in contrast. Aphrodite
calls my name, and glares
at my seat. I wish she would wear scrubs,
so I wouldn't look so mainstream-indie to you.
You're pulling at my strings,
programming my voice to sigh
and stutter,
because that's what girls do,
you say.
I loll my head like some rag doll
you locked away in Fantasy Storage.
The leather is creasing
in your chair, and there's something
in the tone of your voice
that makes me sick [even
for a check-up].
You pull and prod,
before leaving me to write faked
idiocy, and slip
unneeded pills under my tongue. Paint Me an EternityBy Silver CyanidePaint me an eternity
Of sorrow and desire,
Of eyes that drowned in salt and sweat,
And hearts that drank of fire,
And bitter wine that's lost its taste
From arsenic and gold,
And rope that's frayed 'round demon's necks
And needles wet with blood.
Paint me anger hot like stars
And twisted yellow fears
Dipped on a palette chill with greed
And silver-soaked by tears.
And add the oil skimmed from sin
Kept curdling in the mind
And turpentine from mem'ries lost
And joy from love divined.
Paint me fields of scarlet flesh
With silver bullet stars
Ringed by fatal lovers' kiss
And lonely souls afar,
And childhood hope ripped from its moors
And swallowed by disease,
And laughing secrets tucked away,
And lies borne on the breeze.
Paint me an eternity
Of darkness and despair.
Paint me beauty robbed by time
And silver-dusted hair.
Paint me passion driven mad
And dreamer's thoughts deprave.
Paint all the pain in bitt'rest strain
But paint me not the grave.What Old Homeless Schizophrenics Think About In Their Particularly Lucid Moments.By Triste-chanCatholic schoolgirl - all she ever
does on rainy days is give directions;
she says, "Get Off On suchandsuch
exit, baby, and Turn On to Route 66,"
and then she pulls down her shades
like there's a sun to hide ******** that - only a heretic would
wear those miniskirts and chunky
heels without socks, whoring out
harlot ankles on rainy days. She
wears red pagan lipstick -Cleopatra
wore it like that, but then she kissed
snakes of all kinds. That's a color
that spillsclaret on champagne
upholstery, and she likes to put it
in streaks in her hair, like sunrise rays.
"I am the roaming pilgrim on her
knees," she crows, "I am a suffering
servant, and I love every Mammon
master equally, I love all my children
as if they were me."
And she smiles, that's the worst
part of it all. The whole damn world
gave up on altered states of
consciousness back in the 1960s, but
unlike the aging hippies, damn kids
these days don't know enough to
take their nine-to-fives and their
misery lying down Victorian-style with
their mouths closed and their legs
open. No, outside a woman prepares
her wire hanger and a man winds a
belt around his arm and somebody
inhales and holds it as long as he
can before breaking off and giggling
and these goddamn kids, they try
to be happy, even living like this,
like this.PART II. ProseListed in alphbetical order by title.Final Stop to Nowhere, by PiousCornThings Like This Happen, by Laverne TerresFinal Stop to NowhereBy PiousCorn It’d been awhile since my superiors had allowed me to return to Wilmington and visit my family and friends again. I guess that was just one thing that a person willingly had to sacrifice when they joined the military, especially when they voluntarily accepted the job of guarding and protecting top-secret military programs and research facilities every day. Not that I wasn’t grateful for the large sums of money that I received for doing such a dangerous, risky occupation. It’s just that I wasn’t allowed to make the long journey to my house in Wilmington, South Dakota, as often as I’d like to. So every day, I missed my Emily and my two children, Roland and Jessie, more and more. This was only partially due to the fact that the journey from the facility in New Mexico was expensive and time-consuming, but also because no matter how trustworthy they knew me to be, my superiors just couldn’t take the risk of my giving away even the slightest bit of information, whether I did so involuntarily or not. As I sat, lost in my own thoughts, another man entered the same car that I was in, and sat on the opposite end of the table, so that he was facing me. Slowly, this unexpected intrusion upon my privacy broke through my broodings, and caused me to look out the corner of my eye at him. Just from his physical characteristics alone, I could tell that he was a scientist, most likely from a research facility quite similar to mine, perhaps even working on one of the projects there, being guarded by another one of the men stationed at the area. Without a doubt, his pale white skin was due to the curse of spending entirely too much time under the pale yellow light of the facility’s dim nitrogen bulbs, and not enough time out in the harsh, bright desert sunlight. His body was skinny to an extreme that was almost unsettling. If anything, he more closely resembled a skeleton, draped with parchment thin flesh, and covered with clothing that only hung limply off of his bony frame. However, all of this only helped me to formulate the hypothesis that I had been constructing this entire time. One look at his face was really all I’d needed, to know that not only was he a scientist, but one who was quite certainly working on something confidential for the government. His face really had only two distinct expressions to it, the first being the look that only very intellectual and studious men get, a sign of great knowledge gained from spending much of their lives in scholarly pursuit. The second was one that I’d been seeing all too commonly during my career, a look of defeat and sorrowful losses, mixed with the never-ending joy of success, serving to create a grotesque mask which showed upon one’s face like a beacon. Too many scientists had given their lives at the facility to create and pursue their one true passion, scientific discovery, the learning of that which was previously unknown and could only be dreamed of. However, when they’d finally gained this ultimate victory and created the crowning achievement of their life, in would come the government, to steal their work and research and warp it into a perverse, violent, destructive mockery of the glory it had once held. All this time, as I’d been casting my scrutinizing eyes upon the man, I was suddenly shocked to realize that he’d never once stopped staring at me either. However, it wasn’t the same analytical gaze that I was using, but more the gaze of a tired man, recognizing a seemingly friendly face in the crowd, one that he only wanted to share some bit of knowledge with, before time, that killer of all killers, managed to finally do him in. I didn’t know where to start or even what to say. I was all too well aware of the fact that he wanted me to ask something of him, anything to get the first, most difficult part of the tale-telling process started, so that the rest of the words could come pouring out, and finish up with the bitter-sweet relief of finally having passed the burden of his knowledge onto someone else. I struggled inside myself, my emotions a raging turmoil within me. I was too curious to just pretend that I hadn’t noticed what I’d seen, and I was certainly unable to bear not hearing this man’s story. However, in the back of my indecisive mind, there was also a selfish part of me, a part that was greatly uncertain as to whether or not I was truly willing to accept this man’s terrible news. Finally, after what seemed like hours of agonizing indecision, the man decided for me. “My name is Doctor Jonathon Phillip Parker,” the man proclaimed, “I graduated from the University of Maryland at the age of twenty-four, with a masters degree in the up and coming field of Chronology. It was a little known fact that a branch of the science world was actually devoted to this, largely in part because the majority of the scientific world scorned us. They satirized us, saying that we were fools to find truth in the science fiction stories of Isaac Asimov. They said that our ideas were as foolish and childish as those who followed religions and looked to God as the answer for everything. Although I was young, and new to the field of Chronology, even I had to face such mockeries from my fellow colleagues. Despite past history as a bright, hard working researcher, it seemed that I could find no place that would hire me to work for them. At job interviews I was turned out time and again, with the peals of laughter and insults still ringing in my ears. I was able to work as a common laborer; I even managed to make a living off of the meager wages I earned from that. I soon came to believe that my life had been a waste, and that I’d spend the rest of my life as such, my precious college education quickly becoming obsolete as the Chronology was mocked away in non-existence. However, one day that all changed. “I’d just gotten home from work, when my phone rang. I didn’t have any friends, and I never got calls from anyone, so I got up and slowly moved to answer the phone. The man who’d called wasted no time with pleasantries, and soon got straight to the matter at hand. He informed me that the government had taken a sudden interest in Chronology, and that they’d chosen me to work with a group of fellow Chronologists on a project that they wanted completed. I was told the terms of my acceptance: limited contact with the outside world, long work hours, and a large salary. None of that mattered to me; I was just ecstatic that my life studies finally had purpose, that I’d be able to embrace my dream of changing the world. I accepted his offer, and was quickly shipped off to the facility in New Mexico. “I soon discovered that my colleagues and I would be attempting the greatest project a Chronologist could ever hope to attempt: instantaneous transportation. Years went by, and countless experiments were conducted. Eventually, after 32 years of hard labor, and thousands of failed experiments, we created a machine that we were certain would achieve our goal. It worked by accessing the time stream, which though invisible exists all around us, and then breaking it long enough to permit someone to enter. Then, while that person was in the time stream, he stood still, while all of creation from all periods flew past him. He’d stay there, until finally, when the right area was reached, the machine would break the continuum of the time stream, and the person would exit. However, we were uncertain how the person inside the time stream would be affected. In the end, however, I decided that since I was the head scientist in charge of the operation, I would go first. I nervously stepped up to the machine, and one of my colleagues started to activate it. I waited in nervous anticipation, until finally, it opened…” And here, he suddenly stopped. For many minutes, I sat staring at him, waiting for him to continue. He calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it up, though it clearly said no smoking on the train; his nerves were too frayed to go without one. Finally, after many minutes of him sitting there, leisurely smoking his cigarette, I finally couldn’t stand it anymore. “Are you going to finish? Are you going to tell me what you saw, what happened after the machine activated?” I asked anxiously. He looked over at me, turned away, and threw his cigarette out the window. “Lousy things those cigarettes,” he said, “I only started smoking them after college, before I started on the government project. I guess that I had something more calming and addicting to do at those other times, but right now, I certainly needed that.” He stood up and started walking toward the end of the train. “Come along then, and I’ll tell you just how this story ends,” he called over his shoulder. I really felt that I had no choice, so I followed him to the end of the train cart we were in, and we stood out in the brisk night air. He looked over at me, cleared his throat, and said, “If there is one thing that I learned after I’d taken my little jaunt through the time stream, it was that there truly are some things that man was never meant to know. I hate to burden you with this thought, but I’m hoping it’ll serve you more as a warning than anything else. Don’t try too hard to find out what happened there. In fact, just stay as far away from it as you possibly can, for if you keep trying to find out what conspired in the time stream, the worst thing that could possibly happen might, and you’ll find out exactly what I’ve seen. I’ll let you consider that last statement; the last statement I’ll ever be making in fact, and let you think about what I’ve said, not only for the rest of this train ride, but for the rest of your life, for you’ll have plenty of time to think about it. However, as for me, this is where I get off.” And without a moment’s hesitation, he walked off the edge of the gap between the trains, and was given a quick, merciful death between the wheels. Things Like This HappenBy Laverne TerresThere's a problem with the future as we know it, the one that we're promised by presidents and popes and parents, and the rest of those authorities starting with titles like Mr. and Mrs. The problem is that it's always better than today and someone's always going to make it big- usually you. The problem is that I'm in it and we always leave out the things that do happen and talk about the things that, as things would have it, usually don't. Birth. Birth was never a good thing to be made by our big guy up there, if we're saying he's actually up there or anywhere. Birth always sparks stupid s**t, like feeding kids too much or buying them things that cost more than you get in a year. So then, they're spoiled, and things that are spoiled get thrown away. I knew one of those chicks. Her parents were worse than she was, at least, but not by spoiling her. She was a junior with a toddler, and her parents had actually encouraged her. I'd been to her place once or twice but they never liked me. Strange, since I was skinnier, cleaner, and cuter than the alien that came from that gal's legs. After school, she'd sit in the soccer field with a baby in one hand and a bag in the other. Smoke would flow up from her lips and nose. From her, cigarettes cost less than a dollar. Crack, less than ten. The problem with holding a bag over an infant was that the little bundle of joy would try to teethe on it. I figure that kid would never be afraid of getting shots. She made a lot of money off of a little drugs, and that kid was wearing better clothes than she was. It probably drank milk from golden bottles with nipples made from real breasts. Tiny full-body pajamas woven in sweatshops from mink fur. Cigars wrapped by exotic women. She dangled the bag in front of my face. "Got a twenty? I'll give half of this to you." Half of it would probably be something like a pound of crack. I didn't have money on me because whenever I did I always ended up buying something from one of those druggies. People were persuasive when they were high. Babies have these soft little heads. Whenever I could I would touch them to see if I could do brain damage, because their bones weren't fully formed so their brains stuck out and touched the skin. I prodded the miniature crackhead's skull. "Do you get an orgasm when you give birth?" I guess buying the drugs anyway were out of the question after that. The bag squeezed into her worn, truck-on-the-side-of-the-road type pocket along with her good humor. "I don't know what you've been taking." Wrong, because everything I took was from her in some shape or form. She said, "Get a life." The baby said, "******** off." It latched onto my finger with its chubby hands. He was older than expected; and I thought he just didn't have a brain. It was probably her parents, teaching him more than they taught her. At least he caught on quick. I tried to imagine him smoking one of his cigars with the women dancing around him like he was king of the Aztecs. Her pocket was buttoned now. I guess being jealous of a toddler wouldn't get me a twenty anyways. I asked her that I could trade something in for a twenty, and she just looked at the midget with contempt. "I already have one of these, you know." We only ever agreed on that birth was the shittiest idea anyone could have thrown out there into the big old universe.  #6 Tis the SeasonBy RushifaWell, summer is in full throttle, and it's time for any self respecting otaku to style their wigs, find their accesories, and count their change. That's right, Con season is in full swing. With the growth of anime and manga in the US and around the world, conventions are no longer the be-all, end-all of otaku life; but they are still an important part of the fandom. Conventions are, and have always been, a wonderful way of connecting with your fellow fans. No matter what your passion, you can find those who share it here. If you're a gamer, prepare to spend an unending period of time in the Gaming Rooms. If you're a cosplayers, spend your time wandering the halls and attending the cosplay contest/masquarade. If you're simply interested in catching up on the lastest hot series, have fun in the various video rooms. For virgin con-goers, remember to pace yourselves. Look at the schedule ahead of time, and highlight or cirlce the panels you want to go to. Then, prioratize, and kill the spare hours in the game and video rooms. But, don't forget about food! Bring some small munchies in your purse or bag, and unless you really want to shell out precious cash on hotel food, buy your room's supply of food at a super market before hand. As far as costume go, there are a few tricks you can follow to make sure your costume looks as good as it can. -First off, don't skimp on the details. Accesories always improve the impression of a costume, and makes posing a lot easier. -In production, avoid shiny fabrics. They may be cheap, and they may make your eyes glow, but they don't come out very well in pictures. -When making your costume, make sure to spend some time fiting it to your own body. If you're lucky enough to find perfect patterns for your costume, don't just cut out the fabric, sew it up, and call it good. Create a mock up out of cheap muslin first, and try it on while having a mother or friend make small alterations with pins so it really fits you. There's nothing worse then a costume which doesn't even fit you right. -And, last but not least, don't forget your own camera! The best advice I can give is find your friends, make new ones, and spend as much time as you can just hanging out! The real attraction of a convention is that you can be around tons of people who share and understand your interests. Enjoy yourself! Point! What’s Your Point?
# 17 They Say They Can't Complain
Jeff A. Van BoovenDue to my lack of well, absolutely anything to do this summer, and acting on a tip given to me by a friend, or some complete bullshit I made up (whichever you want), I took off this month to do a little investigative journalism (Pulitzer here I come). My journey started in the small rural town of Applebottom, Missouri. Ok, so it actually started at my house, then to the gas station with the hot attendant, then off to McDonald's for a McRiddle, then to Applebottom, a quaint little town with a population of about a thousand. Life in this small town seems great, or so it would seem. As it turns out, the residents of Applebottom can't complain. That's right, they can't complain. Here, in the foothills of the Ozarks, with fresh mountain streams, clean air, lovely trees, and not a person under the age of fifty-five to disturb them, these residents say they can't complain. I spoke to a local resident, Mr. John Q. Badams, who wanted to remain anonymous, so we'll call him Mr. Fluffles. I asked Mr. Fluffles why he couldn't complain. “Well, you see, it's not a matter of whether I want to complain or not, goodness knows I would, but I can't complain.” Why can't you complain? “I'm a seventy-five year old man, I have trouble getting out of bed, much less making it to the sidewalk. There's no way I could complain.” It sounded to me that Mr. Fluffles was obviously taking way too many pain pills, so I took it upon myself as a pure, kind-hearted American do-gooder, to remove them from his house for his own good. I wasn't satisfied yet, so I drove three towns over, had a smashing lunch, and then retired at a comfortable bed and breakfast for the afternoon, waking up refreshed for a steak dinner, so that I could go back to sleep. The next morning it was up and at'em again, after a filling omelet, hash brown's and a side serving of delicious flapjacks. I was determined to find the cause of this aging populations reluctance to complain. I knew something was up. Old people love to complain, and play bingo, and lets just say that I made a killing at the local bingo hall that night. Anyways, it was off to speak to the mayor. His secretary informed me that he was mute, but I wasn't buying his silence. I knew he was hiding something. He kept trying to inform me of some old war injury, but that did not answer why he was hiding the facts. I did however notice that he was part of the volunteer fire department, which I quickly took advantage of. With a raging three alarm fire burning across town, and the whole town out to support their brave volunteer firemen, I was able to sneak into the mayor's office and find out the truth, the whole disturbing truth. The truth was, these poor old people literally couldn't complain. The complaint box was located a two day trek overland away. There was no way these poor, old people, with their fake hips, fake teeth, and loosing the fight against gravity could have ever made it to the box. They were trapped in this hellhole of a town with no way to voice their opinion. So I, the champion of liberty and justice, charged everybody in the town five dollars for supplies, then set off overland with my trusty patsy, and/or assistant to find this elusive complaint box. It was a trek over hill, over dale, over cliff, over stream, over mountain top, over asphalt, over brush, under ground, over ground, and through a drive through. It was hard, and grueling work for my assistant; he had to carry everything. I just gave him a GPS and a satellite phone to call in the coordinates when he found it. I came in on a helicopter. I had found the complaint box, and I took it upon myself, on behalf of all those in Applebottom, Missouri, to complain. Dear Sir, I would like to complain about the ridiculous amount of time this story has just wasted. I took much of my precious time to investigate this story and as it turns out it wasn't really worth it. As you may know I am a respected journalist and this sort of crockery is not going to win me a Pulitzer. And now for something completely different. SchoolBy Lillian AsheThe room is an oven, the children the bread
sucked of all moisture and slowly,
ever so slowly,
asphyxiated.
The room is a star field, with the few shining bright
and some a slight glimmer--
aptitude but no ambition.
Others, moons reflecting the sun;
more lost to the black hole of ignorance.
The teaching is like a pillow,
under which creativity respires and expires;
and the children, bless their (lack of) souls,
use as the well-worn path to Dreamland.
The desks sigh, and the seats groan
as the pen(cil)s hurry to copy the answers
off their next-seat neighbors.
Whoosh; the balled up paper
(an “imaginated” airplane)
swoops and soars like a stunt flyer
only to miss the trash-goal.
The groans of disgust from the commentating boys
are masked by the chitter-chatter of the twitter-bird children
(a-twittering and -tweetering about the latest and greatest),
the soprano counterpart to the tuneless mumble-grumble
uttered in voices like golems’.
Whinging about the latest assignment leads to
faux-goth notes carved into faux-wood desks
as the children, like so many carrion crows, circle overhead
just waiting,
for the raptors to attack
(poor twitter-birds, to meet such a brutal end).
At the teacher’s glare, like a Gorgon’s saturnine stare,
the room, a not so gentle cacophony,--
as harsh as the most cynical of magazine critics
and pounding like a jackhammer in the middle of Manhattan
--quiets.
The teacher speaks, her voice a monotonous droning
as much as an old cigarette-smoking man with a cold
and a somewhat nasalized vernacular,
as she draws diagram upon diagram on the
ever-so-prettily decorated chalkboard.
Fingers drop the chalk
(the epitome of education),
which falls and catches itself on the rim
at the bottom of the board;
it leaves a trail of fine white powder,
coke on the mirror,
to be killed, wiped into oblivion,
with those self-same fingers
(‘Quick, before Mother sees!’).
Like a latex glove stretched thin over jaundiced skin,
the chalk-colored hand will show no fortune-lines
until it is dusted,
and chalk debris floats down as snow
to the scuffed linoleum floor.
The students will mirror Teacher-dearest,
dusting their own hands so that dead skin
and graphite
fall onto the desks like an offering, rejected, from above.
They are automatons,
like robots,
copying from the board
straight onto the virginal sheets,
previously unblemished as a sacrificial lamb.
The ink bleeds on the paper,
a scritch-scratch punctuating every wound,
in black and blue
(shades of a bruise)
and the many garish CareBear-colors.
Far worse than all the colors--
my eyes, they burn with afterimages;
Give me the sun and a telescope any day
--are the papers and poems
(surely, being made to read this
constitutes child abuse.)
Each word, pronunciation distorted
beyond any recognition,
causes nerves to shudder as they carry
their message to the slowly dying
brain.Code of the NinjaCourtesy of The One and Only Jahoclave5 - ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja - The ninja approves of this; failure to cohere with the ninja's decision is a grave mistake.
4 - ninja ninja ninja ninja - The ninja enjoys this, but he finds flaws.
3 - ninja ninja ninja - The ninja would rather date your sister, but since you may not have one he will take this instead.
2 - ninja ninja - The ninja warns you that he was only marginally impressed.
1 - ninja - If proper confession is made, the ninja will forgive you for taking part in this.
0 - xp - If you are looking for an invigorating experience I would suggest poking your eye out before this; the ninja does not approve.Editor's Note: We're currently lacking in submissions for this department, so feel free to type up a little review (using the ninja's code, of course) to be published for the next issue! Books, music, anime, just about anything goes! So hop on that shiny soapbox already, my critical friend, I know you have something to say...Movie Review: Pirates of the Caribbean, Dead Man's ChestDirected By Gore Verbinski Review By Rushifa Now really, who doesn't love a pirate movie? If you liked the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, you definitely shouldn't miss the second. Although it has a few problems common to sequels, overall it's a hilarious and well done movie. Unfortunately, Dead Man's Chest starts out overdramaticly and, frankly, boring. In fact, the first 20 minutes of the movie were dull, discouraging, and useless. It was obviously trying to pick up where the first one left off, but it simply didn't work. Or perhaps that's because I've never been fond of William (Orlando Bloom) or Elizabeth (Keira Knightlyy). However, once they get to the island, it's all up from there. Keep your eyes open for Jack (Johnny Depp)'s awesome face paint, although it's pretty hard to miss. Beware of old lines. They were wonderful and memorable the first time, but if we wanted to hear them again, we'd have watched them in their original context. Reusing old hit lines is a very common trait of sequels, but in most cases it comes off feeling forced. There are only about 3 instances where an old line is reused in a new and entertaining way. The upside is that all the new, original material lives up to the first movie's standards. Length-wise, be sure to pace yourself with your drink. And look forward to a third movie. We'd heard rumors, but it's pretty much been confirmed; there will indeed be at least one more movie. Oh, and make sure to wait until the end of the credits for a special look into a side character's fate. 4- ninja ninja ninja ninja -characters 4- ninja ninja ninja ninja -storyline 3- ninja ninja ninja -style 3- ninja ninja ninja -substance 4- ninja ninja ninja ninja -overall Got a bone to pick with the reviewer? Want to suggest a work for review? Dying to hear about a new media or genre? Contact Rushifa with your questions and comments. -Laverne Terres critiques:Quote: InspirationBy Milady AderynLife begins with a dove, I would like this a lot more if that was a period instead of a comma. Just because, I guess. But on the other hand I hate 'life.' Yes. Because it's abstract and cliched and stupid and tits or gtfo. Instead of life, how's about you put some sort of image representing beginning, yeah? Any sort. Kind of like a magic trick, it sounds like, dunnit? Quote: driving through blizzard and bearing urgent tidings. Blizzard s, mebbe. Because. That's kind of awkwards, yeah. Ok, uh, we get that they're doin' stuff. Now let's show it all, right? Poetry does equal showyshowy. So instead of saying lozl, brid n da sno, give us the scene, right? Right? Yes, I'm always right. Now, 'bearing urgent tidings.' It's. Blah. Actually very reminiscent of Christmas carols, you know, all that. But anyways, it means nothing to me and doesn't convey anything. Instead let's give it a weight and tell it by the effort of the [metaphorical] bird, or sommut. Yeah? Images images. Quote: A forlorn flight, so the falcon plummets to prey. Where on earth did this falcon come from, eh? And suddenly, falcons! Thousands of them! It's odd. I mean I get that it's the ending of life and whatnot but it's just strange and jerks the reader in a bad way. So far, I'm fine with the idea but I don't like how you're going about it. You know? Describe the dove, describe meeting the falcon, maybe. Et cetera. Et cetera. Quote: A hand poises, pen ready but transfixed by struggle. But why the sudden interjection with hand and pen when we're talking about some birds, here? Quote: The falcon swoops down to pluck away life and the dove falls through, seeking refuge in snowflakes. Really don't like 'falls through,' since it's awkward. Yes. More awkward. Quote: A hand twitches, penning elegant scribbles, curving and gliding like twirled pirouettes across sky blue tiles. Another story is born, born from a breath of life, carried by a white bird. I kind of like this last bit. Vaguely. Mainly the use of 'pirouettes' and 'sky blue tiles,' since they seem to match up really well. Keep that. :XP: But the hand thing ticks me off, I'm afraid. It's just so odd and random and, no. :' (. But you can easily turn this into something- anyone can turn nearly anything into something. I'd suggest Have Your Pi's sticky, the Guide to Poetry, in the OP/L. 3nodding Otherwise, just take what advice I've given you and try again, ok? Good luck! Serive's Note: Lots of things happened this go around: a new affiliate, the new Neighborhood Watch divisions, more poetry, etc. I'd love to get some feedback on what you think of it all, so if you have any comments or suggestions, anything, don't be afraid to speak out!
Until next time!
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Posted: Fri Sep 08, 2006 11:33 am
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Posted: Fri Sep 08, 2006 11:34 am
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 19.0 - August '06We find the best so you don't have to. IN THIS ISSUE:1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted by the best.3. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.4. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.5. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do. 6. Writer's Aide - A few tips to help writers of all levels.7. Critic's Corner - Setting a strange but admirable example, the renowned poetry critic critiques herself.8. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.PART I. Next Door NeighborsWorking to improve Gaia's writing environment, The Gaian Press and Deus ex Machina are teaming up. Deus ex Machina is a private (yet active) guild of about 170 members with a hardworking moderation team that dedicates its time to attracting and entertaining their fellow guild members. Currently, a Masquerade is in the works for August 8th, and the public is invited to come and see. Their forums include casual and in-depth discussions, writing resources, roleplaying, and poetry. Just click the banner to visit them! Gaia's Beta Guild Like peanut butter and jelly, Marge and Homer, The Gaian Press and Gaia's Beta Guild have come together at last. See their guild here! It's a small, public little corner of Gaia with about 70 members and a simple, straightforward layout. Beta Lists are posted for those who want a beta or wish to be a beta, and discussions on editing tactics can be found in the Library subforum. So look no further, fellow writers; A good editor is just a click away! PART II. Latest GossipSerieve ___~New skin tones! Try on a new skin for once. All you have to do is commit avatar-suicide. ___~ New items! Seen any squids lately? ___~ Gaia Newsletter- giving you all the latest in Gaia news. ___~Do you obsessively keep up with your gold count? Things just got easier. See the details on the latest announcement. , by Veive. Nail Viscera is heir to an infamous family of traitors. Captured by the Empire his ancestors left two centuries ago, he is brought to the capital city, a place rife with political corruption, depravity, and vice covered in a veneer of sexual repression. As a series of murders hold the bureaucrats hostage and a plot to destroy the city takes form, Nail finds himself fighting to save it for the same reason he fights his instilled self-hatred: if he won't, who will? Readers! If you have a writing-related site/guild/thread that you would like to advertise (or affiliate!) please PM Serieve or post in one of our public threads. Be warned though, we investigate first to see if it's suitable to be advertised and offer rejections if we find that they are not. No fee will be included, but donations are very much appreciated. In fact, all donators will be listed and thanked publicly in the Afterword. PART I. PoetryListed in alphabetical order by title.Honor Among Theives, by PiousCornNight, by LebkiRose, by AderynWatching, by Nikki S.Honor Among TheivesPiousCornI am the one, the prodigal son,
Slaking my thirst with murderous fun.
They'll worship me and what I have done.
I'll lick the liquid silver nitrate,
Seeping from your metal birth.
Smoking ashes, burn the village.
I'll offer you a safer berth.
We came first, we'll be last.
Unholy matrimony of power.
A matriarch? A patriarch.
We'll usher in the final hour.
By fault of your love,
You're thrice made a toy.
A mutant's loss and two more deaths,
To satisfy your little boy.
I was raised, hearing of His might.
A Spartan's values, I joined His fight.
Until His unforgiven betrayal on a flickering night.
I knoy you, but not myself.
Manufactured memories flow through my mind.
I was a child, but was I really?
I follow a truth I'll never find.
Idolatry broken, I take up my blade.
A mortal wound, I should have died.
Is this the truth, or is it His?
Green glow distract me from shining eyes.
Protagonist, antagonist, I help my foe.
Folly to destroy one's own life.
I turn again, He lies now at my feet.
We enter victory, a world of strife.
I'm assured of His mortality,
I've built a past up for myself.
But mother, just who are you?NightLebkii.
Never trust a new moon. It sparkled,
Yes, but with sadistic rage.
A pale face for its paler deeds.
The fingers of that venomous moon,
Wispy grey bits of fog, and smoke,
Strangled the life out of a mortal.
(New moon means the full is near;
It means new evil is lurking.)
We were all struck down, astonished.
Us, mere handmaidens of the earth.
One of us has vanished.
ii.
I have passed these silent corridors,
But never seen that look in a man's eyes
That speaks of death, and sleep.
Not before, until now, when I found him.
Pale? His face was the color of the moon,
His mouth contorted with a wish:
For a breath, a breath, one more.
His last breath was engaged elsewhere,
Leaving his feet, swinging gently,
For us to grieve. That demon moon
That left a noose for him to die.
iii.
It has been a year, and the white orb
Shines on his tomb with cold empathy.
I wonder, does he feel any light now?
Maybe just the shifting of the earth,
Chimes, an endless cycle of mourning,
And quiet death, and a quiet passing.
He who has weighed life and pain; and
Wept, thinking that life is worth less.
A eulogy for a friend and fellow soul:
Find rest at your eternal home.
Forget your human troubles--I cannot.RoseAderynInstead of a ring, he proposed
by offering me a single copper rose.
The rose was our love, he said,
lasting for generations to come.
I believed him, and leaned my love
in a crystal vase without water.
At first the rose outshone its
sparking iridescent vase,
four finely wrought petals and a leaf
with rippled ridges, all polished
higher than gold and standing
atop a drawn rod.
One day the rose looked
less like gold and more like copper,
severe stem silhouetted
against many-faceted glitter.
Playfully twirling on pointed toes,
feathery motes settled to rest.
Years passed and the copper
rusted into corrosive needles,
while its clear container
glowed like an ethereal x-ray machine,
a prism reforging shattered, discarded
shards of sunlight and moonbeam.
Instead of a rose, I proposed
by offering him a crystal vase
filled to the brim with icy spring
water, straight from the bottle.
I paid extra for overnight delivery,
prefaced with a bulky yellow envelope.WatchingNikki S.Pounding rain ascends
And we are un-prepared
Without any protection, we continue on
Glacier cold, and wet, I walk
You hold my hand - squeezing tighter with every Drip, drop
Large work boots show that puddle who is boss
I cringe when it begins to beat harder
And faster,
But you squeeze my frozen hand once more
And warmth takes me, all over
As we watch the streets gather with
God's tears.PART II. ProseListed in alphbetical order by title.All Kings Wear Crowns - Chapter I, by omgtehsuisoThe Badger Brigade, by Hemp FandangoJackolantern, Soundly Sleeping, by Scarlet JileAll Kings Wear Crowns - Chapter IBy omgtehsuiso The Lord Speaker's discussions had always been a great bit more interesting than the ones he had read of during the preparatory stages of his position. Perhaps it had been because the old world had not permitted free thought, but following the Age of Logic, something greater had come out of it. Then again, there were always mad courtiers with proposals just as absurd. This one, he had decided, was far more promising than most of the others, albeit less engaging. The two men had been talking in the teahouse for hours. It was not like the Lord Speaker to do so, but this proposal was special, and he did not have the patience to wait for it. He took another sip from his teacup. "And you believe there are indeed lands beyond the reaches of our sea?" the Speaker asked. The man nodded, keeping his eyes on his cup. "You see, my lord, we have only traded with the small isles that lie just off Oserra's coast, but modern thought provides new theory -the sort that pushes such an exploration forward." The Speaker was nodding this time. "But there is no physical evidence of such a body of land existing?" "No, my lord." "A lack of evidence makes this information appear quite incredible, Mister Talle. Conjecture does not merit truth." "Ah, but you cannot lose in this expedition, my lord. Imagine how the king would react if a city of gold were found!" The Lord Speaker shook his head. "No, Mister Talle, no. Imagine how His Majesty would react if we found nothing, and all the money he put into your company went to waste. Have you even considered the costs that would go into financing such an expedition? "You would need soldiers, for one, as only the gods know what sort of savages lurk in isolated lands; and ships. Not to mention willing men, who would inevitably need pay. And provisions; seed and livestock, assuming you were to indeed hit land." Talle frowned, and finished his tea. In his hands were a bundle of papers, which he passed across the table to the Speaker. "Please, if you would, my lord, review my notes. If arable land existed for we Oserrans, then surely it must exist for other men." The Speaker took the stack and tucked it under his arm, leaving a few coins on the table to pay their tab. He tipped his hat to Talle, and bid him a good evening before leaving the teahouse. Despite the rain, he began to leaf through the papers. Water smudged ink, leaving faint black trails as each droplet rolled down the page. The Speaker looked back to see Talle, who was unfortunately named, visible only by his top hat, which stood out in all its sky blue glory, in the middle of a crowd of far taller men than he. Something of the first Man walking among Giants, the Speaker thought. The king, he decided, would have to accept Talle's proposal, despite the fact that the venture was less promising than his other expeditions. Talle was famous for what he had done across the Euran Sea, but that had turned out to be nothing more than a large river -and expansion was slowing there. In spite of the promise of new eastern colonies, Talle could most certainly force the king to take a strong financial blow if he failed. But if was such a large factor in the wager that the Speaker was not willing to even consider the consequences. He hadn't the slightest clue how much King Arkain would pour into the charter, but he had an idea that the figures would not be beautiful, according to Talle's initial calculations. The mathematics to calculate astronomical costs -20,000 krents for the first year alone- and he hadn't the slightest clue as to the price for later colonization, and what he would do if something went wrong, gods forbid. He stuffed the papers inside his waistcoat and continued through the streets. The rain made everything more dismal than usual, the Speaker noticed, and even the House of the Voices was something of a grim castle instead of its usual watchful self. The smell of soot and ash from the factories beyond was thick in his nostrils, reminding him that he had never come this far from the House before. The streets, too, had a coating of the stuff of industry, among other waste products. He kept his eyes on the pavement to avoid ruining his boots, although he periodically kept note of the world over his head to avoid ruining everything else. The chamber pots of the city were a frightening thing, to say the least, and he felt that they should have been banned outright, but there was no easy way for citizens -especially the poor- to receive adequate lavatories. There had been talk in the House, in jest, of using the obvious gallons of excrement on the streets for warfare. The king could have used the idea, with the way the expeditions had gone. Barbarians were, of course, too common, and, as history had shown, were quite capable of overtaking an empire. He pushed the thoughts of times past out of his head as he left the streets and returned to the House. There was a certain sense of tension when he entered the building. He knew in an instant that someone had gotten wind of his meeting with Talle, and whoever it was would be beaten, if the Speaker was given the chance. He would not be, of course, if society had its way. Although strong discipline would give men backbone, the king and his court were more concerned with "protecting the working man from abuse," something the Speaker vehemently denied, and despite his position in the House, was ignored. He frowned as he passed through the silent crowd of representatives and made his way to the center of their cramped meeting hall, dropping the papers down on the table at the center of the narrow corridor. On either side of him, the representatives sat, all cold and wooden, like the very halls they made their decisions in. Most of the like-minded political fellows sat together, something the Speaker had, yet again, detested. Clear battle lines made it more difficult for ideas to spread, if the north voted against the south every time they past a bill, and the west allied with the north, but the east with the south. It was absolute lunacy, but the way political thinkers in Kotinach kept spewing out their talk of "democracy" and "freedom." No less King Edric's fault, of course, placing his damnable free-minded son on the throne. Patriarch of the New People, he called himself. Most Oserrans agreed he was a madman, but the Kotinachians would always call him revolutionary. To the Speaker, he was another pompous windbag in power. Come the next king, he knew, the Arkain line would be washed clean from the thrones of both Oserra and Kotinach, and, if the gods were merciful, all the talk of revolution would go with it. He raised the gavel in his hand, and began the meeting as usual. "Our first order of business today," he bellowed, "is a proposal by Mr. Jonathan Talle. I assume that most of you are aware of his efforts in eastern colonization and expansion." Then came the usual "here-here!" from the right, the "fie!" from the left. It had always been a battle of voices in the House, perhaps why it had gotten its name. He remembered from the history books that it had not even been called the House of Voices at its establishment. Arguing began, perhaps over the moral integrity of Talle s movements, and the Speaker slammed his gavel down again. "You will all keep the vestiges of civilized men or I will postpone this session and give a thorough review of your conduct." There was a bit of grumbling from both sides, and for once, the Speaker was smiling, in his mind, at the fact that they could agree on something for once, even if it was hating their leader. "Now," he continued, "Mr. Talle has reason to believe that there are lands beyond our oceans, and seeks our approval for adequate funds to send an expedition." Yet again, arguing. The Speaker let it continue, though, hoping that the volley of political philosophy might shrink the gap between the various regions of Oserra. Then again, it could just as easily have begun to widen it, but he cared little. It was possible that someone would find sense in his opponents argument. The cacophony began to cease, and the tension died as if someone had just pinched a burst vein. The Speaker knew, of course, that the person pinching was not going to be holding their fingers there for long. He began anew. "The capital that will need to be allotted for Mr. Talle and his company totals 20,000 krents." Gods damn these men, the Speaker thought as argument erupted again. He banged the gavel. "ORDER! You may list your grievances following my statements, and with civil tongues. Mr. Talle believes that if the expedition is successful, we will be able to not only spread our power, but also strengthen the domestic industry. As you know, the last hundred years have drained our country of resources, and if the search does indeed turn up results, we can, quite possibly, revitalize our manufacturing. However, the movement may not please the peasantry, which should always be considered. Such fees require taxes, and the higher the taxes, the more voices raised in defiance." Now, he felt, was the time for the House to speak. "You may begin, Mr. Rores." The portly man to his right smiled and bowed, starting the deliberations. Rores looked into the center of the left side of the room and began, despite the sound of some ungrateful politician's fingers rapping against the wood of his desk. Rores was respected among the northern Voices, although many would agree that he was a pompous windbag, a trait which his current speech was displaying. He was, in a word, conservative, and painfully so. "I do believe," Rores said, "that this expedition, if it even uncovers anything, will lead to some sort of oppression." The Speaker frowned. The argument was ages old, although he did not disagree that the idea of the expedition was foolish. "We must remember, my fellow Voices, that our people do not take well to the concept of increased taxes, and such a movement would indeed raise the cost of living." A man stood up in the left side of the room, one the Speaker did not at first recognize. "Mr. Rores has the floor, Mr. Edwards. It can wait," the Speaker said, and then motioned for the man to sit. Edwards did not. "Please sit, Mr. Edwards." "I have an objection to Mr. Rores's argument, Lord Speaker," Edwards replied. Mr. Rores was looking quite miffed from where he stood, and his two fat cheeks were beginning to turn red. The Speaker feared that if the situation escalated any further, the poor man might undergo heart failure. "And this makes your opinion so important that it needs to be heard over Mr. Rores's? Please sit down." "No." Mr. Rores raised a fist at Edwards, and began barking various threats. Several of the men on the right began banging their fists on their desks, shouting "Fie!" again. The Speaker banged his gavel, and everyone in the room silenced, except, of course, for rebellious Mr. Edwards. In the chaos, Mr. Rores had thrown a unused coal at the head of Mr. Edwards, and there was a good bit of blood seeping from his forehead. "ORDER!" the Speaker cried. "I will have order in this House! We are men, not savages!" Rores smiled, finding a segue, and the red left his face. "Savages indeed, Lord Speaker. We have all seen the effects of the growth of our empire abroad, have we not? There were indigenous peoples in the east, once, but if they still live, they are rarer than gold, my good men. Rarer than gold." Rores sat down, and immediately, Edwards stood up, without the permission of the Speaker, and delivered a counter-argument. Rores had to be held back this time, and it took six healthy men to keep the older fat one in his chair. The Speaker would have chuckled at the debacle if he were anything but a politician. It was like some disease had come over the House, and had brought madness with it. The Speaker banged his gavel again, but Edwards continued to blather. He raised his free hand to call the guards, and Edwards gave a shout. "Mr. Speaker, I bid you, please." "Oh, formalities, Mr. Edwards, formalities," the Speaker scolded. "Remove him from my House," he ordered the two sets of guards at the back of the room, but Edwards, knowing his defeat to be nigh, began to speak in a louder voice amidst the growing clamor. The Speaker managed to make out some of his words. "Imagine, my lords, the money! The riches! The trade!" he said, his words as tempting as that of the most adept of seductresses, while the guards carried him toward the doors. He did not struggle, although what he said held the House in silence. "Success will only bring profit, my lords!" he called as the doors shut behind his dragging feet. A large portion of the left clapped, and even some of the middle and right. Deserters in the field of battle, the Speaker thought as he watched them. With Edwards absent from the proceedings, the Speaker called up the next most senior of the men from the left, and felt the political scales shift. "Continuing from where Mr. Edwards left off," the leftist began, "if discovery is indeed made, which we can be almost sure it will be, from Talle's proposal, the profits would be immense. Taking into consideration the risks at hand, I believe that, despite the sum, success is not only inevitable, it is profitable." The left clapped, per the usual tradition. Automatons, the lot of them. The discussion continued for several hours, although the sentiments of both sides began to form one strong opinion for imperialism. The Speaker, torn, quickly moved to the next item on the docket once the debate died down.
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Posted: Fri Sep 08, 2006 11:36 am
The Badger BrigadeBy Hemp FandangoChapter Twelve (a): Pastorama Yes, we’re still in the past. Sara bounded around the corner, robes snapping and feet flying as she desperately tried to outrun the sparkling things that were nipping at her heels. The sparkles -- Sara felt silly for calling them that, but she could think of no better word for the twinkling motes -- washed over Hogwarts like a tidal wave over a small fishing village and left behind a shining residue. The halls behind them were changing rapidly; the floors became white marble, the ceiling raised up and loomed far above and monolithic white columns lined the walls, serving no real purpose. Old tapestries and paintings were cleaned up and restored or, in some cases, replaced completely. She focused her attention ahead, trying to put her mind off the stabbing pains in her legs and the difficulty she was having breathing. She could just hear the sound of the other's heavy footfalls over the sound of her own harsh breathing. Finally, just as she felt she was reaching her limit, she rounded the corner and faced a hall filled with dusty suits of armour. The Hufflepuff entrance! She threw everything she had into a final lunge forward and landed just at the base of one of the suits. She hugged the floor as she coughed violently. Elizabeth grabbed a nearby suit for support as she wheezed and the two Slytherins tried to catch their breath as quickly and with as much dignity as they could manage. Elizabeth watched the wave of sparkles wash over the hall, cresting against each suit, until it was just a few meters away. She held her breath as it surged forward, edging towards the suit protectively. The sparkles washed over them-- and around them. Elizabeth exhaled. The sparkles flowed ahead, rounded the corner and were gone. Around the base of one of the suits, the floor remained stone instead of sleek marble, the wall still made of thick, large and ancient looking stone blocks. The small oasis of normal Hogwarts surrounded them like a small dome. Elizabeth noted that there was a thin line of light where the normal stone floor met the new marble floor. She knelt down to examine it closely and could hear a faint sizzling. Then, with the air of a scientist about to add chemical A to solution B, she held her hand out in front of her and after some hesitation, waved it in the air above the marble and stone floors. She felt an odd tingling as it passed through the invisible barrier of white light. She drew back quickly, cradling her hand as if stung. "What are you doing?" Pansy asked, eyeing her as if she had just licked her experiment. "I wanted to see about this white light," she answered, not noticing Pansy's rude tone. "It tingles a bit." Pansy rolled her eyes and exchanged a glance with Edwina. "Is this the Hufflepuff common room entrance?" Edwina asked. "'Course it is," Sara said, her voice hoarse from coughing. "The sparkles won't go near it," Elizabeth stated. Sara nodded and straightened herself up. "Yes, I expected this," she lied. "Hufflepuff has such a strong... grounding in the..." she hesitated, "in what's left of normal Hogwarts that we get... we're getting away from the... change," she said finally. "Yes." "I guess it does make sense," Elizabeth said, toeing the line of light. "After all, Hufflepuff has been largely ignored and untouched by the TGs so far, so of course our common room would be spared." "Right, right," Sara said, irritated. "Anyone could have figured that out." "Although I was a little worried that it would disappear entirely," Elizabeth went on meekly. "What about Slytherin?" Pansy demanded, pushing Elizabeth aside. "What do you think is happening to our common room?" Sara glared at the older girl. She resisted the urge to spit "Who cares?" and instead said, "It was probably one of the first to be changed." Pansy and Edwina turned pale, exchanging panicked looks. They seemed to reach a decision. Pansy squared her shoulders. "We have to go and see for ourselves," she said firmly. "It might be dangerous, but it's our house and it's important." "Okay, good luck," Sara said absently. She knelt down next to the ring of light and prodded it with her wand. Pansy shot her an annoyed look. She felt her declaration to brave the tacky halls of Hogwarts to check on her house's well-being warranted a little more than that, but she knew better than to try and push a better response. Edwina nodded swiftly at Pansy, took a deep breath and lifted her leg until her knee was level with her waist, as if she were about to start marching. She slowly and carefully lowered her foot over the line of light until the tips of her toes were touching the pristine marble floor. She stood stock still for a moment, her eyes closed, waiting tensely for something to happen. A few seconds ticked away. She relaxed and stepped over the line with little fuss. She nodded to Pansy once more and walked off down the hall. The other girl rolled her eyes skywards before following her friend. Elizabeth, who had been watching the entire pantomime, shook her head. "Purebloods are crazy. It must be the inbreeding," she said. Sara, who had been engrossed with the bizarre barrier around their common room entrance, looked up and glared at Elizabeth. "I mean," Elizabeth corrected quickly, as she felt the temperature drop several degrees, " most purebloods are crazy. Some purebloods are okay. Some are not... that inbred, all things considered." She coughed. Sara's glare didn't waver. "So, how about this line, eh? Weird, am I right?" she asked brightly. Sara sighed and stood up. "The sparkles couldn't touch us either, remember?" she asked. "The TGs ignore us, the rest of the school has forgotten we exist, our head of house has gone missing, and now these sparkles can't come near us." She sighed again and ran her hand through her hair in frustration. "I know these things are connected but I don't know what it means." Elizabeth stared at her wide eyed. "What?" Sara asked, catching her friend's stricken look. "Professor Sprout is... missing?" she asked, horrified. Sara stared at her blankly. "Yes, she's been missing for some time now. Didn't you notice?" "I... well, Alex and I haven't really been attending classes lately," she said sheepishly. "Who's teaching Herbology now?" "Professor Madison 'call-me-Maddie' Lupin," Sara said bitterly. "Except around the full moon, when she 'mysteriously' goes missing." She snorted and turned to the suit of armour. "Are you ladies finally ready to come in?" a hollow voice asked from somewhere inside the helmet. "Yes, yes. 'Secrect Sensor'," Sara said irritably. The armour stepped smartly to the side while the brickwork behind it opened up into a small arch way. "Watch your step," it said as the girls clambered inside. "Thank you," Elizabeth called before the bricks reassembled themselves into proper order. She turned her attention back to Sara, who was cleaning her glasses with slightly more force than was necessary. "Why do you think Hufflepuff is immune to all this?" Elizabeth asked. "I already said I didn't know," Sara snapped. She fogged her glasses and wiped at them vigorously with her robes. "And it's not just Hufflepuff either," she muttered. Elizabeth knew how to recognize the signs just as well as Alex could, and she knew that Sara was close to losing her temper. The lens she was cleaning finally gave up under all the force she applied to it, and suddenly popped out of its frame. She let out a strangled cry of frustration and flung herself into an overstuffed arm chair. "None of this makes any sense!" she raged. She tossed her glasses across the coffee table by her feet and brought her hands to her temples, holding her head and breathing deep. "You were using too much strength on your lenses," Elizabeth offered meekly. "Not that," Sara snapped. She softened at her friend's distressed look. "I mean," she went on, "none of what's happening. It's been, what? two months and we're no closer to saving the school than we were when we started." She sighed and closed her eyes. Elizabeth picked the offending lens from the ground and held it out to her friend, who accepted it with a weak smile. "Thanks," she said. "If I could just figure out what was causing all this, then we could figure out how to stop it," she muttered to herself. Elizabeth sat down on one of the arms of the chair and looked thoughtful. "Maybe Hufflepuff put a strong protection charm around her house? Just in case?" she suggested. Sara shook her head. "I don't think so. I think she would have shared her protection with the rest of Hogwarts, don't you?" Elizabeth shrugged. "I don't know, I never knew the woman." "Although..." Sara trailed off, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "You just might be onto something, Liz." "I might?" "I wonder if this has happened before," Sara said. "Say, one thousand years ago?" She paused expectantly. "Er... maybe?" Elizabeth guessed. Sara sighed. "Hogwarts was founded a thousand years ago, Liz," she explained patiently. "It's possible that Helga Hufflepuff did encounter one of these TGs all those years ago and... and... and then something happened," she finished lamely. She rallied. "Something that probably annoyed the TG into leaving for good." Elizabeth waited in patient silence. "Maybe?" she guessed. Sara slumped back, biting her thumb. "It's worth looking in to," she muttered. "But first thing's first: we have to find Alex." *** Alex winced as she pulled a glob of dark purple taffy from her hair. "That's the only negative side effect," she muttered. "At least, the only negative side-effect if you're the caster. Obviously, there's more to it if you're on the receiving end." Amethyst had exploded spectacularly, coating the area in thick taffy. The pleasure of the purification spell finally working was soon dampened by several realizations. One was that Alex would never, ever want to eat taffy ever again. The second was that there was still at least two more TGs left to purge. The third was that there was another TG, right in front of her. "This isn't going to come out easily," the scruffy girl said, scowling. Her long, rather limp curls had received a great amount of taffy. "You might have to get it cut," Alex remarked, while pulling the gummed purple substance from her robes. The other girl gave her a dark look. "Don't even joke," she growled. Megan did not consider herself to be a vain person (anymore). She never painted her nails or dyed her hair or participated in any of the makeover parties that took place almost nightly in the Uncommon Room, but she found herself unusually protective of her hair. She knew that it was impractical to have such long, curly hair but she didn't care. It was one of the few parts of her appearance that she still liked. It had been a matter of private distress when she discovered her curls were no longer glossy and bouncy, but limp and prone to tangling. She could no longer consider it honey brown, but more of a muddy dark blond, as if her hair couldn't decide if it wanted to be blond or brown and simply waffled between the two. This is all your fault, huffed a soft, tinny voice inside her mind. If we had stuck with my plan, our hair would still have its former glory. Shut up, she thought. She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on less shallow matters. "We need to get out of here," she said. "Amethyst's death won't stay unknown for long, and her friends will be here soon." "That's sort of the idea," Alex said. She peeked around the corner where she had previously been hiding and frowned, finding it empty. "I wonder where that little wanker got to..." she mused to herself. "You don't want to wait here for them," Megan said. Alex looked back at her and quirked a brow. "I don't? ‘scuze me, but I think I do. I mean, that's the whole reason I came to this lousy time period." She stopped and hissed under her breath. "I probably shouldn't've said that." Megan shrugged. "It's alright, I know you come from 30 years in the future." Alex gave her a look of surprise, which quickly became a look of deep suspicion. The air between them became thick with tension. Several dozen questions buzzed in Alex's mind, each clamoring for attention, desperate to be spoken. How could she know she came from the future? Why would she help her? What else does she know? Finally, Alex could take no more and blurted the first question that came to mind. "What the hell," she said. Admittedly, it wasn't technically a question, but she felt it voiced her thoughts succinctly and accurately. "Seriously," she added for clarification. Megan sighed and began to fidget. "Look, this isn't easy for me to explain," she said. "Partly because I'm not entirely certain what it is you're asking, but mostly because it's complicated." "Try me." Megan glanced behind her shoulder before speaking again. "Okay," she said, "but we'll have to make it quick. Ask me as many questions as you can and I'll try to answer." Alex drew another question from the metaphorical hat. "Who are you?" "Megan Filch," she replied. Alex gave her a look of disbelief. "I'm Filch's long lost squib niece," she explained. "I have a cat, but he’s not here right now. We speak to each other telepathically." Alex gave her a look of disbelief. "That ability’s more common than you’d think." "What are the TG?" Megan’s expression became blank. "'Those Girls'?" Alex tried. "You know, Amethyst's group? Well, her former group-" "Ah, I see what you mean," Megan said, holding up one hand and then hesitated. "That's... not an easy question to answer. Um." She paused again, and stared into the middle distance, her brow furrowed. "We're-- They're like... like..." she struggled in silence, gesturing vaguely. She sighed and slumped slightly. "Look, I don't think I can explain this quickly," she began irritably. "There's a lot to go through and I'm not sure I can make this simple..." "Try," Alex invited, leaning casually against the wall. "Because we aren't leaving until you do." Megan sighed again and shot her an annoyed look. After a moment of stillness, she joined Alex against the wall and crossed her arms. "Look," she began at last, "I don't know much about your world, so understand-" Alex quirked a brow. "'My world'?" Megan winced. "Yes, your world is different from the one-- look, let me try to explain and don't interrupt." She took a deep breath. "There are a lot of worlds, those worlds are kind of like yours but kind of not, your world is unique just like every other world, my world is nothing like yours and yes I come from a different world, well... more like an entirely different dimension." She paused for a breath while Alex stared in disbelief. "We-- They-- The TGs come from different dimensions, but they don't-- they didn't-- they're not really from there. They’re not really from anywhere. Do you get me?" Alex's expression remained unchanged. Megan thumped her head against the wall and stared up at the ceiling. "I don't know how to make this clear for you," she said. "Really." Megan bit her lip, her gaze never leaving the ceiling. "TGs all come from different dimensions but they never really belonged there, okay? They don't fit. Instead of trying to change to fit in, they change the world around them to fit them. You follow me?" Alex nodded slowly. "They change... everything. Places, time, people... everything. Even history, if they’re strong enough. You've seen it. What they're doing here is exactly what they did before, in their original dimension. It's what all TGs can do. It's their main power. All that garbage about wandless this, and elemental that, that's just-- that's just the froth. Their real power comes from warping reality to revolve around them. Get it?" " That I can buy," Alex said. "I'm still not sold on the whole dimension crap." Megan just shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you." Both girls lapsed into silence. Megan transfixed on the ceiling, while Alex focused on the floor. "Why come here?" Alex asked quietly, breaking the fragile silence. "Exiled. I told you, they were exiled. They've come here to find... their home, I guess." Megan's eyes slipped closed as a strange emotion washed over her, leaving her feeling unsettled and a little sick. "After they've finished with Hogwarts, they're going to move on," she continued, swallowing those emotions. "They'll keep on going until the entire world is theirs, and then... they'll keep going, still. They won't stop." Alex gave her a look of surprise. "They're ambitious," she remarked. "They're not, really," Megan said. "A lot of them would be happy with just the school for themselves. It's their leader and her little secret group that's got them organized like this." "Polaris," Alex said grimly. "Exactly. She's the leader." Alex risked a glance at the shorter girl. "And you're the one who sent us those notes. You're the turncoat." Megan hesitated. "Yes," she admitted. "Although I don't think I'd put it quite like that." "I would," Alex said. "And you're one of them, huh?" Megan stiffened. "No." Alex raised a brow. "Really? Amethyst thought you were," she remarked. " No." "Then why did she trust you?" Alex asked, suddenly angry. "Why did you pretend to be her friend before you let me blow her into the next world?" Megan gave her an annoyed look. "You were pretending to be a fan," she pointed out. Alex coloured. "That was a tactic." "Exactly." She held Alex's gaze for a moment and looked away. "I was like them. Was. A long time ago." It wasn't that long ago."I've changed," she said loudly. "Right," Alex said. "Why?" Megan fell silent. "That's... personal," she said. Alex didn't look entirely convinced and the other girl sighed. "Someone showed me what the real world was like and it sort of... stuck with me. Happy?" "With a vague non-explanation like that? Ecstatic." Megan could feel her patience slip. "Look, TGs don't see the real world as it is. What they see is the world the way they want it to be. To actually see things as they are can be... jarring." 'Jarring'. Ha. What an understatement. It had been the hardest thing in the world, discovering she wasn't the centre of it. She had discovered that everything she had grown up believing -- everything she invested herself in -- was a lie. She wasn't really that special or unique. It had been hard to adjust. "It goes against everything they believe," Megan muttered. "How did that someone show you the real world?" Megan looked away, her face falling into shadow. "He... looked at me." Alex blinked. "Sometimes, that’s all it takes, alright?" "So... you’re saying if I look at a TG it might reform them?" Alex asked, her curiosity piqued. "I doubt it, he was different. We had a connection." "Right. Okay," Alex said, rolling her eyes. "Why did you help me?" Megan looked at the taller girl in surprise. "Because you needed it." Alex stared and then a sly smile slowly spread across her face. Megan felt as if she had passed some sort of test. The tension lifted, much to her relief. "Fair enough," Alex conceded. "Although I don't know how much help your distraction was." "I think I was good help," Megan insisted. "I mean, are we not covered in taffy?" "You knocked her on the back of her head. A monkey could've done the same thing." "I never said I was a brilliant tactician. Admittedly, I was improvising. I went with what felt right," Megan conceded, flexing her fingers. Alex chuckled and fell silent. After a moment, she asked: "What's the best way to defeat a TG?" Megan whistled under her breath. "I'm not certain, but I think logic," she answered simply. "I've thought about it a lot, and a lot of Them get weakened just by listening to logic. I know I used to. It exposes them to the real world and weakens their hold over reality. Ridicule seems to have an effect, too. It damages their ego, which in turn causes them to doubt themselves and lose their grip over reality." Alex digested this quietly. Logic? Ridicule? That seemed too easy. But then... it made sense, in a way. That would explain how Anastatia was so easily taken care of with the Purification Spell, after they had berated her for her ridiculous behaviour. And the teacher... Alex hadn't been there, but she had heard reports that Edwina and the others had a lively conversation with her before she exploded. She found it hard to concentrate on that tidbit of information when she still had so much to think over. Different worlds? 'Reformed' TGs? A sinister plot for world domination? Alex felt something throb behind her eyes. She gave up on trying to make sense of everything she had just heard, and instead took what she could make sense of to heart and decided to leave the rest for Sara to worry about. Like, if the TGs came from a different world, that meant they were aliens. Alex relaxed slightly. For some reason, the knowledge that they were aliens was comforting. Before they were fighting an unknown force, but Alex knew where she stood. Several rainy afternoons watching bad Sci-Fi movies had given Alex an education on the subject. "Okay," she said, straightening up. "This has been an interesting chat, but now I think we should go and kick those crazy aliens back to their home world." She paused. "We're going to need some bacteria." *** Sirius Black slowed his pace as he approached the Gryffindor common room. His expression, which had been fixed into a serious and dramatic grimace, melted into a look of bemusement. He turned to face the slimy, evil, smelly, horrible rat, Peter. "Why was I running again?" he asked, looking confused and alarmed. The horrible little man gave him an equally confused look. "You said Amethyst was in trouble, so you were going to get her brother." Sirius furrowed his brow. "Amethyst...?" The name had a familiar ring, but he couldn't remember why. He felt like he had just woken from a deep sleep. Had he been dreaming? He could remember the sense of urgency and long black hair, but all of the other details had blurred together and became an indistinguishable mess. He stood stock still, his mind racing to recall anything more specific, but the memory was fading fast. Peter watched his friend with concern. "Maybe we should go find James," he suggested after a while. Sirius nodded absently and took off once more. *** James Potter, most popular boy in school, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and Head Boy sat in an overstuffed armchair in the Gryffindor Common Room, staring at the wall. He didn't know why he was staring at the wall, after all, there must be something better to occupy his time, but he couldn't think of anything. Thoughts of Quidditch practice, school work, Head Boy duties occured to him briefly before fleeing from his mind, leaving no trace of ever being there. He was vaguely puzzled by this. It seemed as though anytime he was by himself, he lost all will to think of anything... except think about the love of his life, Lily Evans. He sighed wistfully. Ah, Lily. He wouldn't have believed it possible, but she was perfect in every way. She was his match in brains and in mischief. He suspected strongly that she was one of the masterminds behind the Maraudettes, an all-female group that rivaled the Marauders in every way. He sometimes suspected they were Animagi, but he hadn't found proof yet. Lily hadn't always been a beautiful, talented, special girl. Before the summer of her fourth year, she was a plump, glasses-wearing dork who he and the others enjoyed teasing. Then, in their fourth year, she came back from spending a summer in America looking several pounds thinner and much, much prettier. James fell almost instantly and that began their sexually-charged rivalry. He sighed again as the portrait swung open and his best friend and the other one scrambled through. He gave Sirius a suspicious look. His best friend had been spending a lot of time with his twin-- with his-- His best friend had spent time with his sis-- Best friend with twin-- "You okay, Prongs?" Sirius asked watching with concern as his friend clutched his head, his face twisted with confusion. "Argh," said James. He sat still for a few moments as the thoughts and memories of Amethyst leaked from his brain. He straightened up once more, feeling vaguely unsettled. "Sorry about that," he said. "It's alright, I know the feeling," Sirius said sympathetically. "So, what are you up to?" James asked, easing back into the chair. "I... I'm not really certain," Sirius said, sinking into the chair opposite James. "Something was wrong, but now I can't remember what..." James shifted nervously, mentally prodding the large twin-sister shaped hole in his memory, which was rapidly filling in. "I'm sure it's nothing," he muttered. The portrait swung open once more, and Orion appeared, striding across the room with a sense of purpose. The three Marauders stared in disbelief at the stunning young woman, not because she was a stunning young woman (that was why everyone else was staring) but because she was a Slytherin in the Gryffindor Common Room. "Oi, Orion," Sirius called, rising in his seat. "What do you think you're doing-" Orion shot him a swift glance, silencing his protests immediately. Of course she was in the Gryffindor Common Room, why wouldn't she be? There was absolutely nothing wrong with Orion walking through their Common Room. She was special. Orion's quick pace didn't falter. Her long, shapely legs took the stairs leading up to the Seventh Year Girls' Room two at a time with ease. At the top, she flung open the door and walked straight towards the only other person in the room; a red-head sitting serenely on her bed, her emerald green eyes scanning the thick book she held in her delicate hands. Lily Evans glanced up briefly and frowned. "Orion!" she exclaimed. "What-" "She's dead," Orion said shortly. "Amethyst was killed, and I think I know who did it." There was a pause. "I see." The other girl sighed and marked her place in the book. "So, why didn't you confront them before coming to see me?" Orion opened her mouth and closed her mouth several times, gaping like a fish (a very beautiful, exotic fish, but a fish nonetheless) as she struggled to explain. "Well, you see--" she tried at last. "Yes?" Lily prompted sweetly. "It's-- I thought you'd want to know first," she said in a rush. Delicate creases formed on Lily's forehead as she frowned. "I see. That's very thoughtful of you." Orion smiled smugly. "Other people might have suggested it was because you were afraid," she went on, as Orion's expression fell, "but I'm pleased to hear that isn't the case." "No, it isn't," Orion muttered sullenly. "Of course not," Lily said lightly. "I believe we should avenge our fallen sister together, don't you?" "Yes!" Orion said, relief pouring off of her. "We have strength in numbers." "I think we should all avenge our sister." Orion frowned in confusion. Lily sighed. "Aren't we missing someone? A certain blue-haired fairy?" Realization dawned on Orion's face. "Lexis!" She threw her head back and groaned. "I forgot about her. Er," she corrected, catching sight of the sinister glint in the other girl's emerald eyes, " I mean, I... I couldn't find her. I think she's chasing after my brother." "I see." Lily unfolded her long legs and slid gracefully off the bed. "Let us find our missing friend, shall we?" She slung one arm around Orion's shoulder companionably. "And you can tell me all about the murderer." *** Severus Snape was in a bad mood. This in itself was not unusual, but the cause of it was. The cause was very unusual, and nauseatingly special. "Severus! Wait up!" the blue-haired ninny called as Snape stalked ahead. "You can't deny our love!" Snape growled under his breath and continued ignoring the irritant behind him, although it was becoming difficult, and he knew he would have to lose her soon. He had left the Hufflepuff to fetch his robe and regroup in the Slytherin common room, but somehow along the way he had picked up a parasite. He knew he couldn't lead her to his house's secret entrance but he wasn't sure how to get rid of her. "Severuuuuuus!" The obvious solution was a well aimed hex, but his attempts at cursing her in the past ended in disaster. He recalled with a grimace the last time he had tried; the spell ended up backfiring against her magical fairy force field or some nonsense, and knocked him senseless instead. When he had come to, she had placed his head in her lap and was cooing over him. He shuddered at the memory. Nonsense. Everything about her was nonsense. Every spell he flung at her ended up being repelled by her concentrated ridiculousness. At one point she claimed his spell failed because he secretly loved her, which interfered with his casting abilities. He tried to explain to her that she was making little sense, and that he hated her, he truly did, but that only caused her to hug him while sobbing. Since then, he had stopped trying to use magic against her at all. The contents of his robe clinked softly, reminding him that there were other options. He didn't normally carry around his potions, but lately he felt it was good for self defense. Although part of him hated the idea of wasting them on these creatures, he didn't feel he had much of a choice. He reached into his robes and felt the empty slot, reminding himself of the last attack he tried. It had worked, hadn't it? Admittedly, it was a diversion, not an attack, but still... His fingers wrapped around a smaller bottle, specifically separated from the rest. The others were useful for diversion and defense but this one was offensive. It was also illegal for an unlicensed minor to carry, much less brew themselves. Snape had originally done it as a teaching exercise for himself, but now he felt it could be used. He pulled out the small flask and stared. But it would be murder... wouldn't it? Snape had not thought about murder in some time, not even while he was brewing the poisons. Now he held it, felt the weight of it in his hand and had second thoughts. He looked Lexis. She smiled shyly at him. She was annoying, certainly, but was that really worth killing over? She moved closer, tentatively, and wrapped her arms around his still form. He could feel his resolve weaken. When all is said and done, weren't there worst things than being held by a beautiful girl? "Severus," she cooed, resting her head on his shoulder. He melted. The poison slipped from his fingers but, to his surprise, didn't shatter on the stone floor. "Oh, Severus," she sighed. "I'm so happy to be with you." "Er," said Snape. He felt unsettled. Wasn't he upset about something? He had a vague sensation that he had been angry over something, but it felt like a long time ago. The lithe arms wrapped around him tightened, distantly reminding him of a vice grip. Why would he think of such a thing while in the arms of such a lovely young woman... "' scuse me." The two lovers broke apart at the sound of the intruder's voice, Lexis looking flushed and annoyed, Severus looking dazed. "What?" Lexis snapped. The newcomer rolled her eyes skywards innocently. "Nothin'," she said. "But aren't there rules against this sort o' thing? This bein' a British Boardin' school an' all, I would think the rules here are a bit stiff, you read me? Not really flexible. Although, I bet you are, eh?" she said, giving Lexis a conspiratorial dig in the ribs. "I'm sure Sonny Jim here knows what I'm talkin' about," she added, winking at a stunned Snape. Lexis gave the intruder a quick once over. She was thin, and not in the attractive way Lexis and her kind were, but a pointy sort of way. Her short black hair was flattened to her scalp, almost looking painted on. She wore Ravenclaw robes and a Prefect badge, which was odd because she didn't remember seeing her before now. Admittedly, that was partly because she didn't pay much attention to Ravenclaws. They were mostly boring nerds, anyway. She reminded Lexis distantly of a bird, although she couldn't place why. "He certainly does not, you horrible woman," she snapped. The pointy girl's eyebrows shot into her hair line. "Now, that's not friendly. I thought yer kind was supposed to be friend-ly." There was a certain stress put behind the last word, a certain feeling that made Lexis feel a bit nervous. There was something odd about her smile and about the way her dark eyes gleamed. A familiar feeling. She suppressed the feeling and glared at the woman. "If you're referring to pixies--" "You know what I'm referring to," the girl said, smiling still. The only change in Lexis' expression was a hardening of her gaze and a thinning of her lips. So. This Ravenclaw was one of those badger people she had been warned about. Well. That was fine. "Severus," she began sweetly, "why don't you go back to your common room? I'll meet with you later." Snape opened his mouth quickly, looking as if he was about to protest, but shut it after receiving a swift look from his blue-haired beloved. He left cautiously, with a preoccupied expression and a misted look in his eyes. The bird woman watched him leave with a mild look of interest on her face. "Interestin' boyfriend you have," she commented. "Interesting accent you have," she shot back. The Ravenclaw shrugged. "I can be British if you like," she offered. "Ahem. Good day, kind sirrah," she said in a ridiculously pompous accent. "Chip chip, perrio and all that." Lexis rolled her bright pink eyes, shifted her weight to one side, trying to communicate the sheer levels of exasperation through her body language. She was an important person with important places to be and important things to do, and she hardly had time to waste talking to a mad woman. She hoped the Ravenclaw would take the hint. She didn't. "I say old bean, this tea is certainly..." she hesitated, "delicitastic, what." "Yes, alright, enough," Lexis said, holding up her hands. "I got it, thank you." "I just wanted you to appreciate all the effort I've put into blendin' in here." "Really? And what about all the effort I've put in? Do you know how long it took me to find a way to get into Severus' head?" she snapped. It had taken an ungodly long time. The boy was so adorably stubborn. "I don't really care." Lexis scowled. She had been told that the sad little brigade girls were short sighted and rather dim, but this was exceptionally stupid. She had to admire her misplaced bravery, at the very least. "You should," she said. The Ravenclaw gave her a blank look. Lexis laughed airily. "Oh, you silly little girl," she simpered, giving the other a look full of condescending sympathy. "Don't you know who I am?" The Ravenclaw gave her a small, odd smile. "I think so." "Good. And I take it you're one of those Badger girls?" The Ravenclaw looked puzzled but said nothing. "Hah, I thought so," Lexis said, misinterpreting the silence. "Now, I'm only going to ask this once." She paused, allowing the palpable tension to build into her next statement. "Why are you here?" Elsie was silent for once. She placed both hands on her hips, such as they were, and tilted her head to the side, staring reflectively up at the ceiling. She had been on several missions in the past, and most of the targets had asked a variant of the same question and Elsie took pleasure in answering in a witty, threatening manner, but it was getting harder and harder to do so. Her face lit up as inspiration finally struck. "You like stories, don’t you?" she asked. Lexis frowned. "That’s all y’are, really. Just a story." "I am here," she said slowly, reaching into her robes, "to write your ending." She pulled out her best friend in the whole world: an odd looking revolver. It appeared to have two barrels, a longer, thinner one on top and a heavier, larger one just beneath it. "This," she began happily, savoring the weight of the thing in her hands and the look on the other girl's face, "is Jenny. She's a LeMat nine-shot revolver. This is my favourite weapon, and you know why? You see this happy little barrel on the bottom?" Lexis' eyes swung to the barrel as if hypnotized. "That's where the ninth bullet comes out. It fires a .63 buckshot that can blow your head clean off. Now, you bein' a fairy and all, I don't expect you to know what any of this means, so I'll forgive you if you don't look suitably impressed." Lexis was still silent. Elsie smiled. It was the task of any hunter to make their target forget their powers and abilities. It was all in the voice. Never give them a chance to think about anything except their up coming end. Lexis tore her attention from Jenny and gave her a weak smile. "Maybe we could talk?" she suggested hopefully. She laughed airily as the colour drained from Lexis' face. "Oh, you silly girl," she simpered. "Don't you know who I am?" Panic alighted on her delicate features. "Wait!" she shouted, throwing up her hands. "Don't I at least get last wo-" She didn't. Elsie smiled and blew the tendril of smoke from the gun's barrel away. Good timing was everything. She replaced the gun in its holster and pulled out a small, black device. A small screen lit up instantly, showing two flashing dots - one red and one blue - moving quickly across the small, back lit square. She smiled. "One down..." she muttered, drawing a finger across the screen, following the two dots. "Three to go." The screen flashed, and for a moment it was covered, completely obscured by colourful dots. They were so many, located so closely together it was impossible to tell one apart from another. Elsie’s brow knit in confusion. That couldn’t possibly be right... She used the universal technique of fixing a malfunctioning piece of technology; she smacked the side of the device, while cursing progress and all its evil fruit. The screen flashed again and returned to normal. "Damn thing," she said, scowling. "I knew it was busted." She made a mental note to have it fixed as soon as she returned to headquarters and left the hallway in silence. Only to return a few seconds later, cursing under her breath and rummaging around in her robe pockets. She stood over the corpse and froze mid action. Thoughtfully, slowly, she brought out a small clear plastic container and knelt down. Where there should have been blood (as was the norm for most creatures) there was instead a sort of electric blue goo oozing out of the entry hole. She watched it, her brows knit in confusion. She had never seen anything quite like this before, even from fairies. She scraped some of the mess into the plastic container and replaced it in her robes as she stood up. Once more she plunged her hand into the inner pocket of her robe and came out with a handful of sparkling dust. She sprinkled it over the corpse, which began to vanish even before she turned on her heel and fled. A few moments later, a small black figure detached from the shadows and slunk after her. Jackolantern, Soundly SleepingScarlet JileRotting seeds and orange, wiry flesh coated the cement path-- the intestines of what were once pumpkins strewn about with little regard for slick walking conditions. “It’s going to rain soon, I hope.” A slender woman looked at the overcast sky, searching desperately for a trace of starlight. “Wash away all this garbage.” Her husband shrugged, following her gaze up towards the billowing gray clouds. He spoke, but the cool air intermittently playing at his already soft words carried them away, and it was only then that they noticed the chill- a north wind that sank into their flesh and gnawed at their bones- a north wind that doesn’t find the heart of this mining village very often. She scrunched up her nose at the unexpected cold and looked for a reaction from her partner who, as always, gave none. “I’m cold,” she said. “Let’s go home.” After several moments he pulled his gaze away from the motionless sky and met her eyes with a smile. Together they moved across the splattered walkway, arm in arm, absorbing the sounds of the city- distant sirens, a flickering lamp-post swarmed with moths, willingly throwing themselves against the hot glass for a lack of better intuition. “Ooh,” she said, extending a narrow finger towards a jackolantern whose articulate design depicted some kind of mischievous sprite. “I wish I could do things like that, you know? Artistic things.” The pumpkin’s stem had been removed, and inside was a faintly-glowing candle, exaggerating its ominous carved features. “Don’t you think that’s great?” Air silently escaped his mouth in a haphazard chuckle. The walkway was lined with pumpkins on either side, and the wind had extinguished all but a few of the candles within. “You’re a funny one,” she said between brief spurts of coughing laughter and looked to the handsome man at her side. He looked back and pulled a cigarette from nowhere. With flakes of ash occasionally twirling their leisurely descent and pumpkin gore splayed across the slippery terrain, it was easy to make out some semblance of a print where she had trod. Further down the road, though it was dark and the only illumination was from the candlelight-displacing jackolanterns, she could make out the silhouette of a tall man, and see the hot cherry that hung from his lips like he’d forgotten it was there. “Good evening, madam,” he spoke quietly when they had moved beyond the distant lamp-lights and within earshot. Calmly, he pulled the cigarette from his lips so he could flick it at a hollowed out pumpkin with cat-like eyes and a toothy grin, whose vine had never been replaced. “Enjoying your walk?” She searched again for some reaction from her husband, whose countenance remained unflinching. “Y-yes, thank you.” “Of course you are,” the man whispered. He lifted his narrowed eyes off the walkway to meet hers and stepped on the path, careful to avoid the pumpkins. “Wanderin’ around at night in a dangerous city like this.” He glanced over his shoulder before pulling a knife from his belt. “Give me your ******** purse. Try something stupid and I might not be content with your money.” She felt the brutal chill penetrate her jacket about the same time she absorbed the connotation of his words, and it caused her to shudder involuntarily. Without thinking, she let the purse slide from her shoulder and hit the ground with a resounding ‘thud’ that reverberated off the narrow streets and danced through the alleys, reiterating itself in harsh undertones until she was pulled out of her daze by the sudden change in lighting. “Many thanks,” he whispered in her ear, and slipped away between two buildings until she could no longer see his terrifying outline. A few more of the jackolanterns had been extinguished in the last passing breeze, and only one still remained lit- its weak flickering grin the thread holding her thoughts together. Her husband smoked a cigarette that she couldn’t smell, taste or see the smoke emit from, and she frowned when he looked at her. “It would have been nice to see you stick up for me,” she said. A dark spot on the tar was evident where the thief had waited, blocking all the tiny flakes of gray for what must have been hours. She studied his footprints for a moment- smudges of ash and pumpkin that lead down the dark path where he had made his exit- and it provoked her to glance back at her own. One set of tracks were left behind them and led straight to her heels, where a minor scuffling of feet had smeared a sickening orange and black paste across the pavement. Air filled her lungs as she steadied herself- eyes squinted shut. “It’s okay,” she murmured. Somewhere in the town, hidden behind the thick, gray curtain of drizzling ash, a car alarm was sounding off and she synchronized her heart’s rapid pounding with its dissonant chorus. “It’s okay,” she said again, “because you’re here with me now.” He smiled affably and presented his arm in a customary offering of accompaniment. At long last the cold breeze picked up again and snuffed out the remaining lit candle, forcing the woman to an immediate halt as her eyes endeavored ineffectually to adjust to the darkness. “No!” she cried, and fell to her knees; the pavement bruised her soft skin but the only thing she felt was her stomach wrenching and the harsh realization that weighed upon her shoulders more than any tangible force ever could. She was alone then- her only companion the nearby jackolantern, soundly sleeping. Point! What’s Your Point?
#18 Proud to be UnAmerican
Jeff A. Van BoovenHaving recently switch locations to a rather, Bushwhacked, for lack of a better term, town from my more well, still pretty much overly Republican previous location I've been somewhat taken back by how many people don't really seem to get it. After watching V for Vendetta, I got into a conversation with a staunch Christian Republican about the meaning of the movie. He seemed to have completely missed the entire basis for the movie was Bush's wars leading to a fascist Orwellian state in Britain, and that the movie relies pretty much on Bush as the main tyrant power. Of course, to properly subscribe the movie to Bush you'd have to accept the conspiracy theory that he along with the New American Century people orchestrated the 9/11 attacks, which is pretty far fetched. Needless to say, this poor kid went from thinking it was an awesome movie purporting liberty and freedom against oppression, to denouncing it as utter garbage. Though the student body is overwhelmingly republican, serving generally the more southern parts of the state, there is a growing contingent of liberals and libertarians attending. And, as with most universities, the faculty does lean left. The town itself is about twenty five percent church, and the Wal-Mart parking lot about fifty-five percent “W” stickers. Shithole aptly describes this town. Bush's policies have done nothing to help these people, the only reason this town exists is because of the University, whose goals are decidedly against those of the Christian Right. Well, being bored and having time to think I started work on a poem that is somewhat a parody of Lee Greenwood's, “Proud to be an American” song, which is way too overplayed here. Proud to be UnAmerican. I'm proud to be UnAmerican, to hang my flag up wrong. Proud to stand up, against George Bush, to stop his evil throng. I'm proud to be UnAmerican, to protest loud and clear. Proud to not send soldiers, off to die in lands unknown. I'm proud to be UnAmerican, to know I'm really free. Proud to stand up, for my rights you see. I'll not stand idly by, while the government takes from me, my last shreds of liberty; for this I take my stand. There's no doubt that I love this land, and for what it really stands. But I will not say a pledge, to a flag that doesn't represent, the ideals of a free land. So call me UnAmerican, a terrorist, or a queer. You will not take from me, the ideals for which this nation stands! Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. For there is one certain thing, it was written by Jefferson. And on July 4th, his words declared us free, and that's something you can't take from me.
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Posted: Fri Sep 08, 2006 11:37 am
The Angel DividedBy Bane is on Fire!i. [When you didn't cry for me, I wrote this instead.] Trailed off, down the street, as we're pursuing the red light ever changing. I push and prod, afternoon stars invisible in the sky. Rather than be unlucky in love, I am enraptured in your chance affairs, stories and miscellaneous happenings. New Years is gone, and what you've always said has grown to be such a swelling contradiction. Ether and conversation welling in our times, the car outside the house and other things. So I name you Sweet Nothing, and I let this brand take you the rest of the way. ii. The day impacts, boldly waking us from sleep's shallow edge. Daybreak, heartbeat, another downtown coffee downed. Eyes are laid out in her mind, clicking furiously with esoteric charm. She unravels into the smooth sun-swept day, brilliant as the winter cloak falls in flakes around her. Taking the time to breathe, she is in-kept with the light. “No promises,” she whispers softly, carrying the weight, “What we can't have we must take.” iii. can't sleep in the night she won't stop breathing running she and i in different currents on different frequencies never stopping the breathing seems so difficult so difficult to breathe electricity in water and she is energized her harsh breath has been cut o--- Code of the NinjaCourtesy of The One and Only Jahoclave5 - ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja - The ninja approves of this; failure to cohere with the ninja's decision is a grave mistake.
4 - ninja ninja ninja ninja - The ninja enjoys this, but he finds flaws.
3 - ninja ninja ninja - The ninja would rather date your sister, but since you may not have one he will take this instead.
2 - ninja ninja - The ninja warns you that he was only marginally impressed.
1 - ninja - If proper confession is made, the ninja will forgive you for taking part in this.
0 - xp - If you are looking for an invigorating experience I would suggest poking your eye out before this; the ninja does not approve.Editor's Note: We're currently lacking in submissions for this department, so feel free to type up a little review (using the ninja's code, of course) to be published for the next issue! Books, music, anime, just about anything goes! So hop on that shiny soapbox already, my critical friend, I know you have something to say...Book Review: Kushiel's ScionWritten by Jacqueline CareyReviewed by Serieve“What does it mean to be good?” From the very first line, I was captivated. Kushiel's Scion is the beginning of a second trilogy set in a world crafted out of our own. Blending history, religion, and culture, Carey has created an original setting that is refreshingly realistic yet still magical. You can tell she’s done her homework. Terre D’Ange, the story’s main setting, is a land known for it’s beauty as well as its arrogant snootiness (sound familiar?). The D’Angeline people are descendants of divine Elua and his companions, who walked the earth and became icons of worship. Among his following was Kushiel, known for his severity and mercy. Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel is a scion of Kushiel. He is also the son of Terre D’Ange’s most infamous traitor and the adopted son of that same country’s two greatest saviors. Plus he’s third in line for the throne, though he admits he would be much happier as a goat herder. And Imriel has known things no child should ever know. He has lived in shame as a slave in enemy lands and survived to see awesome wonders. He knows how lucky he is, but he can’t help feeling restless. “What does it mean to be good?” he asks himself. Throughout the book, he is constantly trying to shape his character in the same struggle that every adolescent goes through. Kushiel's bloodline gives him desires he despises, and the legacy of his traitorous mother haunts him. Despite his best efforts, some people are still blinded by the shadows he trails behind. More than anything, Imriel wants to do great things, but what’s left to do in a land that’s already had all the heroism it needs? Carey’s masterful writing style and creative mind give her books a surreal, provocative tone that adds depth to her characters, plot, and setting. I would advise you read the previous trilogy first, beginning with Kushiel's Dart, so that you know the history of Imriel’s adoptive parents as well as of the world itself. Truthfully though, I liked Kushiel's Scion much better. Imriel isn’t your typical male canon and I loved how realistic he was. I’m usually skeptical of really high ratings, but I can’t bring myself to give this book anything less. However, don’t expect a lot of action or adventure. Also be warned that the core saying of Terre D’Ange is “Love as thou wilt,” and they follow it as part of their every day culture in both the innocent and sexual sense. These books all contain explicit adult themes and graphic descriptions. Make sure your sensibilities are tough enough. 5 - ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja - for Characters
4 - ninja ninja ninja ninja - for Storyline
5 - ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja - for Style
5 - ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja - for Substance
5 - ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja - OverallSee something wrong with this review? Tell me so! Click.Book Review: Wicked, The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the WestBy Gregory Maguire, 1995 Review by Rushifa When this book was first recommended to me, I didn't actually expect it to be good. I expected it to be funny, certainly; a lively parody and an entertaining read. But I certainly never expected to be captivated by it. I've never been a big fan of the Wizard of Oz. Sure, I liked the movie well enough, and recently read the book, and have always enjoyed it, but I was never terribly attached. Well, now I can never look at it the same way again. Wicked doesn't change the events of the original book, at least not very much; it merely adds context to the events which simply wasn't there before. I'll admit, I've never read beyond the first book, so I can't say how much of the mythos was already established, but Maguire throws in dimensions of politics, romance, betrayal, religion, racism, and maturity which I'm sure were not a part of the original children’s book. As its title suggested, Wicked follows the life of the woman known to us as the Wicked Witch of the West. It sets up her birth, her family, her school days, her friends, her lovers, and her history, all while making her a character we identify with and love. He doesn't simply change her personality, he simply weaves everything together so her eventual meeting with Dorothy is understandable and sad. The book itself is very well written. The author, although male, proves able to write both genders superbly, and allows each character to shine in their own vividly real ways. Despite being set in a fantastical land, the book feels very real. The writing is descriptive and entertaining, and the structure and connections are all very subtle and well done. 5- ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja -Characters
5- ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja -Storyline
4- ninja ninja ninja ninja -Style
4- ninja ninja ninja ninja -Substance
5- ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja -OverallWicked, the musical Developing a StoryBy SerieveIt's common knowledge that everyone has a different method of developing stories. Still, it is helpful to have tips to see what works and what doesn't. With NaNoWriMo only three months away, I decided that I should give it a shot and do some research. Browsing websites and reading articles, I've been soaking up as much writing help as I can and have found several tips that I believe could benefit other writers. IdeasIt may not always seem like it, but ideas are easy to find. Everyone gets their ideas from different places, whether it be visuals or prompts or questions. But you also want to add spice to your idea. What kind of atmosphere should the story have? What viewpoint will do it justice? Think of the possibilities. One method of developing an idea is to start randomly asking yourself questions to see where they lead you. Ask "Why?" a lot; it's one of the more important questions and can lead you to your subconscious genius. Make it a journal. Don't worry about how many pages you take up or how refined the details are. All you're doing is exploring. This is called the David Morrell Method, so no, it's not some hokey pokey thing I made up. Also make a list of things that need to be researched. You'd be surprised by how much realism can add to a story. For fantasy writers, this article by Poul Anderson details several facts that many authors (published and not) ignore all together. PlottingThere are two types of writers in the world: Outline Writers (OWs) and No Outline Writers (NOWs). Some will do a bit of both, but generally they have a preference. OWs are the funny people who always carry around index cards or huge rolls of paper or some other instrument of plotting-performance. They have the advantage of a story with structure, but they are also in danger of ignoring what their characters want. They like to keep the story boxed inside a nice, neat little outline. NOWs grab an idea and just write. Their plot may not be all there, and it may not be totally cohesive, but some fresh writing and spontaneous ideas can come out. The rest can be fixed with several major edits. It's always best for one to stick a toe in the other's pool, so where ever you stand, be adventurous and see just how green that grass is. Whether you be an OW or a NOW, find a plotting system that works for you and add your own flare to it. NoteCardingIndex cards are a lot of fun. You can hold them and shuffle them, spread them out, make them fly, whatever your fancy. They also make for a very flexible plotting system. So to start, buy your own personal pack, big or small, and write down random scenes. If you bought the big cards, you can try writing out the whole scene, or if you have smaller ones, just put down the main gist. Make sure every scene has the essential conflict and key point. But like I said, write the scenes randomly. Even if it has seemingly nothing to do with your intended plot, write it down. Dramatic? Write it down. Comedic? Write it down. Listen to your characters. Put them into different scenarios. What do they want to do? Undoubtedly, you'll start to see connections. One or more of your cards may strike you as a good opening/closing scene. You might see subplots. Put all your cards in order, either as a stack or in a line. If there are cards that you just don't think you can use, put them aside in a pile, but don’t throw them away. Number your stack/line in pencil. Then shuffle them well, adding in your discard pile. Make a mess. Then read through them again, card to card, and see if there are any connections or subplots you missed. Once again, put them in order as you see fit. Repeat the shuffling and ordering as much as you want, but as soon as you're done you’ll want them in a line. Read through, see what your plot needs. If you think something else needs to happen between two cards, put a blank one between them. If you think two cards can be combined into one scene, put them together. Start writing. If things change, change your cards. Keep your discard pile. Make new scenes. The beauty of this system is flexibility, so flex it. Outline As You GoNowadays we've got cereal bars and Go-tarts, game boys, ipods, laptops, etc. We can do just about anything on the go, so why not outline as we write? It's a good system for OWs and NOWs alike, so give it a shot. To start off, have your spiced-up idea on hand along with nifty things like your New York Times Bestseller one-liner or a back cover synopsis. You'll want all the basics planned out: a good Lead character, his/her Objective, a Confrontation, and an idea of what your Knock-out ending will be. This is otherwise known as the LOCK system. You're allowed to change things as you go, but you'll want these when you start. Now write the first chapter/scene of your story. When you finish, immediately write down your ideas for the next segment. Play around with them. Think of all the possibilities. You should have all sorts of things in mind, so write them. If you don't like what you see, then you can rewrite the first chapter and do it differently. Once you're happy, write the next chapter/scene and do the same thing. One warning: be sure that you don't loose the rhythm or the tone of the story in the middle of your brainstorm. We've got enough stories out there with choppy flows and chapterly mood-swings. SnowflakingI hate to say this, but math really does tie into everything. Fractals, for example, are a much explored mathematical thingamabob that can be implemented in plotting. For a good demonstration, go here. This example actually turns out looking like a snowflake, so it gives a better idea of how this system works and why it's called snowflaking. The article I originally got this from is very long, very detailed, and goes in ten steps, but I will shorten the steps as best I can. Take time on each segment of this system. Weeks and days are nothing to bat an eye at. Let me say this now and stress it: While making this plot outline, go back and change things as you see fit. It's a good sign, and means your characters are helping you shape the story. Also, your outline does not have to be perfect! This is meant only to advance things, so keep a forward momentum! [1] First, write a one-sentence synopsis of your story. Don't use character names, and the shorter the better. This is really hard, so look for examples to read. I have one here that I blatantly reworded from the article's original example: "A crazy psychiatrist travels back in time to kill himself." [2] Now expand your one-liner into a paragraph, taking as much time as you need. Five sentences is ideal, so don't go crazy. Make sure you cover the story's climactic points (there should only be two to three) and the ending. If you've heard of the Three Act structure, make sure each Act conclusion is included. For those of you who don't know what the Three Act structure is, go here.[3] Next write a one page summary on each of your main characters. This is very important and will help a lot. Include each of the following: - Character's name - A one-sentence summary of the character's personal story line. - Character's motivation (what does he/she want abstractly?) - Character's goal (what does he/she want concretely?) - Character's conflict (what prevents him/her from reaching this goal?) - Character's epiphany (what will he/she learn and how will he/she change?) - A one paragraph summary of the character's personal story line, expanded off the one-liner. [4] Now go back to your plot synopsis and expand each sentence into another paragraph, detailing the climactic points and then the ending. Spend time on it. [5] Next, do a one page description of your main characters in his or her point of view. Do a half page description of minor characters in the same way. [6] Again, switch back to your plot synopsis and expand on the paragraphs, giving more details. You should have several subplots in mind and little story threads for your characters. Remember that you can go back and change things! [7] Make full-fledged character charts (your own, or try this one. Detail everything there is to know about each character. Include standard things like birth date, description, history, motivation, goal, etc. Expand on the info in Step 3. Great fiction is character driven, so take your time! [8] Use your synopsis in Step 6 and make a list of all the scenes that you’ll need to turn the story into a book. The easiest way is to use spreadsheets, or Microsoft Excel. Learn how to use this program, because it will be very helpful in writing and makes it much easier to analyze your story. Buy a book on it or look it up on the web ( here is a good site). Make one line for each scene. In one column, list the POV characters. In a another wider column tell what happens. Optionally add other columns for things like word counts or page numbers, chapter transitions, etc. You can add things and make new versions of this spreadsheet as the story develops. [9] [Optional] Switching back to your word processor (squee), write a narrative description of your story. Take each line of the spreadsheet and expand it into a multi-paragraphed description of the scene. Add cool lines of dialogue that you happen to think of or sketch out the essential conflict of the scene. If there isn't any conflict, add some or scrap it. This is like a prototype first draft, which is why it's optional. [10] Start the genuine first draft. Fix the design documents as needed. They are not cement shoes; they are flippers. Links & ResourcesCharacter Chart -A large chart that you could use and improvise on. Now you and your character can be more intimate than you ever wanted to be. Yay! Fractal SnowflakeIt's Just a Phase by Lazette Gifford -I didn't mention this plotting system, but it’s a lot like the Outline As You Go segment, except that you don’t outline as you go, and you're supposed to have this completely done before you start writing. NaNoWriMo, directed by Chris Baty -National Novel Writing Month. 50,000 words, 30 days. Widely celebrated in the Writer's Forum. Notecarding: Plotting Under Pressure by Holly Lisle -This is another version of the notecarding technique, only there's more math and I don't like this one. On Thud and Blunder by Poul Anderson -A whole slew of common mistakes made in Generic Fantasy. Who knew? Romance Guide by limyaael -This has some valid points and useful tips on writing romance. Snowflaking by Randy Ingermanson -This is my resource for the Snowflaking segment. It has more details and gives a few tips on what editors like (which I left out of my version). Spreadsheet SiteThree Act Structure -This looks like a nifty writing site. Try exploring it sometime. Plot & Structure, by James Scott Bell. Part of the Write Great Fiction series. -I used this for several of my article points, such as the LOCK system reference, Notecarding, and Outline As You Go. Scary Write-bot 1500 critiques: Quote: (1) Scary Fairy (2) Thank You Card I'm not sure about this title. It feels... Boring. Like, really boring. I think you could make it have the same effect, but this ain't cutting it. Quote: Its never comfortable sleeping on your couch. Hmm. I think this a pretty good start. I like the whole 'I can't sleep on your couch' vibe. Quote: The blankets only made my skin more aware of the fridge in the corner. Well, I believe that blankets wouldn't make skin more aware of the cool. Also, that second line feels pretty weak. Maybe it's something with the line breaks. Quote: There's no need for lace to cover me up. Wait. It just said that you were covered with blankets, right? Be a little more clear. Also, I do like how it's stating that the blankets were skimpy. Interesting way of saying it, but this format isn't working. Quote: The walkie talkies we had in childhood, you know where they are? Snail mail won't cover it when I leave the country. I find this really kiddy-cute. I think the question is okay, but I'm not sure about leaving it unanswered. The whole 'snail-mail' thing; is it a ploy to say you think its too expensive? Quote: You say we're too young -- look in the mirror. Okay, too young for what? I think I know what you're implying, but let's make sue that everyone knows, shall we? The 'look in the mirror' is kinda borderline cliche, too. I think it's acceptable to keep, though, in this setting. Quote: We're not the kids who fed the ducks. Ah, sharing memories? Well, let's make sure you know that the reader will pick up on this memory-vibe. Quote: Let's go on some mainsteam road trip, music blasting and cigarettes in our right hands, so Daddy won't find us. All I think that 'music' could be replaced with 'FM radio' or something to stay with that mainstream air. Quote: he'll have are year-old suicide notes and stale photographs of us. Crunchy photographs? Cool! I think that 'notes' could move to the line above it. Quote: Color me bored, dear, for this everyday idea is getting to taste like a stale bread crumb plea, Color me bored? Hmm, I'm not sure if this is cliche or not, but I'd be careful with it. The first line break wasn't very good, either. Also, are we going back to the feeding the ducks theme? I like it. I think you've got a little redundance with 'stale'. Quote: complete with a monotone, "No, its my hot dog, not yours." Heh. Cute. Quote: Eternity's a long time -- there's not much left to say. Okay, and all I can say is WTF? I think this would be a lovely concept if it weren't so bluntly put out. Quote: I'm tired, tired, tired. Mom says I should grow up, get a job, do something worthwhile for once. Ooh. And now we go to the pressure-of-Mother that everyone feels. I believe someone took a little note from Ms. Plath on that first sentence. Quote: Can't you smell the sweat? There's This first sentence just screams "SO NOVELTY-LIKE THAT ITS CHEESY". Now, c'mon. You can do better than that. Quote: a Slacker dream that's a broken dream. The Sims 2 is on trial for treason. Very smart right here. Taking the video game trials to the extreme? I do believe that 'broken dream' was cliche, though. In fact, that first sentence could use some re-wording. Quote: These scripted words don't say much. Oh, I like this ending. Very watch-your-words like. Overall: Okay, not exactly the best, but it's acceptable. Maybe. I liked all the ideas, and how it felt very transitional throughout a young life. Nice for the whole underlying autobio. BUT. You need to make sure everyone knows what the hell you're talking about. Its okay to be abstract, but there's no need to go abstraction-overboard. Serieve's Note: It's been a hectic end-of-the-month, and I was pretty worried this wouldn't get finished. While putting things together I thought maybe we could do a few changes, like getting rid of the Latest Gossip section in the Neighborhood Watch and possibly creating a Writer's Spotlight segment to showcase some inspirational talent of all levels. Also, we have a problem voting for BOI because we have so few staffies, and we all like totally different pieces, so we end up with a tie. Every. Single. Month. If you have any suggestions, speak up! I'd love some ideas.
For some good news, Deabus Amor has traveled through rough times and come back to us at last! biggrin She's been with the Press since Day 1, and I'm very happy to have her back.
However, on a sad note, Lilly says she'll be leaving soon ( gonk ), and she's also been here since Day 1. The Press won't be the same without her. I keep hoping she'll change her mind.
Anyway, I've said enough. Thank you all so much for reading--we really do appreciate it. I hope to see you next month!
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Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2006 2:00 pm
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Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2006 2:04 pm
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 20.0 - September '06We find the best so you don't have to. IN THIS ISSUE:1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted by the best.3. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.4. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.5. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do. 6. Critic's Corner - A critique by Scary on Issue 18.0's Best of Issue, School.7. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.PART I. Next Door Neighbors Working to improve Gaia's writing environment, The Gaian Press and Deus ex Machina are teaming. Deus ex Machina is a private (yet active) guild of about 170 members with a hardworking moderation team that dedicates its time to attracting and entertaining fellow guild members. Their forums include casual and in-depth discussions, writing resources, roleplaying, and poetry. Just click the banner to visit them! Gaia's Beta Guild Like peanut butter and jelly, Marge and Homer, The Gaian Press and Gaia's Beta Guild have come together at last. See their guild here! It's a small, public little corner of Gaia with about 70 members and a simple, straightforward layout. Beta Lists are posted for those who want a beta or wish to be a beta, and discussions on editing tactics can be found in the Library subforum. So look no further, fellow writers; A good editor is just a click away! PART II. Latest Gossip~Haven’t gotten any rare events recently? Use this to see if you’ve just missed ‘em. (Click on the link, then open your inventory. And yes, this is completely legit.) ~O RLY? YA RLY. SRSLY? SRSLY. NO WAI! Erm, sorry ‘bout that. Just got carried away thinking about the new donation items. ORLY hat, anyone? ~And, for something a bit closer to home, did anyone notice that the forum-title has been changed? From Writer"s Forum, to Writers Forum? PART III. Bulletin BoardReaders! If you have a writing-related site/guild/thread that you would like to advertise (or affiliate!) please PM Serieve or post in one of our public threads. Be warned though, we investigate first to see if it's suitable to be advertised and offer rejections if we find that they are not. No fee will be included, but donations are very much appreciated. In fact, all donators will be listed and thanked publicly in the Afterword. PART I. PoetryListed in alphabetical order by title.First Word, by Scary_FairyPretty Chassis, by vernereal d111seaseStallion of the Mores, by Stephanie SargentTrading Lives, by AderynFirst WordBy Scary Write-bot 1500"b***h."
No one heard it, sitting
in my cardboard box
with glitter pens;
Power Ranger dolls.
The television blared
with power ballads and
sitcoms.
I wanted to watch football.
"b***h b***h."
She said, he said,
I screamed. Mommy
wouldn't let me out
of the box. She said she
was going to ship me
to the place called
Sesame Street.
"b***h no."Pretty ChassisBy vernereal d111sease Jaws of life: she forced open
oil-slick's and tire-squeal's
consequential red of the heart
smacked under her nose.
"Words are terrible"
blew venom-bright spit
into my eyes.
The tiny dyed bottles
scented her pockets to draw bugs
from windshield wiper ends
as she molded the porch
to her shape.
Every afternoon shade
came from mosquito smears
smoothed into a hand.
She'd crashed across syllables
since she mastered herself
over them. The routine had gone
from speech to beautification,
even if the speeches kept her pockets
heavier with paper than with smell,
and in later days the bugs
will stop coming.Trading LivesBy AderynThe babe was born
in a rush of pooling
blood that just kept coming.
I watched as nurses
scurried around, frantic
like useless field mice.
I watched as the doctor
bowed his head to
hide the shaken terror
painted on his face.
I watched and stared
at the sweat-soaked cotton
shift, whose fabric
clung and outlined thin hips.
"Rest well, my dear."
Morbid words, but
I spoke them, ignoring
the doctor's poorly stifled gasp.
I'd never loved her.
This baby was made by
duty and compassion,
not passionate love.
She looks up, says
skyward to the heavens,
"If it's a boy,
name him Milan.
A girl will be Melantha."
I nod curtly.
"Her name is Melantha."
The baby begins to
squall like a seagull,
a shrill, never-ending cry.
My wife lies dead,
eyes closed, a pale
reflection of former glory.
I turn away.Stallion of the MoresBy Stephanie SargentRipples startle the gentle mire.
A shadow glides beneath the murk,
Rancid bubbles burst forth.
All is quiet, like a catacomb sealed in stone
All is desolate, like the wind creeping through a cemetery field.
The stallion of the mores turns in restless slumber,
Click, click, click;
The shifting of bone against bare bone.
Splash, gurgle, swoosh;
Fish scatter from his terrible wake.
A thick grey mane is twisting;
His eyes gleam hungry red;
Pale, bloodless flesh skates just below the surface.
Black hooves gallop along the mucky bottom.
At last the stallion emerges,
Skin hangs from his atrophied head;
Lips are thin and teeth the color of bile.
He shakes himself, flinging water from his accursed pelt.
The misty bog wraps about his decomposing form.
Distorted beneath dappled moon light the stallion emerges once more,
A gallant horse with strong legs and pure white coat gallops out of the fog,
Into the night.PART II. ProseListed in alphbetical order by title.Massacred Memories, by AderynThe World of Green- Chappie Numero One, by ElionMassacred MemoriesBy AderynMy name is Kieran Quoniera, but not for much longer. Today is my wedding day, the day I shall be joined in formal union to a young woman who loves me and will always fill my life with joy. I do not love her in return. Mari is wonderful, a shining beacon across dark water, but love is a powerful word. She professes it for me, has said it many times, and her word is law. I will marry her to give her happiness, just as she has given me happiness; I will make love to her, produce an heir to preserve her bloodline; I will do my duty as her wedded consort, always. Then I will find some pretext to return to Attica, my homeland. Even if I must take another identity, pretend to be what I am not, I will return to Halavin's court and take revenge for my love - or die in the trying. Love. Maybe I am still trapped in the past, even after everything fate has given in recompense. By the Almighty, thirteen is certainly too young to love. Isn't it? *** We began the trip at dawn, just as the sun crept over the horizon. I wasn't at all happy about having to rise an hour before the sun, and on my birthday, no less! But the sight of the sunrise cheered me up immediately. True beauty, like a glowing rainbow set aflame by the gods! I was speechless, with no sarcastic comment for once. I look back upon that memory with amusement, nowadays. How ignorant I was then, awed by a mere sunrise! True, I still admire the sun, but certainly not in the same way. At dawn that day, I was still innocent, a boy. By the same time the next day, I was a man, mature and hardened. The death of a loved one changes you that way. In any case, I was broken out of reverie by a light tap on my shoulder. I jumped and whirled around frantically before relaxing in relief. It was only Gabe, my cousin and best friend. "Don't sneak up on people like that, Gabe! You almost made me hit my head on the sky!" Gabe laughed. "It's your own fault for being entranced by the sunrise, Kier. Next thing you know, you're going to start writing poetry!" My cheeks burned and I made a face, shaking my head violently. "No way, poetry is for girls!" Cocking his head, Gabe opened his mouth to voice a retort - probably another cutting remark, as his tongue was even more trouble than mine. But I was saved from another unmanly blush by the shrill voice of Hannah, the housekeeper. "Kieran! Gabriel! If you two aren't on your horses in ten seconds, we're leaving without you!" Hurriedly, Gabe and I raced toward Hannah, who was holding the reins of two horses. As we came within sight, Hannah scowled and scolded, 'Where were you two? We're already running behind schedule as it is. Especially you, Kieran. You're thirteen years old now, you should know better." I scrunched up my face, but I didn't dare backtalk to Hannah. For all that she was a commoner and a servant, she had the authority to get me into big trouble with my mother, Lady Nieta. Father was the strict one, but Mother's disappointed looks hurt me much more than any of Father's never-ending lectures. Hanging my head meekly, I walked past Hannah and mounted my horse, a bronze gelding called Copper. Gabe swung onto his own horse, a gray mare named Fog for her innate ability to blend in and navigate in a heavy fog. We both urged our mounts into a trot; I rode ahead in front and Gabe brought up the rear. My parents rode in the carriage at the middle of the procession, the safest position. Before, I had always traveled in the carriage, as befitted my rank as heir to Father's estate. I had only been permitted to ride Copper today as a special privilege for my birthday, and even that small allowance had only been after days of begging. Sometimes I truly envied Gabe, the youngest of three sons. He possessed so much more freedom than I, and yet I knew he envied me as well, for my inheritance and future wealth. We were best friends, but we each longed for the grass on the other side of the (impenetrable) fence. As I rode in silence - apart from the steady clip-clop of horseshoes - my mind wandered to my parents. Before his marriage, Roald Keon Quoniera was relatively penniless for a noble; however, Nieta Jinul's generous dowry combined with numerous expensive gifts from King Halavin (Nieta's first cousin) built up his coffers considerably. In fact, if Mother hadn't been born female, she would have been next in line for the throne, as her father had passed away long ago and King Halavin had no close male relatives. Under normal circumstances, my mother and father would never have been allowed to wed. She was an archduchess of noble blood, and he a lower lord. Nieta had already been betrothed to an Ijan prince, but when the prince died unexpectedly in an earthquake, King Halavin took pity on her and gave her free choice of her next husband. So under extremely improbable conditions, my parents married and had me. I suppose that makes me an extremely improbable child. I should be grateful to be alive, I guess, but frankly, I'm not. By the time I had finished pondering my family's convoluted history, we were at the gate of Duke Xilan's enormous manor. Gabe and I dismounted quickly, racing through the gate and up the winding stone path. I had a head start, of course, but Gabe was a much faster runner. We reached the front porch of the manor at the exact same time, like we always did. As I folded my legs and collapsed tiredly on the ground, the manor door was opened by none other than (the very pretty) Yvenne Quoniera. Yvenne was the daughter and only heir of Duke Xilan; however, as she was female, she would inherit only her father's estate and not his title. It was a conflicted subject, for that title would pass to my own father. And though I had loved Yvenne for two years, I was loath to tell her my feelings. We were far enough apart to prevent a genetic catastrophe, but my father's inheritance was a troubling obstacle. "Welcome to thy home, my cousins." Yvenne's greeting was painfully formal, spoken in an emotionless monotone while sinking into a deep curtsy. As Gabe and I jumped up and brushed ourselves off, I wondered briefly what had changed her so. Only a year ago, Yvenne had greeted us with a smile and a hug. Remembering belatedly that I had yet to give the ritual reply, I quickly intoned, "I am honored to visit thy home, dear cousin Yvenne." Always striving to outdo me, Gabe smiled wickedly and said, "It is always an honor to visit your beautiful home, dear Yvenne." It was a clever twist of words on the original, enough to elicit raised eyebrows but no reprimand. I was immediately jealous, because I could see Yvenne biting back a smile. But Yvenne said nothing, another sign that she had changed. A year ago, she would have laughed outright and shaken her head at Gabe's foolishness; today, she was afraid to even smile. But what - or who - did she fear? As Gabe and I stepped inside and removed our overcoats, Yvenne led us down familiar marble-laid hallways to the location of each year's birthday banquet, the Great Hall. We both knew the way, of course - after thirteen consecutive years, it was hard not to remember the way - but apparently acting the hostess was one of Yvenne's new duties. The Great Hall was overflowing with people, attesting to the size and power of House Quoniera. Following Yvenne's silent instructions, Gabe and I parted ways to our respective seats. I sat at the High Table with Duke Xilan and my parents, and to my great luck, Yvenne as well. As a third son, poor Gabe was relegated to a lower table. I could barely glimpse his head from my seat, so far away he was. As always, Gabe's significantly lower rank brought on a wave of guilt. The feast lasted for several hours, well into the night. By the time Duke Xilan announced the opening of the ballroom, it was almost midnight and pitch-black outside, a blanket of stars shining bright overhead. I pushed back my chair and stretched contently; I was about to follow the crowd into the ballroom when Yvenne suddenly appeared by my side. Yvenne's lovely face was marred with an expression of pure terror, and I was instantly concerned. She began to speak, a torrent of frantic words bursting from her mouth. "Kieran, you have to leave, now! You must leave before - before it happens!" She shuddered. "Go! You must be off these grounds by morning, or House Quoniera will truly fade away in disgrace. Please, go!" Impulsively, I grabbed Yvenne's hand. "Come with me, then. I-I love you! I don't know what happened this past year, but it doesn't matter. If there really is a danger, come and leave with me." Yvenne shook her head. "Oh Kier, I love you too, I really do. But you must go! There's not much time left, and I am already claimed." She closed her eyes briefly, as if gathering strength. "Father sent me to the convent. He didn't have a choice - they blackmailed him. But then they wanted me, said if I went to live with them and eventually married the- the king, they would leave Father alone. I agreed, but Father refused to let me go. He said he would see House Quoniera's ruin before my marriage to the enemy, and now he will!" She reluctantly pulled her hand away. "I'm going to plead with them, beg them to let Father live. You must leave now, Kier, before it's too late! It's already too late for me, but you still might have a chance at happiness." With that, Yvenne fled into the unsuspecting crowd. "Wait! What about Gabe, and my parents?" I called out too late. Yvenne was gone. I almost refused to leave her behind, but I remembered her last words to me. If Yvenne wanted me to run, then run I would. But happiness with another girl, I vowed would never happen. It did eventually come true, of course, though not for many years. I was only thirteen when I made that vow, and too naive to know better. I wove through the throng of relatives, distant and close, toward a side exit. Just as I slipped through the door, I saw Gabe, running out of the ballroom at a breakneck pace. Yvenne had warned him as well, then. But it was already too late. As the grandfather clock began its midnight chime, deadly black arrows flew out of nowhere. I quickly looked away, but not before I glimpsed an arrow sprouting from Gabe's chest and the resulting sea of blood. I have no idea how I escaped that night. Everywhere I passed, black arrows rained down but never hit me. I didn't see Yvenne or her father, or my parents, but I saw Copper and Fog ruthlessly shot down along with the other horses in the stables. I had been aiming to find a horse, for escape would be far faster mounted than on foot, but it was again too late. Yvenne's warning to be off Quoniera lands by sunrise was fresh in my mind as I headed into the fields. Even pushing myself, however, I barely managed to reach the border when the first streaks of pink appeared in the sky. As soon as I crossed into safe territory, I fell asleep against a tree. Exhaustion had finally taken over; my low stamina would prove to be my downfall. When I awoke, I was no longer leaning against a tree. Instead, I was slumped against the side of a barred wagon, shackled hand and foot. Several other children around the same age were also in the wagon, all staring intently at me. I looked down at my muddy tunic and pants in dismay, realizing that I had been mistaken for a peasant. I had been captured into slavery. When the slavers came around to serve the daily meal of stale bread and water, I managed to discover that the wagon was headed to a market just across the border in Sierra. I found that fact ironic; had I tried to enter Sierra by myself, I would certainly been turned back for my lack of a passport. But now this wagon was carrying me to safety, albeit as a slave - for in Sierra, those responsible for the massacre of House Quoniera could never find me. I've never allowed myself to dwell on the memories of the massacre. By keeping the subject in the back of my mind, I could keep away the overwhelming grief. It was necessary in the world of slavery, for slaves have no time to grieve, or indeed to feel any true emotions. Yet as a result of my self-denial, I have never accepted the death of House Quoniera; of all those who died, Gabe and Yvenne always threatened to invade my consciousness and send me spiraling into painful, unwanted memories. I lived this way, day after day, until the day my owner died and I was back on the auction block. That day, a girl only a little older than me became my new mistress - and eventually, helped me to find happiness again, just as Yvenne had predicted all those years ago. The World of Green- Chappie Numero OneBy Elion It was green. Everything was green. The houses were green. The wrenches were green. The little bucket shaped cars were green. The water was green. Even the people were green. The only thing that wasn't green was, sometimes, the grass. It was the only color one ever saw besides green. Why wasn't the grass green? It simply just wasn't fashionable to have green grass. If one was fashionable they had yellow-green grass. And in a world where everything was the same shade of green- that yellow made all the difference. It was a simplistic world, containing one street called Green Street. Actually, it would normally be said that there were nine streets in the World of Green. However those are the rules of our world, and not of theirs. And anyone who begged to argue that Green Street was more than one simple street was thrown to the end of the World of Green. They were thrown to the Red Sign. The Red Sign was the only thing besides the grass that was not green. However, the sign was not spoken about, was not thought about, and as far as the citizens cared the Red Sign was not even in their world. Or most of the citizens at any rate. But, no matter what world, there is always at least two oddballs- often three. One -or more depending on the amount of oddballs- will always be the one advocating the abnormal belief. The other -or sometimes two others- will stay silent about their beliefs. In the World of Green there was currently -the other citizen had been thrown to the sign four years ago- only one citizen thinking about the Red Sign and only one citizen who was also sincerely curious if anything happened beyond the feared sign. After all, where did all the non-believers go when they were thrown to the dreaded sign? This citizen's name was Robert Richard Michael Litinly Parsons Homer the VIII. Or, simply, Bob. Bob was fifteen years old, the son of the only Gardener in the World of Green and the only Lawyer in the World of Green. He was exactly five feet with an extra eight inches and one half an inch on top of that. No, he was not 5'8". At least not where it mattered, and that was in his tiny green world. According to those in his tiny green world he was exactly five feet with an extra eight inches and one half inch on top of that. Bob had what many considered to be perfect hair, at exactly ten inches length and eight strands at the top of his head constantly pointing straight in the air. He also had perfect style, always wearing trousers made of polyester and shirts made of plastic. He had amazing eyes; round and bulging with perfect lips that were chapped in all the right places and amazing full on the top lip and beautifully limp on the bottom lip. Bob was gorgeous. Girls stared and giggled and blushed as he walked by and men glared and scowled. All the male citizens were jealous of Bob's good looks. How dare he, they thought! How dare he be so perfect in everyway! Now many are skeptical. One like this could not be beautiful. But I assure you, he was. Remember now, we are not in the culture we are used to. We are in a place very far, yet very close. Can you guess where we are? It's not particularly important, however rather interesting. I first thought of Bob in the middle of Church, with random inspiration hitting me like-like-like pancakes. Random and completely out of nowhere. Until I found out that it wasn't so random. In truth it was planned out exactly. However else was Bob to send out his story than through a seven-year-old girl with an over-active imagination? You see, this story- or at least some of it, and most certainly all of it you know right now- takes place very close to home. As a matter of fact, it takes place not 20 feet from the Jungle Gym at Edgemont Montessori Elementary School, Montclair, New Jersey, 07043. The World of Green takes place on a pine needle, on a pine tree, very up high in the air. Or, at least 15 feet in the air.
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Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2006 2:07 pm
Point! What’s Your Point?
#19 The Roundup
Jeff A. Van BoovenYou might notice this month's column seems like one big cop out from my normal and usual ranting and raving, even more so than the aphorisms one. Fear not though, I come armed with many excuses. Yes, I am here to present my valid excuses to which you have nothing but to accept because I'm not going to write a different column for this month. First off, you're reading from the new Liberal Columnist of The Missouri Miner. Second off, I have a new website, where you'll be able to read my columns from the Miner, as well as the archives of this column, and my creative writings. I highly recommend it, and I'm not saying that because it'll help me make money; which is true because I haven't added any advertising on it yet. And if you actually want to see some of my actual columistic writing I suggest you go there. On top of that, as you might have noted, I've started college and don't exactly have all the time in the world to devote to this column, or really feel like spending a lot of time writing despite the many ideas. Speaking of ideas, or writing about them, I've been up to a lot of idea making. I've even gotten some writing done, as well as some new poetry. Currently my goals are to get that up sometime in the next month as well as firm up some of the major ideas and start getting them into writing. Just to make this column have a little bit more of a point: apathy is not an option for a peaceful world. You Were Hittin' That Road Awful FastBy Follow My LiedShe just missed the dead boar in the road. She passed it so closely that she should have heard its spine scraping lightly against the rims of her tires, but her screams, mixed with the sliding gravel, dumped such a heft of noise onto that instant that she couldn't have distinguished one sound from another. The boar now lay next to her on the road, and for all the pounding in her head and chest, she squeezed out a sigh; not of relief, but of release. She was far from relieved. She hadn't seen the body coming until she was almost directly upon it. A second later and she would have plowed straight through it. Who knows what kind of damage that would have done? The boar was definitely big enough to flip her straight forward, the speed she was going. The realization of what she'd just escaped started to sink in. What if she had been flipped? What if she were pinned between the backwater dirt and her little Jeep for hours, days, or weeks, with a rotting boar as her only companion? The condition of the road certainly suggested neglect and disuse; chances for help would be few and far between. She was beginning to wonder why she'd taken this way. The reason didn't really matter, though; she was here now, still alive, and her destination was only a few miles off. She sat still behind the wheel for a moment and replayed the scene in her head. Something had caught her eye that instant before she swerved. Was it a glint? Her headlights reflecting on something? She'd reacted so instinctively that she hadn't noticed what had actually triggered her reflex. It must've been the blood. Looking down, she saw the pool at the boar's mouth was still small and very wet. It must've died within the past few minutes. What had killed it? The possibility of another car finding it before she had seemed small; the road stretched out across the flatlands ahead of her so vastly that she would've seen brake lights no matter what their distance, especially on such a clear night. Was it killed by another animal? A coyote seemed a likely perpetrator. Whatever it was, she could see it hadn't gotten a chance to eat, probably scared off by her lights. The prospect of an angry and hungry coyote lurking just outside her low beams made her shiver. She threw her car into drive and hit the gas with emphasis. She cast a quick look back into the scene she'd left. She hated boars. They make an awful sound when they're wounded. She imagined what might have happened if she'd hit it while it was alive. The screams. She shuddered and turned back to the road. She saw its wild eyes widen in a split second. This time she didn't feel herself swerve. She smashed to a hard sudden stop, meeting the steering wheel so violently with her face that her eyes felt strained to stay in her head. In an instant all sound ceased piercing her ears, but not before they caught a hint of the sound she hated so well -the bloodletting shriek of a wounded boar. She didn't black out. Things just went quiet. Looking up, she saw three or four animals running full speed into the wisps of scrub, leaving piles of droppings in scattered trails behind them. They were obviously afraid. She almost started to laugh, but she quickly noticed the warmth between her own legs. "At least it's not s**t!" she coughed after them. She tried to sit up, but her stomach lurched her forward and she vomited against the steering wheel. She drew back her hands, which were still clutching it, and tried to inspect her bile for blood. She couldn't be sure in the darkness. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and tried sitting up again, with a better result. Through the steam of her broken radiator and a single headlight, her eyes traced the shapes of snouts and protruding legs. She opened the door and awkwardly planted her feet down. The cold air hit her face suddenly, and a terrible pain cut through her left eye. It was so overwhelming that she turned aside and gagged, with little reward for her effort. She covered her eye with her hand and touched the area around it, but it wouldn't open. "Maybe it's for the best," she thought. She clung to the door and made her way to the front of the car. She'd hit a boar; or rather, several boars. At least three were pinned together under the bumper. One appeared dead, and the others were writhing and screaming silently in a mass of hair and entrails. She felt a pang of sympathy for them, but she was glad she couldn't hear their cries. "They must've been coming to see their dead friend up the road", a man's voice spoke behind her, "and now his friends are left alone, no trail of s**t to follow home." She turned quickly in surprise and lost her balance. Falling to the dirt, she glimpsed a man in a tree. "Strange", she thought, "there wasn't a tree for miles..." "Maybe you're not where you thought you were. That's always been your problem, hasn't it?!" The man giggled like he was drunk and swung down to a lower branch. "Hasn't it, Lucy?" Lucy didn't remember giving him her name. "Oh. Oh my dear." The man whispered is a sobering tone. "You didn't give me your name. I gave it to you!" In another fit of laughter, he jumped to a branch across from his and flipped around it with such grace and dexterity that he seemed inhuman. "Who are you!?" Lucy demanded from the ground. "Didn't you see my accident?" Her eye stabbed hard again, and she could feel herself begin to tear up in pain and confusion. "Aye, I did see it Lucy. I saw it fine. But I should be asking you who's seein' and not seein'! How come you don't recognize me?" He sounded insulted. Lucy hadn't noticed his brogue until he'd spoken plainly. "Uncle Sean?" "Why yes! There's a good girl! Good girl. You know your old uncle Sean right as rain!" "What are you doing here? I-I was just on my way to see you and Aunt Millie." "Ah, well my dear, I don't think you'll be seein' half o' what you used to. It's a real shame too. So blue and clear, and you went and got it all dirty." "Dirty?" She thought he was making awful light of her situation. "You mean my eye? It hurts Uncle Sean! I don't know what's happened to it!" She sat up in the cold and looked clearly for the first time upon her uncle. He was standing stark naked in the cold moon, both hands bloody and blue in the lips. "You want to know what's happened to it?" the man asked, the giggle rising in his throat again. "Go get it. It's right in the car where you left it, dripping with your sick." A terrible fear seized Lucy, and she began to gasp in panic. "My eye? My eye, is it gone? Is it really gone!?" she whimpered between sobs. The man was suddenly face to face with her. He placed his hand gently on her face, touching her cheek. "Aye, dear. It's really gone," he cooed. "You were hittin' that road awful fast, weren't you? You got quite a pop to the head. You should probably be dead, you know. The boar is." He grinned and touched the air above the collapsed lid, then sank his thumb deeply into the eye socket, sending a jet of blood across his already stained hands. Lucy cried out in surprise, but soon realized that he wasn't hurting her. She could feel his cold thumb twisting around in the socket, and a numbing sensation spread over her entire face. "That's me," he said. "I had to get it out" "What's you?" "The blood. I don't want you havin' none of it." The aforementioned blood poured steadily from her wound, and she began to feel faint. "Why are you doing this to me?" she swooned. "I wanna make sure you're not a bad person, dear. This blood's done some terrible things. I just wanna get it outta you." Lucy fell back toward the ground. Her head was starting to throb, and things were getting hazy. The man must've pulled his finger out, because Lucy saw him heading back toward the car. "Funny thing about boars," he said softly, in an almost solemn voice. "Funny indeed. I'd shoot'em in my fields at night when I hear'em rootin' around my Millie's garden. They scream somethin' awful." Lucy began to shiver. In her spinning daze she began to hear them -boars roaring in agony. "They scream when I shoot'em in that garden, but they don't run. They just lie down an' accept it. Then I have to clean'em up." Lucy felt herself drift off. The screams of the boars grew louder and louder. "She's wet herself." the man said. She awoke with a jolting spasm in her shoulder and a terrible light in her eyes. "Ma'am! Can you tell me your name!?" Lucy squinted hard and felt a searing pain in her left eye. "I think I've wet myself." she replied to the voice in the light. "She's got head trauma. Looks like her airbag didn't deploy. Her neck's probably in a tender spot. Don't move her until someone gets here with a brace." He was speaking to someone off to the side. "Did I hit a pig or something?" she whispered. She felt extremely groggy and numb; the screaming was like needles at the base of her skull. "Something. Looks like you hit a coyote. It had a little baby boar in its mouth. You broke the baby's legs, I'd guess. Now it's just lying there screaming. I'd kill it to put it out of its misery, but I'm Muslim, and my partner's a vegetarian." A woman laughed nervously beside him. She bent down to peer inside the car. "You're a lucky girl." she said. "We were already on our way out here when we happened to find you. A few of our units were responding to a domestic dispute just a ways down the road. Neighbors called it in. They heard gunshots." "She doesn't need to hear all that." the man scolded. "You would've been better off to go ahead and run straight over it in my opinion. If you hadn't swerved, you might have spared this poor tree its life. It seems to be the only one out here." He smirked. "How are you feeling? That's a pretty rough black eye. You must've hit it pretty hard on the wheel there." It was obvious they were only trying to keep her talking and conscious. Lucy suddenly realized what the woman had just said. "You said-" Her head pounded and she started to feel sick. "You said there was a problem down the road? My uncle Sean lives down this way." The man's face grew suddenly grim. "Sean O'Heanny- 213 Brekmeyer Avenue?" Lucy began to retch as a squad car made its way toward them with its lights off. It stopped next to them. The driver lowered his window. "Is she okay?" the officer inside inquired. "Yeah." "The scene up there's pretty grisly." he said dully. The officer with Lucy tried to cut him off, but the driver finished before he got the message, "The woman's dead, and the guy's out of his damn skull. He's bare-a** naked in 20 degrees, jumping around in a tree like..." Taking the hint, he cut himself off and looked down in embarrassment. "Mr. O'Heanny?" Lucy grimaced, leaning out the window and vomiting. "Yeah." the driver concluded remorsefully. "You know him?" "He's my uncle. I was on my way to see my aunt. I was hoping he'd be out. We weren't especially close." She wiped her mouth. "My Aunt Millie. She's dead?" She began to cry openly. "He-he used a shotgun. Said he heard boars in his garden. She was out there covering some plants with a blanket." He paused, but continued despite his better judgment, "But he must've been close enough to recognize her, the way the wounds-" He stopped. The moment hung suspended with his unfinished thought. A tiny scream punctured the silence. "Is that a piglet?" the driver asked astonished. "You hit a tree to avoid that?" The officer next to him pointed out the dead coyote. "You should kill the pig. Poor thing's probably out of its mind with pain. I can do it if you-" "No." Lucy responded. "Give it to me. I think I want to help it." "Looks like it lost its eye too." Lucy felt a chill touch her face. "Which eye?" The ambulance arrived, and paramedics came with a neck brace. Code of the NinjaCourtesy of The One and Only Jahoclave5 - ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja - The ninja approves of this; failure to cohere with the ninja's decision is a grave mistake.
4 - ninja ninja ninja ninja - The ninja enjoys this, but he finds flaws.
3 - ninja ninja ninja - The ninja would rather date your sister, but since you may not have one he will take this instead.
2 - ninja ninja - The ninja warns you that he was only marginally impressed.
1 - ninja - If proper confession is made, the ninja will forgive you for taking part in this.
0 - xp - If you are looking for an invigorating experience I would suggest poking your eye out before this; the ninja does not approve.Editor's Note: We're currently lacking in submissions for this department, so feel free to type up a little review (using the ninja's code, of course) to be published for the next issue! Books, music, anime, just about anything goes! So hop on that shiny soapbox already, my critical friend, I know you have something to say...Movie Review: Pirates of the Caribbean, Dead Man's ChestDirected By Gore Verbinski Review By RushifaNow really, who doesn't love a pirate movie? If you liked the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, you definitely shouldn't miss the second. Although it has a few problems common to sequels, it's overall a hilarious and well done movie. Unfortunately, Dead Man's Chest starts out overdramatic and, frankly, boring. In fact, the first 20 minutes of the movie were dull, discouraging, and useless. It was obviously trying to pick up where the first one left off, but it simply didn't work. Although, perhaps that's because I've never been fond of William (Orlando Bloom) or Elizabeth (Keira Knightlyy). However, once they get to the island, it's all up from there. Keep your eyes open for Jack (Johnny Depp)'s awesome face paint, although it's pretty hard to miss. Beware of old lines. The were wonderful and memorable the first time, but if we wanted to hear them again, we'd have watched them in their original context. Reusing old hit lines is a very common trait of sequels, but in most cases it comes of feeling forced. There are only about 3 instances where an old line is reused in a new and entertaining way. The upside is that all the new, original material lives up to the first movie's standards. Length-wise, well, be sure to pace yourself with your drink. And look forward to a third movie. We'd heard rumors, but it's pretty much been confirmed by now; there will indeed be at least one more movie. Oh, and make sure to wait until the end of the credits, for a special look into a side character's fate. 4- ninja ninja ninja ninja -characters 4- ninja ninja ninja ninja -storyline 3- ninja ninja ninja -style 3- ninja ninja ninja -substance 4- ninja ninja ninja ninja -overall Got a bone to pick with the reviewer? Want to suggest a work for review? Dying to hear about a new media or genre? Contact Rushifa with your questions and comments. -Critique by Scary Write-bot 1500I'd go with a different title. This just exudes immaturity, from my point of view, anyway. I mean, there are so many different ways to title this poem; I think this one just does it injustice. Quote: The room is an oven, the children the bread Fix that comma to a semicolon or something of the like. Quote: sucked of all moisture and slowly,
ever so slowly,
asphyxiated. I think that the second line here feels too much like fillers in meat. Just, not too nice and doesn't taste that good on your tongue. So, I'd just go ahead and omit that second line and those commas. Quote: The room is a star field, with the few shining bright
and some a slight glimmer--
aptitude but no ambition. That last sentence feels too tell-ish. The other part is passable, but the 'few shining bright' and 'slight glimmer' just sounds too much like its already been used. I'm pretty sure you can do better. Quote: Others, moons reflecting the sun;
more lost to the black hole of ignorance. See, this is what I mean. I'm not sure about the 'black hole of ignorance', though. It feels pretty straightforward for a metaphor. Quote: The teaching is like a pillow,
under which creativity respires and expires; Is 'the' really needed? You could omit it, really. I like the idea of creativity breathing and dying, and the way you presented it. Nice job there. Quote: and the children, bless their (lack of) souls,
use as the well-worn path to Dreamland. Since you just used a semicolon, the 'and' isn't needed. I don't like the idea of the 'bless their souls', but I like the idea of the lack thereof. Quote: The desks sigh, and the seats groan
as the pen(cil)s hurry to copy the answers
off their next-seat neighbors. I'm not sure if the wording of the first line is doing justice, really. It's a nice idea, but the way it's presented just doesn't work out too well. Also, the copying part feels a bit straightforward, like you just stuck it out there because we couldn't understand it otherwise. Quote: Whoosh; the balled up paper
(an “imaginated” airplane)
swoops and soars like a stunt flyer
only to miss the trash-goal. I love the playfulness of this stanza. Quote: The groans of disgust from the commentating boys
are masked by the chitter-chatter of the twitter-bird children I enjoy the internal rhyme in the second line. I think you could change 'commentating boys' into something like those people who report the golf games and such. Quote: (a-twittering and -tweetering about the latest and greatest),
the soprano counterpart to the tuneless mumble-grumble
uttered in voices like golems’. Change that first comma to something like a semicolon or dash or such. This is a nice little stanza, though 'mumble-grumble' does feel a bit elementary, compared to what I've read from this poem so far. Quote: Whinging about the latest assignment leads to
faux-goth notes carved into faux-wood desks I'm not sure if this first line break is such a good idea, but the faux-goth/faux-wood repetition is just splendid. Quote: as the children, like so many carrion crows, circle overhead
just waiting,
for the raptors to attack
(poor twitter-birds, to meet such a brutal end). The second line feels very filler-like, which isn't too good. This metaphor is very nicely done, though. Quote: At the teacher’s glare, like a Gorgon’s saturnine stare,
the room, a not so gentle cacophony,--
as harsh as the most cynical of magazine critics
and pounding like a jackhammer in the middle of Manhattan
--quiets. Couldn't you delete the fourth comma? I mean, there's a dash right beside it. Also, the last line break isn't that appealing, in my opinion. Quote: The teacher speaks, her voice a monotonous droning
as much as an old cigarette-smoking man with a cold
and a somewhat nasalized vernacular, Total love for this. It's a great simile set-up that almost no poetry I see nowadays uses. Quote: as she draws diagram upon diagram on the
ever-so-prettily decorated chalkboard. And, this just falls flat. It's boring compared to how nicely you just showed us that teacher and how she speaks. The slight repetition of 'diagram' isn't all that nice, even though it sounds alright. 'Ever-so-prettily' is a downslide, as well. Quote: Fingers drop the chalk
(the epitome of education),
which falls and catches itself on the rim
at the bottom of the board; No real qualms here. It's not bad, but it's not exactly good, either. Can't put my finger on what makes it so okay, but not great. Quote: it leaves a trail of fine white powder,
coke on the mirror, Pure love here. Though, I'm not sure if 'coke' is such a good word to use here. It'd be pretty cool if you'd use a somewhat scientific word for it, but have context clues so we don't totally have no idea what you're saying. Quote: to be killed, wiped into oblivion,
with those self-same fingers
(‘Quick, before Mother sees!’). No qualms here, either. Quote: Like a latex glove stretched thin over jaundiced skin,
the chalk-colored hand will show no fortune-lines
until it is dusted, Oh, that last line falls a bit flat. Other lines are very nicely done, again, though. Quote: and chalk debris floats down as snow
to the scuffed linoleum floor.
The students will mirror Teacher-dearest, I do completely hate 'Teacher-dearest'. I don't really know why, but it just irks me so bad. Quote: dusting their own hands so that dead skin
and graphite
fall onto the desks like an offering, rejected, from above. I'm not a fan of that second line. It's probably just subject to some bad line breaks, but it doesn't hold much of anything, really. Quote: They are automatons,
like robots,
copying from the board
straight onto the virginal sheets,
previously unblemished as a sacrificial lamb. This seems to remind me of a Catholic school very much. Quote: The ink bleeds on the paper,
a scritch-scratch punctuating every wound, Oh, I don't like this much at all. I know there is a better way to make this personification a good one, and you could play with this to no end to make us readers think. Quote: in black and blue
(shades of a bruise)
and the many garish CareBear-colors. There's no need for those parentheses. That one's a given, compared to the wound personification. I like the Care-Bear color vibe, however. Quote: Far worse than all the colors--
my eyes, they burn with afterimages;
give me the sun and a telescope any day
--are the papers and poems
(surely, being made to read this
constitutes child abuse.) YES. I know how this feels, and those last two lines just made me so relieved that this would be brought up. This is quite possibly my favorite stanza. Quote: Each word, pronunciation distorted
beyond any recognition,
causes nerves to shudder as they carry
their message to the slowly dying
brain. The second line is a bit bland. It's like a fill-in. This is a nice ending from my thoughts. Overall: Wow. This is a very good piece, but there are a few places that need a deal of work. But, it's a lot better than most of what flows through here, and you know you agree. (Vice) Editor's Note: If you didn't notice, it's me posting this issue and not Serieve. Reality has come calling again, and all of us staff have been subjected to things in real-life that need doing. Also, Scary_Fairy is the same person as Scary Write-bot 1500; she just changed her name.
If there are any issues in this, er, issue, formatting or otherwise, my apologies.
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Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2006 2:12 pm
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Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2006 3:00 pm
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 21.0 - October '06We find the best so you don't have to. IN THIS ISSUE:1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted by the best.3. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.4. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.5. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do. 6. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.PART I. Next Door Neighbors Working to improve Gaia's writing environment, The Gaian Press and Deus ex Machina are teaming. Deus ex Machina is a private (yet active) guild of about 170 members with a hardworking moderation team that dedicates its time to attracting and entertaining fellow guild members. Their forums include casual and in-depth discussions, writing resources, roleplaying, and poetry. Just click the banner to visit them! Gaia's Beta Guild Like peanut butter and jelly, Marge and Homer, The Gaian Press and Gaia's Beta Guild have come together at last. See their guild here! It's a small, public little corner of Gaia with about 70 members and a simple, straightforward layout. Beta Lists are posted for those who want a beta or wish to be a beta, and discussions on editing tactics can be found in the Library subforum. So look no further, fellow writers; A good editor is just a click away! PART II. Bulletin BoardReaders! If you have a writing-related site/guild/thread that you would like to advertise (or affiliate!) please PM Serieve or post in one of our public threads. Be warned though, we investigate first to see if it's suitable to be advertised and offer rejections if we find that they are not. No fee will be included, but donations are very much appreciated. In fact, all donators will be listed and thanked publicly in the Afterword. PART I. PoetryListed in alphabetical order by title.Birth of Democracy -- An Ode to Marie, by Deabus AmorFairies don't show up on film, by Jasper RiddleMelody, by LebkiWhat I Saw From The Window Upstairs, by vernereal d111seaseBirth of Democracy -- An Ode to MarieBy Deabus AmorIn that brightest of all night-time lamps
You shone and shimmered
Mahogany hair glistening, tempting as the spines
On the betraying echidna that lunched on your bloodhound's meal.
There's an air of colloqialism in the way you pin up your locks
-- Vapid, Vague and definitely False.
On the contrary, upon the crushed-beetle rosiness of your lips blows
A certain pleasure at coquetry, a knowledge that you wield
With your painted fingertips and pinched cheeks
-- Politics, the Presidency and even the Catholics' sympathies.
We are heterogeneous, you and I.
The braids upon my own head are ratten and bare,
And if mine nose plays with the color of rouge
'Tis only from the callouses of mine husband's hands.
We come, dear Queen, under this brightest of nighttime lamps
To Hail you! [dis]Honor! [dis]Grace!
The bread of our peoples we snatch from your bowels
Pity! Did you grant us clemency as we wasted in poverty?
Red that creeps from that jagged tear
You caused your own coup d'etat upon those ravished
Red locks. Pearls drop one by one
-- a Ligament, a Limb and even the Throne!Fairies don't show up on filmBy Jasper RiddleOne sunny morning in July I went out for a ride
Out beyond the houses upon my trusty steed
Faithful camera on my wrist, water bottle at my side,
I took off down the street perched upon my 15-speed.
I took a couple digi-shots that I thought were nice
Rode around for a bit before heading back to home
Clouds were coming in, and my ankle had a slice
When I saw something white sticking up out of the loam.
I stopped and got off my bike and I approached the lawn
And what did my eyes see but a little mushroom ring!
It was faint and incomplete, but still was hanging on
Where fairys, sprites and little gnomes had had a little fling.
They must have all run off--I didn't see them anywhere
I took a couple of pictures and then I turned to leave
Returning to my bicycle I saw a little mare
It might have been just shadows but this I will not believe.
I'd like to say I'd seen a fae, I really wish I had
But that's simply not the way that these things were supposed to be
And even if I did have proof it would still be just as bad
Too many sceptics in this world--no one would believe me!MelodyBy LebkiBlue fizz, melting in a sea-green lullaby.
A soul playing out a bubbling trumpet tune.
Aquamarine tempo in the world of drowning air.
You ain't king, not even his servant,
But when you play it's like I'm at your feet.
And I will never tire of the beat.
No, keep the water going,
'Cause it's moving, be-bop, be-bop,
Each note a little pebble in the tank.
Feed the tank of ghoti (we call 'em fish)
Since the aquarium of my swimming desire
For you, is called the melody.What I Saw From The Window UpstairsBy vernereal d111seaseThe streets are always gloss.
Fresh black paint on the
asphalt plains, drenched in highlights
from the headlights of suspicious automobiles
zipping overhead without touching ground.
Together they sound of beggars and
apartment relationships.
I can nearly hold every skyscraper
in my palm; carress them
to be the delicate corpses of gardens.
They light too big, though,
to catch between my fingers.PART II. ProseListed in alphbetical order by title.Random and Woe; Stories of the Eleventy-oneBy BuldozerPrologue: Imbedded deep within the walls of literacy, one can find a room. This room is just like any other room; it contains four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. In its center, there sits a round table, not unlike Arthur's. This room is a public room, but only the most literate and eccentric of people visit this place. Ideas are exchanged, profanities are uttered, religions questioned, and anyone outside of the current loop can only hope to find an entryway into a conversation, or be forever lost in the sea of lurkers that observe our room every day. This room has no specific name, however, it's inhabitants have come to know it affectionately as the 'Eleventy-one', named after a favorite n00b-bashing: the unecessary repeated exclamation points replaced by ones, and borrowed from a novel. Come, dear reader, and hear its tales of woe and random. Chapter teh First!!!111 Buldozer sat at the round table within the confines of the Eleventy-One. As is usually the case when he wakes up, he was all alone. Now, at the beginning of the book, this is where you would find your description of the main character, or at least the character that was introduced first. In this case, it would be Buldozer. (Now, I know that it's not usually practice for one to describe his methods of writing inside of the story he is writing, but as Buldozer is the one writing the story here, and considering it's main theme, you will find many oddities here.) Buldozer sat lazily, his arm draped over the back of the chair behind him, and his black shades drifting slowly down his nose. Buldozer was dressed in his standard Dozer (This would be his nickname) garb: black shades, black pants, black trenchcoat, and so on. He groaned in boredom, and poked the table. "Why in the hell is it that I'm the only one around? Fifty or so people that frequent this place, and of course, I happen to be the only one awake at the current moment. Blargh." This final noise, which was more of a grunt than the actual sound that was written out, was followed almost instantly by a soft voice chuckling. "Dozer, you do realize that some of us have to sleep?" Buldozer turned, and shook his head. "Bullshit, Doll. You're eight hours ahead of the rest of us. You should be fully up and about by now. Besides, aren't you an insomniac?" Doll winked and took a seat at the table, some four seats away. Doll was the Eleventy-One's resident Brit, but due to the unusual nature of the place, she was always eight hours ahead of Dozer's reference time within the room. Or, was he eight hours behind? "Hey, I sleep sometimes." He laughed, leaning back into his chair to allow the action to seem much more than it was. "Yeah, I know." She smirked, and rested her elbows on the table, her crimson eyes locked onto him. "So, why are you awake so early? I thought that you usually slept until later." Shrugging, he tapped the table a bit more. "I had to get up. There are a bunch of ideas floating around in my head, and I need to write some of them down. That, and the sun decided that today my wake up time was six-thirty." Doll nodded her head in acknowledgement. "I see. And what were you planning on writing?" Before he could answer, another female voice answered from outside. "Probably something homosexual. And to think, I was just getting ready to give him this sex tape I made." Dozer shook his head, and fixed his eyes upon the door. "You couldn't be more wrong, Prair. And," he paused a moment to add emphasis to his comeback, "Why would I want a tape of you and a donkey?" The door swung open, and Dozer's jaw dropped. Instead of being Prairie Fire, one of Dozer's first Eleventy-One friends, and referred to mostly as Prair, the doorway silhouetted a smaller, leaner frame. "But-" she pouted, "I'm still a virgin." He stood and instantly bowed. "OHMYGOD I'm so sorry Birdy! I thought that you were Prair. You sounded so much like her. I didn't know that you were such a ventriloquist." Birdbrain (AKA Birdy, if you couldn't tell. Also, interesting to note, Birdy has no actual bird-like features, and instead, more closely resembles a bunny than a bird, what with her bunny ears and all) furled her brow. "What're you talking about, Dozer? I just got here like a second ago." The voice chimmed in again, this time from behind Birdy. "See, this is what you get for thinking. You shouldn't ever do it again." Prair leapt bodily over Birdy, hurdled through the doorway, and landed in her chair, seated opposite Dozer's. Birdy simply sported an expression of extreme confusion on her face as she took a seat at the table. She had no specific seat of her own, and that was how she liked it. "Fine, Prair. I'll stop thinking. But, then you all won't get to see or hear my interesting new idea." Prair scoffed. "No, you'll share, or I'll eat your brains myself." He glanced at her, a puzzled look on his face. "Geez. We're aggressive this morning. Even moreso than usual." He shrugged, and leaned in towards the table. "Well, my idea was to write a story about this place. I think it would be a hit, even if only to the regs." Doll applauded. "That's a super idea, Dozer! Though, to be fair, it's been attempted before." He nodded. "Thanks Doll. And, trust me, it hasn't been attempted like I want to attempt it. I'm going to employ tactics the likes of which have never been employed by me to this particular story before!" Prair shrugged. "So?" "So?" He repeated. "So, I need help mapping out the story. I suck at prewriting. I was hoping that some of you would help." The three of them nodded in unison. Birdy spoke for the three of them. "How can we be of help?" Dozer shrugged. "See, this is where I'm stuck. I need motivation." Prair perked up. "Why not try the beginning? I'm sure it would be the easiest place to start." Dozer sat quickly, and pulled out some lined paper for note-taking. "Good idea." It was then that he realized he hadn't brought a writing utensil with him. Dammit. "Anyone got a pencil I can borrow?" Prair chuckled. "What kind of writer forgets his tools? Well, truth be told, I did too." Doll shrugged. "Me and Mr. RedWine have been having a conference. The pencils have left my building." Buldozer sighed, and turned to Birdy. "Well, can I use your pencil then?" Birdy laughed a bit, and turned back to face him. "Sure, lemme get it for you." She reached out, and picked it up, the motion seeming a lot more labored than it should have been. As she lifted her hand, it became obvious that her hand was shaking. Dozer's eyebrow arched. "Somethin' wrong Birdy?" She dropped the pencil, and brought her hand back to her chest, grasping it. "I... I'm not sure." At the same time, Prair's hand grasped the hem of her skirt, and pulled it down a bit, a small moan escaping her lips. Buldozer's eyes drifted from Birdy to Prair. "What the hell was that?" Doll inspected her nails, her hands also visibly shaking.. " He's coming." Prair moaned a second, louder response, as if to agree to this. Buldozer shook his head. "Will someone please explain to me what the ******** is going on?" Doll's eyes lit up, and she leaned back into her chair. Birdy's eyes shut, and the three of them moaned in unison. Buldozer simply folded his arms across his chest and waited. A hand reached out and touched the door into the Eleventy-One, prompting another chorus of moans, much louder this time. The hand pushed slightly, and more moaning ensued. The door finally swung open after what seemed an ecstatic eternity, and the three women screamed in an orgasmic union, followed by three simultaneous faintings. Buldozer glanced up at the person, and laughed. "It all makes sense now. One of these days, some jealous husband is gonna slit your throat." The man shrugged, and looked up with his one eye from under the red hair that shaded his face. He tapped the metal forehead protector that covered the other side of his face, and chuckled. "Imagine what would have happened if it had taken me longer to open that door?" Buldozer laughed again. "If that had happened, Jile, I would make you clean up the mess personally." Point! What’s Your Point?
#20 Open Letter to USA Today
Jeff A. Van BoovenNote: You'd have to have read the article in the October 26th issue to fully understand this letter. However, a brief summary is that the author intended that young people needed to be forced, much like they do in Israel, into a year or two of compulsory servitude to the state. Explain to me this, how is requiring 18 year olds to spend up to two years of their life in mandatory slavery to the state “an opportunity for shared sacrifice?” After all, anybody over the age of 18 naturally would have never shared in this, and there are quite a few people over 18 who haven't. How does hindering the freedom of 18 year old high school graduates induce them to be more patriotic? It sure wouldn't make me happier to live here, if anything I'd be less patriotic due in part to even more federal intrusion into my life. How exactly are we expecting our children to turn into well-adjusted adults when we're constantly passing restriction after restriction against them? If we're going back to the draft why not just go a few steps further? Why not just repeal the 26th amendment so that our youth have even less say in the matter of how their lives are dictated? As for the bottom line, how about you let the youth of this country help shore up freedom by actually practicing it? I find it funny how, once again, the next generation is generalized as ignorant and uncaring. After all, perhaps we're not so keen on public service because it's shoved down our throats every day. Nearly every week my high school had some sort of can drive, money collection for some benefit, or service project going on. Some districts are even considering, if they haven't already added, mandatory public service in order to graduate. To say that we don't know about public service is lunacy, we know too much about it; that it doesn't count for jack if you're doing it because you're forced to. It's not altruistic, it's not even something you care about when you're forced to do it. It's not even patriotic, it's a chore, yet another thing forced upon us by the generations before us who see themselves fit to run our lives and decide what they think is good for us. Before the 26th amendment they thought it was perfectly fine to send us to war, but not to allow us to vote. Now we're apparently not able to functionally drive cars at 16, or even buy cold medication. The message sent to us is that we're not to be trusted, and that we're all bad kids who are incapable of making our own reasoned decisions; the message is that we need to be controlled by the adults through constant new laws and restrictions. Now the fact that the header for the last bit is called “the first class” has me a bit concerned as well. Is this just a program aimed against the children of the wealthy? After all, of course they've already got money and two years out of their lives might not mean all that much. To the middle class however, two years of their lives can mean a great deal. I also enjoyed the “unfinished business line.” Why exactly is it that the youth of this nation have to learn about the “unfinished business” of this nation? I don't recall our generation creating this business or even leaving it unfinished. How about, instead of forcing the youth into labor camps, the old generation finish their business. After all, the bottom line is, enforcing mandatory service is an intrusion on my life, on my liberty, and on my happiness. Editor's Note: As a test, we're going to try something different this month. Because of our minimal staff, often we have ties or a lack of votes, so this month, you vote! Post your votes in our Voting Booth, or send them to Serieve, and the winner of this month's Best of the Issue will be announced November 10. Thank you for reading!Code of the NinjaCourtesy of The One and Only Jahoclave5 - ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja - The ninja approves of this; failure to cohere with the ninja's decision is a grave mistake.
4 - ninja ninja ninja ninja - The ninja enjoys this, but he finds flaws.
3 - ninja ninja ninja - The ninja would rather date your sister, but since you may not have one he will take this instead.
2 - ninja ninja - The ninja warns you that he was only marginally impressed.
1 - ninja - If proper confession is made, the ninja will forgive you for taking part in this.
0 - xp - If you are looking for an invigorating experience I would suggest poking your eye out before this; the ninja does not approve.Editor's Note: We're currently lacking in submissions for this department, so feel free to type up a little review (using the ninja's code, of course) to be published for the next issue! Books, music, anime, just about anything goes! So hop on that shiny soapbox already, my critical friend, I know you have something to say...Game Review: Okami Directed By Hideki Kamiya Review By Rushifa  Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'm by no means an expert when it comes to video games, but Okami is quickly becoming one of my favorites. Style-wise, Okami takes traditional Japanese ink-paintings, and makes a game out of their aesthetic. You play as a lupine incarnation of the Sun Goddess Amaterasu, and it is your duty to save the land of Nippon from disaster. You're accompanied by a bug-like little man who leads you through the game. Fans of Zelda will feel especially nostalgic as they play this game, because it uses a lot of the real-time conditions which made the N64 game so enticing. Perhaps the most unique part of the game is the ink-brush: by pushing a button, you are able to actually paint on the screen using the analog stick. This comes in handy when you're being attacked, and is also an important part of the plot as you learn new brush strokes and can reach new levels. Okami is overflowing with Japanese cultural references, themes, and familiar faces, so if you have any interest or knowledge in such things, this game is definitely for you. However, the game draws you in whether you have prior knowledge of the mythos or not. If you have not yet played Okami, I greatly recommend getting your hands on a copy of it. You won’t be sorry. 4- ninja ninja ninja ninja -Characters 5- ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja -Storyline 5- ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja -Style 4- ninja ninja ninja ninja -Substance 5- ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja -Overall Got a bone to pick with the reviewer? Want to suggest a work for review? Dying to hear about a new media or genre? Contact Rushifa with your questions and comments.Editor's Note: So even with all of our busy schedules and such, we got this issue done. Next month, however, will be the real challenge. Lily has left us, and most of our already-too-small staff will be participating in NaNoWriMo.
But we have a plan! Next month we'll have a NaNoWriMo themed issue; people who are participating can submit excerpts from their novel in progress. For more information, keep an eye out for next month's submissions thread!
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Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2006 3:04 pm
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Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2006 3:10 pm
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 22.0 - November '06We find the best so you don't have to. IN THIS ISSUE:1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.2. WriMo Replay - See what these writer's have accomplished in 30 days!3. Geek Chic - A Girl's Guide to Geekdom.4. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.5. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do. 6. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.PART I. Next Door NeighborsWorking to improve Gaia's writing environment, The Gaian Press and Deus ex Machina are teaming up. Deus ex Machina is a private (yet active) guild of about 170 members with a hardworking moderation team that dedicates its time to attracting and entertaining their fellow guild members. Currently, a Masquerade is in the works for August 8th, and the public is invited to come and see. Their forums include casual and in-depth discussions, writing resources, roleplaying, and poetry. Just click the banner to visit them! Gaia's Beta Guild Like peanut butter and jelly, Marge and Homer, The Gaian Press and Gaia's Beta Guild have come together at last. See their guild here! It's a small, public little corner of Gaia with about 70 members and a simple, straightforward layout. Beta Lists are posted for those who want a beta or wish to be a beta, and discussions on editing tactics can be found in the Library subforum. So look no further, fellow writers; A good editor is just a click away! PART II. Bulletin BoardReaders! If you have a writing-related site/guild/thread that you would like to advertise (or affiliate!) please PM Serieve or post in one of our public threads. Be warned though, we investigate first to see if it's suitable to be advertised and offer rejections if we find that they are not. No fee will be included, but donations are very much appreciated. In fact, all donators will be listed and thanked publicly in the Afterword. WriMo ReplayListed in alphbetical order by title.
This month's issue celebrates the much-anticipated end of National Novel Writing Month, a 30 day challenge to write a novel of 50,000 words. Below we have newborn excerpts people were willing to share with us!By Any Other Name, by RushifaConfessions from Kronberg, by Collin Tierney"Good Bye", by Alfred B.Star Seekers - excerpt from Chapter 8, by radioactive alchemistThose Unreal: Part One, By Serina knightsUntitled, By SerieveBy Any Other NameBy RushifaThe Palace was larger than anything Thelesis had ever been in, and it frightened her. Despite that, she held her head high, directed her servants with a steady voice, and tried not to feel overwhelmed. After all, this was her future home. The Royal Family had the choice of any noble woman in the kingdom to marry the High Prince; it was mere luck that they chose Thelesis. It helped that her father was a respected General of the Empyreal Army, and that her mother was decided from a well known family, but these social connections alone were not enough. The royal family had seen something special in her, something new. Something, perhaps, which the Prince’s former wife had not had. Or, perhaps she simply fit the physical requirements. What ever the reason, rather her luck was good or bad remained to be seen. Her quarters, which consisted of a large bedroom, two side rooms for handmaids, a large, ornate private bathroom, a sprawling walk-in closet, and three rooms reserved for music and Lessons. Her own parents were among the wealthier families of the Royal Court, but she had never been allowed such luxuries as this. And this was only her temporary quarters. In a few years, when her marriage to the High Prince was finalized, this would all become just a memory; but what a memory. As Thelesis turned around, inspecting the grand bedroom, a meek girl stepped out of the shadows, and bowed before her. “Welcome, Young Madam. I am to be your personal handmaiden, if you will take me. My name is Vie.” Thelesis inspected the girl, silently. Her eyes were cast downward, with a slight tilt to her head even when she had finished bowing. She sported the light golden hair which was common among the Lower People, but her skin was pale and ivory, and she smelt of sweet perfumes and rock baths. This was a servant used to working among royalty, a girl who had never worked in the fields or stables. An acceptable offering from the High Family. Thelesis did not return the bow. “Very well. See to it my things make it here alright; and I would like a bath ready when I get back from meeting with their Majesties.” The girl nodded deeply, and disappeared into the Thelesis’ peripheral vision, taking command of the other servants. Thelesis left her to it. The hallways were long and elegant, and Thelesis felt entirely lost. Her afternoon was free fpor exploring her new home, and learning her way to and from the necessary areas. Her evening, however, would be much more adventures, with a grand ball being held in her name. But she couldn’t think about that yet. Right now, the only thing that was important was the hallways in front of her. Ornate rugs adorned the walls, to keep the warmth in during the cold winter months, and skillfully done portraits and scenery had been hung along them, with the occasional reading nook thrust into the middle. The windows, which were as least twice as high as Thelesis was tall, looked out onto the courtyard, and the garden beyond that. Through one particular window, Thelesis stopped, and simply stared out at the breath taking landscape unfolding in front of her. There was a large reading chair there, with a few books spread crookedly on the table beside it. They were all about Prince’s and Princess, off having gallant adventures in distant lands, and fighting all number of mystical creatures. A few of them Thelesis had even read herself, or versions of them, anyway. She wondered, as she flipped the pages of one of the oldest, most worn, most beloved books, whose daily readings they were. The sun was already low to the horizon when Thelesis realized she had allowed the books to distract her for too long. She stood up, dropping the book in her hurry, and spend off down the hall; it was only then that she realized she could not remember which direction she had come from. Her footsteps were the only sounds that could be heard along these lonely corridors, and it seemed the deeper Thelesis went the more familiar the halls looked. She was lost. Only her first day here, and already she was going to be unfashionably late. Her heart pounded in her chest as she tried desperately to reorient herself, but there simply were no landmarks she could go off of. Even the windows no longer showed her the decorated courtyard, and instead presented only the same shots of endless trees. It was almost dark. Just after night fall, the feast would begin, and after that the ball. She must be ready by then, but Thelesis found herself more and more lost, and more and more flustered, no matter what she tried. Just as she was beginning to give up all hope, something caught her attention: the soft tick-ticking of feet not her own. She whirled around, but no matter which way she turned, she could not discern its source. Out of an open doorway, a small, pale hand extended, and clasped Thelesis’s hand gently. She screamed, whirled around, and raised one arm as if to fend off an attacker. But instead of a pale ghost, or a frightening monster, she saw only the slight, apologetic figure of her handmaiden. “I have come to gather Young Madam for the feast,” the girl explained softly. “Is Madam quite done exploring?” Something in the girl’s tone annoyed Thelesis. It almost seemed as if she were making fun; laughing at the silly country girl who had gotten lost in her own castle. “I think I’m about through,” Thelesis replied, haughtily. “We shall return to my quarters. Are my things in order?” “Everything has been brought as you ordered.” “And my gowns?” “Your own have been unpacked, and there are a number of ones awaiting you, courtesy of their Majesties.” “Very well, I shall wear one of those. Pick out something in a rich red, if you have it.” “Yes, young Madam.” Thelesis had always liked the color red. Besides being a royal shade, she always felt it had looked stunning on her. Something about her dark hair and pale skin made the red glow around her, and bring out the gentle flush of her cheeks and the pink of her lips. But in truth, she would have taken any gown, only to be brought safely back to more familiar ground. Of course, she could never let the simpering little handmaiden know that. The gown, when it was presented to Thelesis, was more beautiful than she had ever imagine. But it stood to reason, she told herself, that the future High Queen would be gifted the very best of the best. Future High Queen. She was going to have to get used to that. It fit her like a glove. Her measurements must have been sent over, because ever stitch, every piece boning, ever petticoat, seemed arranged to her specific comfort. “Who made this gown?” Thelesis demanded of the nearest handmaiden, a short-haired, snubbed-nosed girl who smelt of cooking. “Vie, my Lady.” “Vie,” Thelesis called, summoning the girl from her task of arranging the Lessons room. “Vie, I am told that you are responsible for this dress. Is this true?” “Yes, young Madam,” Vie replied, in a cautious, wary tone. There was a silence, as Thelesis looked down her nose at the other girl. Then, finally, she spoke. “I didn’t know a mere handmaiden was capable of such craftsmanship.” Vie smiled, despite her self. “I have many skills, my lady.” She bowed low before Thelesis. “That is why I was chosen to serve you, exclusively. You need only tell me what you desire, and if it is within my power it shall be done.” Thelesis nodded, feeling a fool for thinking this girl a mere simpleton. “With skills such as these, I would be happy to accept your unconditional service.” Thelesis nodded the girl forward, turning around to expose her bare, back, the buttons of her dress unfastened. “Come, help me get ready.” Vie did so without complaint. The feast was delicious, but Thelesis found herself uncomfortably stuck between her future mother-m-law, and the High Prince’s sisters. The High King and Queen sat at each end of the table. Her future husband sat opposite her, and gave her approving glances from time to time, with his brothers descending down the table away from the head. He had two brothers not much younger than him, the youngest of which seemed about Thelesis’ age, and two younger sisters who were still just children, and watched her with distaste. To the side of the table, a gaggle of handmaidens were gathered around a small table, where a young boy of about 6 and a baby girl no more than a year old were being fed a simplified version of the grand meal. Thelesis watched them with a sense of sadness. These children were soon to be her stepchildren, the son and daughter of the High Prince through his first wife. Thelesis felt sad for them, motherless, but their situation was not within her control. No one spoke to her, except in formal, bustling tones, and often with food in their mouths. In her own turn, she was expected to behave with the best of manners, and field lively but rehearsed conversations across the table. There was no companion to be found, no truly friendly face looking back at her. Surrounded by her new family, she felt utterly alone. If possible, the ball was even duller than the meal. Although Thelesis’ certainly shown above all the others in her gown of fine red, it did not help her with the other girls. Her new sisters were too young to attend the dance, and the various female cousins hung with the other noblewoman in politely avoiding the new Princess. She could not understand their cold, fake smiles, and the anger hiding behind their eyes. The smells of there exotic perfumes seemed to act as a wall between them and here, and she respected their discomfort, and let them be. In the highlight of the evening, the High King and Queen descended from their thrones, and danced a long, slow dance together. When their were threw, it fell to Thelesis and the High Prince to lead the next slow dance. She could feel her face flushing as he came towards her. She barely knew the High Prince, who was a few years older than her. At twenty-four, he had already had his fill of parties and special dances, and looked with only mild curiosity at his seventeen-year-old betrothed. Thelesis felt very small and very young beside him. The Prince was not a pompous man, but he carried himself as someone who had been trained sense birth to fit a specific role. His smiles, his voice, his very manner, all gave away that he carried the future responsibility of an entire country on his shoulders. He was a man very aware of his destiny. Strong and sure, his arms clasped her in a slow, swirling dance: the type reserved for couples in love. Although she had learned such dances in her Lessons, and was quite good at them, as a princess should be, she and never before had to call on such a talent. Thelesis’ early life was not field which much budding romance, and she didn’t feel much now, either. The dance made her blush, but out of embarrassment at the number of jealous and angry faces trained on her and the Prince. She could feel herself getting light headed, perhaps from the Prince’s cologne or her own perfume, but her stomach remained strong, and soon the dance was over. Prince ---- bowed to her, kissing her hand, and left her to meld unsuccessfully into the crowd. The instance his hand released her, she felt as if the world began to rush in around her. The crowd naturally gave the Prince a respectful circle of privacy, even in the most bustling areas, but no such honor was given her. Not yet, anyway. The girls around her, she noticed, were all more energetic than herself. Where as she felt tired after only one, slow, dance, they were all eager to flounce around the floor with their respective suitors. Dressed in their finest, the young nobleman gather around the girls like eager peacocks, showing of their plumes. Each girl wore a small, simple yet ornate headdress, mostly of plain medal and modest jewels. Their status and availability were shown by their elegant suits, fine, masculine jewelry, and cunning smiles. Dancing was a means of courtship, a frolic of excess youthful energy, and the other’s enthusiasm for it made Thelesis feel only more removed, more tired. A soft, persuasive music floated about the room, picking up now and then to fling the willful dances into their partners, and liven up the pace of the more dignified adults. Everywhere Thelesis looked, her eyes were blinded by bright lights, made only brighter by the florescent gowns and suits around her. The pervasive smell of sweat and sweet perfumes made her stomach turn. A shark, throbbing pain began to develop behind her eyes, and al she could think of was getting out of that oppressive room. Everything was a bit more bearable once she made it to the veranda. The fresh air helped a great deal. It was also blissfully un-crowded, with most people kicking their heels up inside. Sitting on a small, one-person cement bench, she looked over then ornate garden, and was able to just breathe and try and get her bearings. It was a beautiful night. The moon was high and full, and from her perch Thelesis could hear the soft, sleepy hum of crickets in the garden below. The scent of summer flowers drifted into her noise, banishing the lingering stink of the ballroom. As she sat there, looking at the stars, Thelesis could feel the tense muscles in her back relaxing. It had been a long day, and there was a long night ahead of her. As she sat in contemplation, she sensed a presence behind her, as if someone were waiting patiently for her to turn around. As she swiveled in her seat, her eyes adjusting to the bright light from the ballroom window. Behind her, dressed in the formal attire of a servant, was the handmaiden Vie. “If Young Madam is tired, we can retire to her quarters.” Vie gave her a saccharine smile. “It is indeed a tiring event, one’s first night in a new place.” Thelesis straightened her back, looking at Vie down her nose. It was true, she was tired, and nothing sounded better than retiring to the large, soft bed she had barely had time to sit on so far. But, she did not want to give Vie the satisfaction of being so right. “Thank you, but I think I shall be quite alright.” Thelesis stood, walking haughtily passed Vie, who was forced to slide quickly to one side. “You needn’t wait up for me. I may be very late.” She returned to the ballroom, and, catching the eye of the nearest young gentleman, was quickly on the dance floor with everyone else, swinging and swirling. Author's Note: I had a wonderful time this year. It was my second time doing NanoWrimo, and, although I again failed to complete the goal, I got a great deal done. 30,000 words, to be exact, which isn't too shabby, if I do say so myself. It got a little crazy this year, which you can read more about in Geek Chic, but over all, a wonderful experience. I can't wait for next year! (Excuse the sloppiness, this is just a rough draft. I ran in through word, but that's about all.)Confessions from KronbergBy Collin TierneyI don’t think people realize how painful it’s been for me to refrain from telling this story. Not a day goes by in which I don’t feel at least one shot of adrenaline in my spine at the thought of reliving an experience that stood in front of my face and taunted me for more than a year’s worth of dreams. Ironically, while I was in Germany, living and breathing the dream and able to pinch myself at any moment to prove it was all real, I wanted to go back home. I wanted to show my dad the 660 digital photographs I’d taken in the time span of three weeks, tell other friends and family about all the quirky people I’d met and all the strange experiences I’d made, and have a breakfast of cereal with fat free milk. It’s been over for nearly six months, and but like a widow wallowing in pity for a husband lost in some faraway war, I can’t stop grieving about it. I miss almost everything I couldn’t take home: the smells, the people, the culture, the scenery, the language. However, I would fail even the least sensitive of polygraph tests if I said everything over there was lovely. That’s what practically ruined it for me—those things in life you can’t change, like the people you live with. For my own sake, I’ll be completely honest here. I hated Pascal, and to a large extent, I still hate him. There came many an occasion while I lived in his house that I wanted to confront him and say: “Pascal, I think you are very selfish and childish because you can’t get over the fact that I am interested in things more intellectually stimulating than soccer and the ******** World Cup. Please, stop being an a*****e and arguing with me about things over trivialities like how many seconds it took the world’s fastest swimmer to complete the 100-meter Breaststroke. I came to Germany to learn. You want to watch all three 90-minute soccer games every day? Fine—Germany’s craze for soccer is something I can take with me for the rest of my life. In the mean time, you can spare the sweat required to walk up the stairs and connect the internet for me so that I can keep up to date on my American affairs for a fraction of the time you spent doing so while at my house. Please grow up and start reading the clues that clearly show you’re not the center of the universe.” To say that would not only have been unbearably destructive to my relationship with Pascal and his family, but I didn’t want to take the time to translate it all into German only to mess the pronunciation up on half the words. I didn’t mention in the rant above that Pascal is quite a bit more interested in putting one’s German down than I ever was with his English. Pascal’s a nice, fun, sarcastic individual and I don’t blame his friends for being his friends; however, based on my observations, he’s also a douche to people he doesn’t understand. Pascal isn’t on trial, though, and I have no intentions of turning my reflections against him. Instead, I’d rather let my observations speak for themselves. Pascal saw me with a notebook and pen wherever I went, but he never concluded anything more than that I was bored. (Because, seriously, if someone is writing day and night, it simply means they’re depressed with their nation’s losing soccer team and have nothing better to do.) No, I’m just a little on the detail-oriented side of things; should Pascal ever by some stroke of bad luck read this, he can be satisfied knowing I didn’t make a single thing up. *** Detail-oriented. Yes. I kept telling myself I could write a book on the flight from Minnesota to Reykjavik alone, and I probably could. It would bore most other readers if it only concerned the flight, but not me. I look up in the sky on clear days and see trails of jets as they bank south for a landing in St. Paul, and acerbic bouts of jealousy seethe into my entrails. I often want nothing more than to get on a plane and fly back to Frankfurt. People say planes are just like buses—uncomfortable as always, only that they’re in the air—and that tells me they’re missing the point: they’re in the air! Iceland Air isn’t a comparison to Lufthansa, but the flight was awesome nonetheless. The plane was stuffy, it smelled of grease, the seats were dirty, and the aisle was terribly congested as I came in with my exchange group from Buffalo, Minnesota. It was rainy outside, and to my dismay, fog smeared the window from the outside. Worse yet, we were forced to sit in the plane for another 45 minutes as the crew tried to get the air conditioner working. I sat in-between my German instructor, Michelle Strassburg, a young woman of about 28, and Nicole Witstine, a classmate. Strassburg declined to give me the window seat, and for that time we remained on the tarmac, I couldn’t forgive her for it. My ears grew deaf and unsympathetic to her squirming and intermittent mutterings, like “Okay, this is intolerable.” I’ll admit that I was gaining perspiration under my clothes just the same, but I was content so long as I could see outside when we took off. I waited patiently enough. After literally dreaming of this day for the last year, an extra half hour didn’t seem too unjust. Remaining composed, I opened my carry-on bag and acquired a second pack of Big Red. As someone who chews for the flavor alone, I found myself in need of a waste basket, but because I had no such luxury, I filled my mouth with additional sticks. On the tray in front of me went my notebook, MP3 player, and incomplete manuscript. I was set for a solid six hours of writing, regardless of the heat. In the end, I indeed had the privilege of looking outside, and it was worth everything. Fortunately, the confines of the plane gradually became cooler as the air conditioning improved. Passengers bustled past with carry-on luggage thrice the size of my own and found their seats in pain-staking slow motion. The windows cleared of fog, and the tarmac outside shifted. Steadily, the jet engine’s shriek outside my window matured. The Icelandic pilot spoke first in his native tongue as miniature television monitors appeared from the ceiling and explained how to properly buckle our seat belts and where the exits were located. Even talkative passengers quieted and listened in. I forgot about my unfinished novel in my lap. This was it, after all—June 5, the pinnacle of my life up to this point, as far as I was concerned. Destination: Deutschland, home to foamy piss-yellow beer and humorless, coldly-efficient folks who talked like their mouths were full of food, right? Seated somewhere behind me, Evan Bauernschmittt commented to Joe Mitlying on the feeling right before the plane takes off. “Don’t you love that?” he exclaimed in his bewildered, cross-eyed way. “Everything just freezes for a moment, and then—” Bam! The jet engines wind up and force the plane along at Autobahn speed toward the other end of the runway. Going from zero to several hundred miles an hour in a handful of seconds leaves your heart behind at the back of your ribcage. The rumbling underneath is soft and deafening simultaneously, and in one magnificent blink of time, you’re off into the air. I was stone-dead captivated. Craning my neck to see outside the window, I watched with transfixed incredulity as the ground shrank. Suddenly, I could see for dozens of miles. Even under the storm’s gloomy spell, Minnesota was beautiful. In fact, it was because of the rain that the grass below looked so lush and the lakes so dark and blue. Downtown Minneapolis shriveled into an isolated corner of the world no larger than a bead of water on the window, and the ground vanished beneath the blanket of clouds. The evening accelerated into night as we sped ahead in time. The clouds turned pitch-black, yet the sun’s rays lingered on the northern horizon, vibrant and orange as ever. It was a stunning contrast; we abandoned the sun in Minneapolis, but it was already waiting for us in the Atlantic. The six hours to Reykjavik, Iceland were a blur as I wrote. I stopped only to throw out the ten sticks of cinnamon gum in my mouth, to eat dinner, and to watch the sunrise. If ever someone claims inspirational location is inconsequential to the outcome of your work, tell them they’re full of s**t. For some reason, I see photographs and video footage of views from above the clouds, and yet I feel nothing. Perhaps that’s the problem with my experience—you have to be there. It’s not something you can describe through pictures alone. Perhaps that’s why I chose to write about a point in my life that, instead of pointing me in a new direction, has in fact stolen the compass arrow altogether. Author's Note: I started this last week with a splitting headache from too much catawba juice at 11 pm, and realized about half an hour later that I'd written all you can see below. Enjoy the excerpt, which mostly an introduction to the piece."Good Bye"By Alfred B.I was never good at writing letters. All the hidden emotions that needed to come out on paper just never came out of the heart. Just like now. The pen flicked back and forth between my fingers as I slumped over the desk. What to write, what to write... I could’ve written some crap about how I regretted ditching them all, but in the end it wouldn’t have made any difference - they knew I wanted to leave. I could’ve told them they had changed the way I thought for ever and ever - but hell, that wasn’t true in the slightest. I knew - and they knew - I was still the a*****e I’d always been. I could’ve asked them to remember me on and on - but what good is dwelling on the bastards of the past? As if they’d want to remember me. I could’ve begged for forgiveness for all the crap I had loaded onto them for years - but, deep down inside, did I really care? So I just sat there. Paper on the desk, pen in hand, mind wandering. Words didn’t come to my blank brain and hollow heart. I sighed - I was never good at writing letters... Never good at all. What was the use of writing a letter at all if they knew why I had just “packed my bags” and crawled off? I couldn’t lie to them - so what else was there to write? The truth? What good was that to do? So I sat there. Seconds ticked by on the clock. Minutes flittered past. An hour. What was I doing here, wasted time on writing a stupid, god-forsaken letter that probably nobody would look twice at? That nobody cared about? But at least I could do the courtesy of actually saying something for once. So, I forced my hand and heart into it. Hunched over the scrappy, derelict desk, I scribbled on the paper. And scribbled. I said in the letter that I didn’t want pity, or sympathy, or forgiveness. I wanted them to just forget. I didn’t care if they hated me - what good would it do? I had been an a*****e loaded with s**t to the brim, and I knew it. And I told them that they probably wouldn’t see me again - the father away I traveled from them, the better. In the end the letter was short and pretty much to the point. I gave a half-hearted attempt to fix some of my handwriting, then just stared into space for a while. Where would they go? What would happen to them? Would they take my advice, or would one of them chase after me? A cockroach crawled up the dirty grey walls, antennae flicking back and forth. One thing was obvious - I wouldn’t regret leaving this dump. And I wouldn’t forget leaving them. So in the end, I picked up my pen, and wrote two letters at the end of the paper. The last letters I wrote in this empty pit of a flat. Good byeAuthor's Note: I'm low on the Nanowrimo word count - probably mainly because I write more in my mind than actually on paper (or keyboard, in this matter). Anyways, a little piece that I did to add into it at the very start... ^__^ It's not brilliant, but now I'm quite fond of it, so meh. ^^
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Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2006 3:21 pm
Star Seekers - Excerpt from Chapter 8By radioactive alchemistThey encountered no other difficulties until they were well past Maraci and in the open waters of the Serpent Sea, fair game to other pirates and serpents alike--as well as at the mercy of the elements, because with the majority of the crew not aware there were gods aboard Air didn't see fit to cut Jessica any slack in that respect. Jessica was perfectly fine with that; she'd weathered her fair share of storms and it was during storms that she could really evaluate her crew and how they worked. Once they reach Eston there would invariably be some men kicked off for not meeting her harsh standards. There would always be more eager to join, although most were not the specific sort that she sought. Jessica had high standards that she wouldn't compromise if she could at all help it. The storm was to the west, coming from Ceylis in their direction and kicking up the waves with a stiff wind. The storm clouds hung ominous in the distance, darkening the sky and making it seem like evening when it was the middle of the afternoon. Jessica ordered the sails taken in; at the speed it was approaching there was no way they would be able to outrun it. Sprinkles of rain started to hit her face as Jessica stared into the wind, watching the storm's approach and trying to judge its path and what they would be up against. There was a frightened yell from one of the men up in the sails; Jessica turned to see what the problem was. Up ahead and slightly to port a serpent's head was rising out of the water. Jessica didn't have any patience for the creature; in this state her crew could only handle one sort of crisis at a time, and the oncoming storm took priority. Irked, she gave the order for them to keep working on securing the sails. She could handle the serpent by herself. The rain was coming down harder, and the waves were quickly getting rough; she had no idea why the dumb beast had come up now. Usually they stayed lurking far beneath the waves where the water was calm. It was either very young, very dumb, or both. Ignoring the fact that she was going to get soaked, Jessica took off her jacket and rolled up her sleeves before grabbing the slick rope of the bowline and hauling herself up to the bowsprit, keeping her balance with one hand on the rope until she felt secure enough to let go. Water was her element; she would be fine even if the waves tried to throw her overboard. She knew that most if not all would have stopped working to watch her, wondering what she was about to do. That didn't matter to her; it would be good for them to get a look at her power, so they knew that she could enforce her word. She was the sea's master, not the other way around. She knew what she was doing, and she did it well. The serpent faced the ship with unsteadiness, as if it wasn't quite sure what the thing bearing down on it was. It did know that whatever it was, it was a threat, and the serpent reared up out of the waves to tower over even the main mast. Jessica heard a few yells from the deck behind her; let them be frightened. The only thing that could hurt them was the storm itself; this little sea serpent was nothing. Jessica closed her eye and took a breath; and when she opened it again and looked at the serpent it knew it had met its match as a hundred thousand tiny darts of water going at inhuman speed pierced its tough hide. It let out a shriek, which was nearly drowned out by a peal of thunder, and it started to sink as it thrashed around in agony. Jessica wasn't about to let it get off so easily; with a sharp movement from her hand the water cut deep into the serpent's neck as if it had been a snake cut by a dagger. It thrashed harder, but losing strength the waves swamped it and pulled it under; it was gone. Jessica took a calming breath, and jumped back down to the relative safety of the deck. There was a smattering of applause, audible even over the storm, and Jessica had to smile as she ordered them to get their lazy asses in gear and finish lashing everything down and tying the sails off. Editor's Note: If you would like to continue this story, please click here!Author's Note: This year I had a bit of an obstacle to conquer - I decided to switch over to the Dvorak keyboard layout on the 21st of October. I'd tried to do it last year but I'd given up. This year I didn't. The going was very slow at first, but the more I typed the faster I got. I started the month at about 17 wpm, and right now I'm at 36 wpm. My wrists haven't been hurting at all, even though I've been doing 30-minute word wars in 15-minute intervals for most of the month. I highly recommend the Dvorak layout, especially if you have wrist problems. You can read more about it (in an entertaining web 'zine format!) here.Those Unreal: Part OneBy Serina knightsThe first thing to bounce out of the black was a profanity. An older boy was leaning over Tayler, looking at a deep purple bruise on his forehead. The boy looked to be about sixteen, with shoulder length, ratty brown hair, and a cut up baby face. The older boy swore again, his voice trembling. “How hard did they konk you out kid?” he asked. Tayler looked around, dazed. He was lying on something damp and hard. A chalky dusting of cement powder clung to his fingers as he moved his arm up to look. Gray bricks made a crude boundary, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw bars. Tayler looked at the older boy, confused as to why he was substituting his mother. “I… Wh- ...help.” He mumbled, gagging on a bitter taste that traveled down the back of his throat. “What’s your name kid?” the older boy asked, standing up. He was quite tall, and wore a knee length brown-red tea-shirt, and denim work pants, shredded beyond belief. Toward the bottom of the red shirt, there was a spot of white, reveling its true color. It wasn’t supposed to be red. “T-t-t…Ta-a-l-l-l-l-l-l-l…” he trailed off. It hurt to bad to talk. “Hay Ryker!” a boy called from the next cell “your new roomie is a mental case!” The older boy, Ryker, looked over sharply, narrowing his eyes at the boy who had insulted him. “You’re gunna have some worse problems when I get out!” he hollered. The other boy’s voice answered back “You ain’t never getting out, none of us are!” but it had lost its playful edge. Ryker turned away, back to Tayler. “Dang.” He mumbled, troubled deeply. “You got messed up bad. How old are you kid, eight, nine?” “Thirteen. Tayler!” He finally shouted. “Ahah!” Ryker exclaimed, his face lighting up “it speaks!” Tayler couldn’t help but smile through the pain that had erupted from his throat through those two words. He turned over on his stomach, looking at the floor. Agony erupted from every fiber of his body from the simple movement. Ryker was quick to react, holding open Tayler’s mouth, trying to discover what was causing his pain. A look of sick shock crawled onto his face. Blood covered his fingertips. “Holy…” the boy’s shout trailed off into another muttered profanity. “What did you do, stab somebody?” he asked, shocked and horrified. Tayler was confused beyond words. He couldn’t remember where he was, or what he did to get there. Ryker threw himself against the bars of the dark cell, an act of self-destructive valor that had the other boys jump up of from floors and see what was happening. He continued pounding the cold metal, sending a man in black cote running down the shady corridor. He picked up a two-way and spoke into it in a raspy voice “The freak went haywire again” he said crudely. Springing open the cell and knocking Ryker to the floor, He drew a pair of gleaming silver handcuffs from the pocket of the cote. “What the hell did they do to him?” Ryker said, keeping his cool as his eyes caught what little light bounced off of the cuffs, and wiping a trail of crimson blood from his mouth. He had to know what was wrong, he didn’t want to watch another little kid die. “Just a little pill, it’ll ware off in a day or so. Time to teach you a lesson about disturbing the peace kid. Maybe we aught to wheel you”. At the man’s threat, other boys within earshot gasped. Ryker began to loose his cool, becoming a timid little child. “Please” he begged, his arms obediently outstretched for the cuffs, small scars visible on his wrists “Anything but that, not again, I’ve been good, please! I’ve been good, anything but that, please!” Tears rolled down his filthy, petrified face, leaving little clean streaks. The man laughed, dragging him away. Tayler sat in his anguish, praying that it was a dream. The boys in other cells whispered, some bowed their heads. Why was that boy so stupid? He asked himself, why did he do that? He lay on the rigid cement, not knowing how he got there. What did he know? He knew that his name was Tayler; he knew that he was thirteen years old; he knew that everything hurt, and he knew that wherever he was, it was a bad place. Pain cried out from every pore in his starved body. His blond hair had been shaved down to his scalp. He was a pitiful sight, lying on the floor, crystal tears running down his face. He wore a white tea shirt, and the same pale jeans as Ryker, the boy. God he begged in his mind, what is going to happen to me? Heat erupted behind his closed eyes; the sound of a cell door swinging open woke him from his feverish nap. A figure was thrown in, and the door was pulled shut with an otherworldly screech. The dark figure crawled toward him, leaving scarlet tracks as it moved. The boy who had been so rude before sprung to life and put his face up against his own bars. “Ryker?” he whispered harshly. The figure turned around. “Ryker!” the voice exclaimed in a mixture of shock and delight “we thought that they wheeled you for sure! Dang. What happened? You look bad.” “I’m ok.” Ryker rasped weakly “lucky to have all my limbs. Something with my eyes” he mumbled “can’t see” profanities swarmed out of his bleeding mouth like wasps from a shaken hive. “Spray…” he trailed off, his words becoming weaker and more faint. He let out a caught, and a gagging noise, followed by a trail of blood coming up from his throat. The other boy backed into his cell. Tayler watched as Ryker crawled back into a corner, fading off into a sleep. Ryker howled and whimpered in his sleep, fresh blood still oozing from his mouth. Slowly, the dim light in Tayler’s throbbing head shut itself off, leaving him an empty husk, captive to the darkness. The sound of sloshing water filled the cell. Ryker had been given a small cup of water to wash whatever was in his eyes out. As his sight slowly bettered to a blurry mesh of shapes and colors, he noticed Tayler in the corner. His troubles were pepper pills, which were fed to all the new comers. This had been a particularly strong batch, because the little boy was out cold on the floor. Ryker looked at himself, bloody from head to toe, with little patches of skin charred down to the bone. His pale skin was stretched tight as a drum over his slender body. He wiped a drizzle of blood from his eye, waiting for food. Even in his agony, he was grateful for every breath that he took in. He had been in this hell since he was a child of five, and was a particular “favorite”. He was beaten just for the fun of it, wheeled on his first day, with the scars to prove it. He was ten miles underground, in the middle of nowhere, in government placidity. They wanted to make these boys “superhuman”. They would be a generation of genetically modified super beings. They had taken him in ’95, and the calendar said ’06. He couldn’t imagine that it had been 11 years, solely for the reason that no child made it for more than nine years. He remembered his last cellmate, a crippled 6 year old, which barely made it a year. He wondered what they had done to him; mutations didn’t start showing until age twenty. He swore that he would make it to twenty, just so that once he made it and he became “superhuman” he would get away, far away. Tayler opened his eyes, silently observing as the older boy stood up and began to pace around the room. Other boys began to wake too, stretching and moving about. A sick, droning buzzer signified morning. Fighting his pain, which had dulled over the night, he grabbed the bar; hoisting him to his quaking, unsteady feet. They gave out beneath him, sending him spiraling toward the floor, landing in a tormented heap as he looked out the bars. Black shoes made a disturbing series of clicks as they paced throughout the corridor. Blood dripped from Ryker to the floor by his face. Ryker closed his eyes, grimacing at something unseen. The shoes turned toward his cell, as if the black leather itself was watching them. Ryker let out a cackle of hysteria, followed by whimpers as he sunk to his knees. “I’m sorry,” he begged. Tayler looked at his jeans, at a figure that bulged from them. He reached into his pocket, pulling the object, a pocketknife out. With a movement of panic, he threw it. It skidded across the floor, hitting against the shoes. Seeing a chance Ryker scurried like a frightened squirrel to the back of the cell. “So” the owner of the shoes said, looming over him “you took it, did you?” Tayler was confused, he didn’t remember taking it, but he remembered nothing. He nodded his head as Ryker let out another infantile whimper of panic. Suddenly, the shoe had met Tayler in the face with a harsh smack. He rolled onto his back, his face wracked with a confused, demented torment. Ryker trembled, anger flowing through his veins, as the man dragged Tayler across the floor. A kick met him in the back. “Hold him!” the man ordered him, leaving the cell briefly. Tayler’s mind was wild as Ryker gripped his arm. “Sorry kid” he whispered, his voice trembling. The man returned, a smile on his face and a whip in his hand. A look of shame melted onto Ryker’s face. He grabbed Tayler’s arms, pinning him to the wall as the man drew back the whip for the first lash. Tears rolled down his face, but he was to numb to feel the pain. With the second strike, he went limp, Ryker desperately trying to hold him up, afraid to be beaten himself. With the third strike, Ryker’s hand slipped, sending Tayler’s body to fall in a heap on the floor as he looked up with panic in his eyes, knowing what was next. Ryker had failed at his duty. As Tayler lay bleeding on the floor, he could hear a crack, and a scream. The whip flew the air with such power that it brought the older boy to his knees as it ripped through the week fabric of his shirt, leaving bleeding slash marks that turned the shirt an even deeper red. A second strike met the back of his legs as he struggled to stand up. His eyes were wild with pain as he bit his tongue, trying not to cry out, a small whimper escaping his lips. Tayler squeezed his eyes closed as he heard another crack, and another. He heard another body crash to the floor, not far from his own. Red sprayed out as Ryker came crashing down. The click of the black shoes filled the room, which was silent, save for the sound of Ryker’s labored breathing, and whimpers. He could feel the heavy eyes on him, their stare reflecting on his blood, seeing through his flesh. Cold rushed over him, the air stinging the gashes. A puddle of tears had formed by his face coming off in rapid streams. He could Hear Ryker struggling to his feet, cringing as he unfolded his blood-crusted legs, staggering unsteadily to the bars and clinging to them for dear life. Ryker could see through half blind eyes that the other boys had been fed. He wiped a trail of blood from his mouth once again. Down there everybody had blood coming out of there mouths, if not just from biting their tongues to avoid screaming out in rage. Tayler didn’t understand how the boys survived the pain, and he had only been there for a few days. Ryker walked over to him, helping him to his feet. He froze midway in helping him up, dropped to his knees, and broke down in tears. In Tayler’s eyes, he could see a memory that he had tried to force from his mind, of a little blond boy, no older than three, dead on the ground with a screwdriver through his neck, and a headless woman, and a man, hung until dead from the rafters of a roof. “Five little ducks went out one day,” he sang, tone deaf, out of hysteria “over the hills and far away!”. Tayler crawled up to the bars, pulling himself up. Ryker was an emotional wreck. He screamed out in mental torment. Other boys rushed up to see what would happen. “Ryker, Calm down!” a familiar voice yelled, beginning to panic. Slowly, Ryker became himself again. Years of torment had done him no justice. He saw the shock and horror on Tayler’s face. “Did you ever loose somebody important to you?” he whispered to Tayler “Did you ever watch somebody die?”. Tayler was speechless as Ryker teetered once more on the verge of hysterics, calming himself with a stream of profanities that tied an invisible knot around his neck, choking off the panic. The tears in his eyes dried up. He turned over his wrist. A round scar, the size of a dime stood out. “My mutation.” He whispered, pointing to the mark, made by one heck of a big needle. “They did this to me. They will do this to you.” Tayler looked at the scar, a feeling of extreme discomfort grew. A shiver ran down his back as he calculated the exact size of the needle. “That’s nothing!” Shouted a voice from behind. For the first time, Tayler got a good look at the boy. His hair was short, and it was a ratty blond. It curled up at ragged angles. His skin was as pale as the moon, with deep purple welts. Some white was still on his shirt. He had a smile like a fox before it bit the head off of some helpless rabbit. Tayler guessed that he was about fifteen. “Do you know what ‘wheeled’ is kid?” he asked. Tayler shook his head. ‘Lucky you” the boy said in a sly voice “Ryker knows what it is. He’s the only one to survive it; the engine ran out of gas before his guts ripped out. Ripped the skin on his back down to the muscle.” Both Tayler and Ryker cringed. A look of slight pride crept across Ryker’s faced, masking the horror of the memory. “That’s what they do if all doesn’t go right by the time you hit seventeen!” The boy continued “And if you’re good they slit your wrist so that you bleed out before your insides…” “Shut it Kevin!” Ryker yelled, cutting him off. “Just having a little fun with him….” Kevin muttered as Rayler nearly passed out from the harshness of the boy’s comment. From the look on Ryker’s face, he knew it was no lie. “That’s where you’re going Ryker, if you’re still screwed up by October. That’s where I’m going too, and you too kid!” He said pointing to Tayler. “No we’re not!” Ryker argued, looking sick “You keep thinking that. Keep fooling yourself until they start the engine. We are all going to die, and you’d better get used to it. They probably have it marked on the calendar. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to sit and wait for them to clock me out!’ The boy was outraged. Such a mood that brought deep purple color to his pallid face. Tayler whimpered, tears coming down. Ryker saw how upset he was, and tried to comfort him. “He’s lying kid. He’s crazy, that’s all.” But Ryker knew that he wasn’t crazy, it was the cold hard truth, and he couldn’t handle it. His wrist had a dirty little secrete that it was hiding, a secrete that rushed in his veins and condemned him. A dark blanket of night befell the outside earth, turning the ground cold. Tayler lay asleep, shivering on the cold ground. Ryker refused to sleep; he wanted to take in every moment of life, no matter how meaningless. As he sat slumped over on the concrete wall, knowing that he was doomed, hopeless, and a failed experiment. “What am I?” he whispered to himself. A familiar figment of his insanity slipped through the bars. A woman of thirty, who carried her disembodied head under her arm, dripping trails of stale blood where she walked crept toward him. He remained calm, and unafraid by the nightly visits from his family. “Hi mom” he mumbled to nothing. Tonight, the woman, his mother, was angry. “It’s your fault!” she shouted at him. “If you hadn’t gone to the damn park Ryker, we tolled you never to talk to strangers! You deserve everything Ryker, you deserve to die! You killed us!” it was a scream that only he could hear. “No! No mamma, please, no, I never wanted to hurt you! I was just a kid, just a little kid!” He begged out loud, tears running down his face. With a bloody hand, she reached out and slapped him. Her handprint burned like acid, he screamed in pain. He could feel the blood drenching him. He let out a scream “Please god! Please make it stop, I’m sorry!” and like that, everything vanished. His insanity ate away at him, a feeling of shame knocking him down like a punch in the face as he saw Tayler, looking over him in shock. As he looked around, he could feel the eyes of the other boys on him. Basket case Ryker had another meltdown, and now he’s going to get it. He knew that they were thinking it. Tayler sat over him, shock crawling through him. He could see that Ryker was ashamed. As he tried to cover his tracks, he stuttered, “w-w-wow. That…umm…th-th-tha…um…that was one…one…one…he-e-eck of a night-night….nightmare. Must have…umm…been sle-e-ep talking….again. Ummmm… sorry.” He could tell that none of the other boys believed his lie. Tayler’s attention shifted to a clicking noise that slowly grew lower. It was the clicking sound of black shoes. Ryker began to panic, but decided in himself that he wouldn’t make a scene, no matter what. The shoes walked past him. A man’s arm grabbed Tayler, dragging him out of the cell. In a dazed confusion, Tayler didn’t resist. All he could see were black shoes, clean black shoes, walking down a filthy hallway, listening to those boys get up and look at the kid walking toward a white door. As the door swung open, it reveled a white room, with an odd chair in the middle. It was a stool, with short poles, reaching out onto a desk like thing. On the desk were two medal cuffs. As he walked over to the chair, sat down, and heard the cuffs click around his wrists, it hit him. They were killing him. He couldn’t hold the panic in any longer. Editor's Note: If you would like to continue this story, please click here!Author's Note: Well, I found out about NaNoWriMo about a week ago, and have been feverishly typing ever since. Sadly, parents of young teenagers tend not to let them stay up until 3:00 am on a school night. Actually, there is a funny story about that. Last week, I passed out in front of the computer, and walked around school the next day with keyboard marks. Ok, so its not that funny, but at least it accomplished something.UntitledBy SerieveA bitter servant stood before her Bitter God and tried, for the last time, to forget who she was. The face etched in stone gave no answers, and she was tired of asking. She was tired of wandering the same dusty road, of praying, of being young and getting older and going nowhere. For the past three years, she had done nothing but try. With no destination and no motivation, she had fallen back to the beginning. The altar was the same cold gray, and her god’s features were still frozen in anger. He had been forsaken too. However wicked or wild he was, he had still loved. The Seven Gods were a family, once, but the six couldn’t handle their youngest, chaos-ridden brother, or the affair that he had involved himself in. The Wild God, banned by his brothers and sisters, stripped of his rank. Turned away by love, he had earned his title as the Bitter God. And she was his parallel, running along the same path. Unfortunately, there were no black wings to take her away, no mortal enemies to fight against. There was no love to pursue. The only love she had was of a disowned family and the Wild Ones she would never see again. Thus, nothing was left to her but herself, and self-love was not a thing she’d ever been known for. Her old people had been rotting from self-love. She wondered how they fared now, with the coming war. Not even they could remain so self-isolated once events broke loose. As if conjured by her thoughts, a familiar voice traveled down the road, singing. “Bright as fire, she burns herself/ Ashes, ashes-the moon falls down around her/ The scarlet sight still burns bright in my mind…” The singer was a red-head, all curves and fluid motion. Her strong voice flew from pouting red lips, and a pair of turquoise eyes flickered from her feet to her face, assessing the damage that two and a half years had wrought. “It’s been a long time, Serieve.” The sound of her name was still as foreign and painful as it had been the first time, when this same person had first given it to her. There were only three people in the world who had spoken her name. This bard had been the first. The divine priest had been second, and she herself had been the third. Serieve had thought it cruel that her new name sounded so much like the old, even if it was only in a small measure. “You still flinch when I say your name,” Azzure told her. “I guess you haven’t been around very many people these last three years, have you?” She shook her head. “Only you and the healers, and the occasional monk.” Her voice cracked as she spoke. Her tongue had difficulty twisting around the foreign language. Azzure sighed, looking her over once more. “What have you done to yourself?” Anger boiled to the surface, a refreshing change. “I have done nothing but struggle, and you accuse me of self-mutilation.” “If you weren’t so god damn defensive, maybe you’d see that I’m just trying to help you.” She was taken aback, and reminded herself of Azzure’s temper. Part of her wanted to continue provoking her, just to pick a fight, but instead she let more sensible parts speak. “What are you doing here?” Azzure smirked, glad that the other girl had caught on. “I came to see you, obviously. Have you kept up with the news?” She nodded. However isolated she was, word traveled well here, and news of increasing political tension was all that the locals talked about. “You’ve become a war general,” Serieve said, and smiled. “Who would have imagined a bard could go so far?” Azzure threw her head back and laughed, unfettered. “Ah, how true! And here I am again with this old lute, singing when war is on the verge. I imagine that we’ll be marching tomorrow. The Head General wants to take the initiative against Dier first, then on Gewdyll.” This was news to her, and she grew uneasy. “So why did you come?” There was no pause, no warning. “Come and work for me.” She had seen it coming, and it still sent a shock through her. “No.” She looked away, and found the face of her Bitter God challenging her. “No.” She turned again, glancing anywhere but at Azzure or the Bitter God’s face. “No.” Working for Azzure could mean anything. It wasn’t just a coincidence that she’d gone from being a bard to a war general. She was God-Touched, a prophet, and had once been a spy for Lord Cern of Westbank. Many called her the Flame of the Red Prophecy. She had followers, like a cult. Her official position was Second War General under Prince Rhevnand of Evich. In peace times, she worked as a sibyl in the castle’s Visionary Sect. Serieve, as well as the general population, suspected that those weren’t the only positions Azzure held. What was frightening, however, was the thought of going even further into the outside world. She’d spent the last three years avoiding people. Yet even with that thought, she found that even worse would be not going. She knew what would happen then. More wandering, more praying. Azzure stood to the side, waiting. The Bitter God still challenged her, though his gaze had lessened its intensity. He knew what her decision would be. “Say I do agree,” Serieve started, trying to get it over with, “What exactly would you have me do?” Azzure sighed. “With the war coming, we need allies. More specifically, we need the Lord of Kithade.” The name held some significance to Azzure, and by the expectant look on her face, it should have meant something to Serieve as well. The little she knew about him was no help. He was gossiped about constantly, though the majority of peasant rumors were nonsense. A womanizer, eccentric, unethical... a typical young lord, rebelling against society. The real mystery lie in his history. He hadn’t inherited his fortune, and he had never been famous before his sudden appearance among the nobility. It seemed he had come from nowhere. Yet even with his limited background, he had amassed a lot of power in very little time. He had an army, though no one had ever seen it, and his store of arcane knowledge was unparalleled. Even his castle was a mystery. It had only ever been seen from afar, and no one could reach it. As for the Lord himself, he was too frivolous to be useful. His army, he claimed, was a scattered crowd of wild half-men, and no one could reach his castle because it wasn’t really his castle. When asked for information, his answers were so ambiguous as to be no answer at all, or he would change the subject to some completely unrelated topic. Thus, Serieve could see no sense in Azzure’s reasoning, nor in her expectation. Isolated as she was, it was surprising she’d learned so much about a man thousands of miles away. What could possibly be his significance to her? “Why the Lord of Kithade?” Serieve asked. Azzure paused, organizing her thoughts. “I know the rumors about him are... extravagant, and sadly, most of them are true. But he does play a crucial role in this war.” She couldn’t fathom what sort of role a man like him could play in a war, but she took Azzure’s word for it. “And why do you need me to acquire him?” She had a guess, and found it hard to believe Azzure would even consider her fit for the job. “You know he likes, women, right?” Her guess was confirmed. “Of course.” “Well, I was negotiating with him, and you happened to pop up in the conversation.” Incredulous, Serieve said nothing, and Azzure was forced to continue. “He wants to meet you. Otherwise, he won’t even talk to us.” Still, Serieve did not reply, and a breeze swept down the dirt road. The dried leaves surrounding the altar stirred, bringing her attention back to her Bitter God. She stepped before him, silently asking him what she should do. It wasn’t often he gave her any signs, yet today he had demanded she work for Azzure. She could still feel the slight weight of his gaze on her, as if he were making sure she didn’t back down. What were his plans? “Is there something else I should know about this Lord?” Serieve asked, going on a hunch. “If you agree, I’ll tell you everything I know.” “I’ve already agreed. Is there anything I should know?” Azzure grinned. “I’ll tell you while we walk back to the carriage. I left it a long ways down this road.” Serieve nodded, but turned once more to the altar. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” She laughed. “So do I.” Author's Note: Well, in the end I didn't make it, but I tried, so I'm happy. This story's been sitting around in my mind, collecting dust. The name Serieve belonged to the character first, so you know, and I stole it from her. There are a lot of things I don't like about this first draft, but that's usually the point of a first draft. I'll have to edit it after I've written more.#7 We Must Be CrazyBy RushifaWell, another year of NaNoWriMo has come and gone. It was a heralding month, but at least at the end you have something to show for it, whether you "won" or not. For those who don't know, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, which takes place ever November. It's not quite as insane as it sounds, but it is pretty darn crazy. The idea is to a write a 50,000 manuscript in just 30 days. Granted, that's a short novel, more of a novella really, but it's still a significant amount of work. The break down for the month goes as follows: to reach 50,00 words by the 30th, writing for the same amount each day, you have to produce 1,667 words a day. That's roughly three pages. Not all that crazy sounding, once it's broken down like that. Most people aim for 2,000 daily in the first week, so they have a comfortable cushion to carry them through the rest of the month, but it varies from author to author. I've participated in NaNoWriMo two years, but neither time have I "won," which in nano-speak means you completed the goal, reaching 50,000 words within the month. I always get to about 25,000 words, when life gets in the way. Last year, final projects hit me. This year it was much more literal, as one of my close friends was hit by a car (she's fine, only bruised). Then Thanksgiving always throws me for a loop, since I always manage to forget about my deadline while I'm home. During the time I've spent on the NaNoWriMo forums, I've noticed that there are three distinct types of writers. First, there are the Over Achievers. These prolific writers have an abundance of time, very fast fingers, or the ability to go without sleep—often all of the above. Within the first week, they sail past everyone else, meeting the deadline ahead of schedule, and leaving the rest of us trailing in their tail wind. Second, there are So-So-ers. These people, like myself, have great passion for their work, but just can't ride the run mile to get across the finish line. They have a good start, but are held back either by the plot, so-called "writer's block," or outside complications. However, these people are generally likely to try again next year, even more inspired to win. Lastly, there are the Slow And Steadys. The keep to their daily goals, never going far ahead or dropping far behind, and are able to finish on time. They have perfected the balance between life and writing, and are able to successfully accomplish their goals. Whichever category you fit into, give yourself a pat on the back for even considering taking on this crazy task. Congratulations, all of you. For everyone who didn't participate, I really recommend the experience. It's not a sure fire way to write a winning novel; in fact, the draft you have done at the end of the month will probably be pretty bad. But that's the point. It’s all about proving to yourself that, yes, in fact, you can write a book. Now, You can spend the rest of the year perfecting it, slowly and carefully. Like fine wine, it will just get better with time. Point! What’s Your Point?
#21 This is How We Make It Look Like We Care
Jeff A. Van Booven Because my November has absolutely been the epitome of the suck I leave you this month this wonderful picture of this kitten. Enjoy. Code of the NinjaCourtesy of The One and Only Jahoclave5 - ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja - The ninja approves of this; failure to cohere with the ninja's decision is a grave mistake.
4 - ninja ninja ninja ninja - The ninja enjoys this, but he finds flaws.
3 - ninja ninja ninja - The ninja would rather date your sister, but since you may not have one he will take this instead.
2 - ninja ninja - The ninja warns you that he was only marginally impressed.
1 - ninja - If proper confession is made, the ninja will forgive you for taking part in this.
0 - xp - If you are looking for an invigorating experience I would suggest poking your eye out before this; the ninja does not approve.Editor's Note: We're currently lacking in submissions for this department, so feel free to type up a little review (using the ninja's code, of course) to be published for the next issue! Books, music, anime, just about anything goes! So hop on that shiny soapbox already, my critical friend, I know you have something to say...Book Review: Lessons From a Lifetime of WritingWritten By David Morrell Reviewed By Rushifa In the world of writing, especially creative writing, there are many hurdles to overcome. Some of them are relatively simple, while others are hard, life-changing experiences. And the worst thing is, it differs from person to person. There is so easy formula, no magic spell, and no sure thing. However, as David Morrell shows us, the desperate writer is not alone, and certainly not hopeless. I've read a number of books on writing in my time, all though perhaps not as many as I should have, and David Morrell's Lessons From a Lifetime of Writing has been by far the best so far. He doesn't give you little exercises, which can be found in some other wonderful books, but he goes step by step through the challenges writer's face, and helps you really get to know them. It's very readable, entertaining, and inspiring. Some of the most valuable things Morrell goes over include Plot, Research, First Person, Beginnings, and Getting Published. He is a must-have for all aspiring writers, up there with William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White's The Elements of Style. With NaNoWriMo 2006 having just ended, this is a wonderful time for writers everywhere to embrace their craft, and I think Morrell's book is a wonderful start to that. Go forth, everyone, and write! # 5- ninja ninja ninja ninja ninja -OverallGot a bone to pick with the reviewer? Want to suggest a work for review? Dying to hear about a new media or genre? Contact Rushifa with your questions and comments.Editor's Note: Phew! We've gotten behind this month, unfortunately. There was havoc in eveyones' lives, and with so few of us, it's hard. We did manage to hire one new staffie; I give out a warm welcome to enchantedsleeper! Thank you, everyone, for reading, and thanks to the few staff that I have left for working so hard, and all for free. I think we are crazy. wink (Sometimes I wonder why you even put up with me. xd )
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Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2006 4:56 pm
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