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THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 23.0 - December '06


IN THIS ISSUE:
1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.
2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted 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 you!
6. La Revue - Advice on things to do and not to do.
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 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 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 Board

Hey You! (Yes you.) 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. (I promise.)



PART I. Poetry
Listed in alphabetical order by title.

Inspiration, by Aderyn
Library, Jasper Riddle
Plastic Poppies, by Scary Write-Bot 1500



Inspiration
By Aderyn

Ideas begin with a dove,
driving through whirling
masses of weighted
silver chains, bearing
an aged, yellowing scroll.
Tireless wings propel
the ancient messenger
forward, sacrificing
feathers each moment,
fighting to continue
a forlorn flight.
In chance encounter,
through easing blindness,
comes the hungry hunter.
Preceded by waves of whooshing
currents, a tawny falcon
plummets to prey.

The falcon swoops down to
pluck away life, but
the dove slips through, seeking
refuge in snowflakes
and blindness once more.
Akin to an imaginary hand,
the dove twitches and spins,
tracing elegant scribbles in
fluffy cumulus clouds,
curving and gliding
like twirled pirouettes
across sky blue tiles.
From peril escaped
And persistence embued,
another story is born.
Born from a breath of
life, carried by a white bird.

Library
By Jasper Riddle

Lead me through the dusty shelves that I had once forgot
In the somber shades of shadow days gone by
Find me a worn and weary tome that someone once had sought
To fill their heart with tales of quests and sorcery;
Seek out a velvet chair for me with a table by the side
In a dust-mote sunny corner in this Time-forgotten hall;
Give me the silence of a sleeping room where I can reside
Where the moth-wings of a bound dream call.
A thought-soaked tome will be the golden carpet
That leads me from this collection of visions;
My castle in the sky, a cloud-ridden silhouette
Yet what adventure to pick� Such decisions!
But as we search, never will I find
Such delicate stories as are in my mind.

Plastic Poppies
By Scary Write-Bot 1500

Perhaps we all had
little specks
of cellophane wrappings
in our bloodstream.

Scotch tape
stretched into our
eardrums until C-Span
would never snap
our Ziploc-lids
shut again.

Our lungs were
click click clacking,
crumpled into a 1970
newspaper;
static leftover from
windpipe bound
styrofoam-cup-noodles
scratched at our throats.

We lounged a bit,
with the potting soil
circled around
our fingernails mildly.

The plastic poppies
sauntered
around our fingers,
watching us roll about
in European dirt.



PART II. Prose
Listed in alphbetical order by title.

The Badger Brigade, by Hemp Fandango
Roll ‘Dem Bones, by Kyt Dotson
Sonata's Test, by Caitlyn Wells
The Starfish, by Periwig



The Badger Brigade
By Hemp Fandango

Chapter Twelve (b): Pastorama
Yes, we’re still in the past.

"I don't really see this plan working."

"What's not to work? We wait here for the other TGs to arrive, we ambush them, they become taffy, we travel thirty years forward in time, and then have dinner. It's so simple, it's brilliant!"

"You're half right."

"Well, what would you suggest?"

"Er..."

"I thought so."

"Wait."

"What-"

"I hear something."

They both paused and held their breath. Alex could just make out the sound of rapid footsteps over the sound of her own heart beating.

"Someone's coming..."

Both the girls were crouched behind the corner of the hall where, less than an hour before, Alex had crouched with her future professor. She glanced over her shoulder to the smaller girl behind her. Megan's face was a pale oval in the shadows, her expression difficult to make out. Was she frightened? Alex pulled her attention away as the steps came closer.

There was a pause. No doubt the mystery guest had come across the remains of Amethyst, which Alex had made no attempt in hiding. After all, that was the bait. She tightened her grip on the wand and shifted over as quietly as she could, and peered around the corner.

A dark figure was bent over the gooey remains, with his or her back to Alex. She eased further forward and mentally ran through her list of curses. She couldn't lead in with the purification spell, so perhaps a stunning spell. The TG needed to be conscious enough for her to hear words of logic or personal insults or whatever ridiculous method they could use.

The figure's head rose up suddenly, like a gazelle on the Serengeti, sensing the approach of a lion... or possibly a cheetah. Whatever it was that ate gazelles. Alex pulled herself back from thoughts from the Discovery Channel and refocused on the back of the figure's greasy head. It took a moment for recognition to click. Snape. She deflated instantly.

"Oh, it's just you then." She straightened up and entered the clearing. "I thought you crawled back under your rock."

Snape looked up at her through a curtain of greasy black hair. "I thought you died."

"Well, we've both suffered disappointments today, so let's not make it worse."

"Why are you still here?" he asked, while he sniffed at the purple ooze and grimaced.

"We're supposed to be ambushing the others," Megan said. Alex started; she hadn't realized the other girl had come out. "I guess the plan's changed to exchanging insults in the open."

"Okay, I get it. We'll go back to hiding and Snape can do... whatever it is he does best. Which means he'll probably run away again."

"I did not run," he said coolly. "I was not needed, so I left. You seemed to have everything under control."

Alex snorted and bit back her retort. It could be possible he was telling the truth. She did have the tendency to appear over confident when she was, in fact, way over her head. But, on the other hand, Snape was a horrible human being who probably wouldn't hesitate to leave someone to die. Alex decided to settle it later; they had more important things to worry about right now.

Footsteps. Several of them. People were approaching them at speed. The three teens exchanged glances but they had heard the approach too late. There was no time to take cover, as two new figures rounded the corner. Both of them boys and both of them wearing Gryffindor robes. One of them was--

Harry Potter?

Alex blinked. No, that's stupid, she chided herself. This is the 70s so this must be... Potter Sr. Jim? John? Something like that.

The other was the roguishly handsome boy she had seen with Amethyst earlier, although he seemed different. He no longer looked as if he had stepped off of a romance novel cover, and instead looked like every other 16-year-old boy Alex had seen.

He looked to her and then to Megan, his expression one of unimpressed indifference. His gaze then slid to the dark haired teen between them and turned to pure venom.

"Snivellus."

Alex fought back a grin. That was the second time she had heard her future professor called that, and it sounded even better. She made a note to remember it.

"Honestly, Black, has your reserve of wit gone dry?" Snape drawled, his face indifferent. "If we are going to do this, I'd prefer to hear a bit of originality for once."

The boy - Black - yawned and rolled his eyes. "And is this your girlfriend, Snivvy?" he asked, ignoring Megan and gesturing to Alex. "Nice catch. Looks like she has a bit of troll in her, though."

Alex's face reddened, first with embarrassment and then with barely suppressed rage. Before she could act on the emotion, Jim or possibly John Potter knelt over the mess of his former twin sister and asked,

"Why is there taffy everywhere?"

Alex pushed aside her anger for a moment (a Herculean task, to be sure) and struggled to come up with a believable answer.

"Peeves?" she tried. Jim/John (or could it be Jacob? She knew it was started with a J, at any rate) Potter considered her answer. He then shrugged, which Alex took to mean her answer was acceptable.

More footsteps. These were quicker and heavier than the others, suggesting someone was running. Alex tensed. Did they have time to prepare an ambush? It seemed unlikely, given they were all standing in the middle of the hall, holding an awkward conversation. Megan seemed to reach the same conclusion, as the other girl gave her a panicked look. Alex shrugged helplessly.

All the boys suddenly fell silent, each wearing a pensive and almost peaceful look on their faces. Alex waved her hand experimentally in front of her young professor's eyes and received no response. Not even a flicker in his eyes.

It occurred to her, then, that she should have grabbed Megan and ran behind the corner to attempt the ambush plan, but the thought came too late.

Two girls, one with shining flame red hair and the other with black multicolored streaked hair, rounded the far corner. As they approached, their jeweled eyes examined the group, their expressions flickering as their gaze landed on Alex and Megan. Alex tensed and tightened her grip on her wand. She met Lily's formidable emerald gaze head on, without flinching. Lily couldn't help but be mildly impressed. The Hufflepuff was either very brave or too stupid to realize what she was up against.

"Lily!" Potter breathed in awe, distracting Lily from her staring contest. "What are you doing here?"

She gave him a quick, impassive glance. "Sorry, James," she said smoothly. "I'm not here to exchange scathingly witty insults with you right now."

Potter deflated. "Really?"

Lily sighed and rolled her eyes. "After I'm finished this, we'll have at it, alright?"

Potter smirked and nodded -- and faltered. "Why, what are you going to do here?"

Lily gave a long sigh, and stared at the ceiling, praying silently for patience. "Never you mind," she said in a 'don't-interrupt-while-mummy's-talking' sort of voice.

Alex was frozen with uncertainty. Part of her wanted to just attack and go from there, while the rest of her tried to remember what Megan had told her. She could either use logic, which was never her strength, or snark, which was. She glanced over to Megan for assistance or inspiration or something. The shorter girl caught her look and nodded her head towards the other side of the corner, where they had originally planned to hide out until the time was right.

"What should we do?" Alex hissed after they had ducked behind the wall. Megan bit her lip.

"I don't know," she said. "You see the one with streaked hair? Her name is Orion, and despite her choice of wardrobe, she's not as stupid as she looks. And the red head next to her is Lily Evans."

"She doesn't look so bad," Alex remarked.

"She's Harry Potter's mother. And now she's one of them," Megan said darkly. Alex snorted.

"Hah, I always knew that kid was too special. Figures he's the son of a TG."

"No, he isn't. At least, he's not supposed to be. It looks like Lily's fallen under their spell, just like your Hermione Granger or Ginevra Weasley."

"Or Luna Lovegood," Alex said darkly. She paused. "Ginevra? I thought her name was Virginia."

"So does she, most of the time."

"So, she's Harry Potter's mum. I guess that means we can't destroy her."

She cast a glance around the corner to where Lily and James were, in fact, having it out. Snape and Sirius had been shuffled to one side, each wearing glazed expressions. Orion was standing to one side, looking bored and twirling a strand of hair around her ringed finger, somehow managing not to tangle it, while casting haughty glances in Sirius' direction. Alex followed her look.

"Is she flirting with that guy?" she asked, her brow furrowed. "I thought she was friends with his former girlfriend."

"Ma- TG's are never ones to miss an opportunity," Megan said. "They'll be best friends until one gets in the way of what they want." Megan sighed and slumped against the wall. "At least, they used to. These days they get along perfectly. I can't figure out why..."

"Maybe they've just lacked proper encouragement," Alex said, smirking. "I think I got an idea. Follow my lead." She strode back into the group confidently.

"Oh, it's you," Lily said impassively. Alex opened her mouth for a retort, but Lily simply yawned and flicked her wrist. Alex's words died in her throat, destroyed by the rush of air that tore through her lungs as she was thrown back by an invisible force. She skidded along the floor, her wand slipping out of her grip and skittering away, out of reach. She wheezed a swear, and doubled over, coughing.

Megan looked ready to react, but all too late. Another flick of Lily's thin and pale wrist sent Megan flying down the hall. She skid to a halt some feet away from Alex, who was just now beginning to recover her breath.

"Now what?" Alex managed.

Megan struggled to speak between coughs and wheezes, "She's... she's not... g-going to kill..." She paused to gulp for air. "Going to kill us... right away." She paused for a small coughing fit. "She'll play with us first. To showcase her powers. She wants to look special." Megan literally spat. She pulled herself to her feet. "You had an idea?"

Alex nodded and came unsteadily to her feet as well. "That was pretty impressive," she said loudly, her voice carrying down the hall.

Lily smiled. "Thank you," she said and flicked her wrist again. This time Alex was flung to her side, against the wall. Alex couldn't hold back a yell of pain as her weak shoulder was slammed into solid rock and crumpled to the ground.

Megan met a similar fate not much later, as she was flung into the opposite wall.

"That was pretty good," Alex gasped, sounding slightly muffled due to the fact that she was still in a heap on the floor. She looked up, her face pale and stricken. Something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. The boys had moved to one side and were watching the battle.

No, Alex realized. They weren't watching the battle; they were watching the girls with very familiar expressions. James' gaze was locked on Lily, and even from a distance, Alex could see that he practically worshiped her. Sirius' attention was fixed to Orion, although his look was not as reverential as his friend's, it was approaching there. Alex had seen those looks countless times before, and she knew it was a product of the TGs' influence over reality.

But Snape... she squinted curiously. Snape's expression was pained and his face screwed up. His already pale skin looked almost grey.

"I can tell you're the strongest," Alex continued slowly, not taking her eyes off of Snape.

Lily nodded with a smug gleam in her eye, too distracted by her own excellence and praise to notice the object of Alex's attention. Orion, however, paused mid hair-twirl and frowned.

"What did you say?" she asked, finally turning away from Sirius to face Alex. Lily's expression drained from her face.

"Er..." she said.

Alex half-shrugged. "Well, I mean, it's pretty clear to me that Lily here is the strongest and I bet she's the leader, too, right?"

Orion scowled. "Why would you think that?"

"Don't listen to her, Orion," Lily urged. "We are the same, of course, both in power and beauty."

"Then why is she the only one doing the work? It seems to me either she's the strongest or she just wants all the attention," Alex pointed out.

Orion gave her a long thoughtful look while Alex prayed quietly. After a pause, she flicked her wrist in much the same manner as Lily had only minutes earlier. And, much like before, Alex and Megan flew down the hall. Though both girls were doubled over, trying to catch their breath again, Megan managed to shoot Alex a look.

"Yeah, it's backfiring," Alex muttered, clutching her throbbing shoulder. Megan groaned and grit her teeth.

"This is an awful plan. I just want you to know that," she hissed. She took a deep breath. "That was a little better than the red head's attack," she said loudly. "I guess you were wrong."

"I agree," Alex managed. "Ha ha," she added.

Orion beamed smugly, while Lily's expression darkened.

"Do you truly believe yourself more powerful than me?" she asked, her tone light but all present could sense the danger in her words. Orion's pleased expression faded, replaced with a cool look.

"Do you?" she countered, rounding on Lily. "You say we're equal, but why do you always get the best plots? Why do you get the most attention? Why do you always give the orders?!" Her voice climbed several octaves as her outrage grew.

Lily tried and failed to come up with a response, startled by her friend's anger. "I never give orders--" Lily began hotly.

"Ha! No, that's true. You give suggestions," Orion spat. "I'm not stupid, I know what you'll do to me if I don't listen to your suggestions."

"It's not my fault you're a coward," Lily snapped.

"Coward?! Coward?!" she shrieked. "You believe me a coward? Well, maybe I was but I'm not anymore. I'm not afraid of you!" She flung her hands out, palm forward, and sent a blast of purple energy that struck Lily full in the chest. The red head stumbled back against the wall.

"Orion!" she shouted in surprise. Her expression shifted instantly from a friend betrayed to a enemy challenged. She grinned and her emerald eyes flashed. She moved in a flash, her fists flying, and struck the dark haired girl several times with precise and powerful blows. And then, just as suddenly, she backed off. Orion fell to the ground, clutching her chest and coughing blood. Lily circled the girl, eyeing her warily and smirking.

"I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to try this," she remarked airily. "But I'm glad you did."

Alex and Megan were on their feet. Alex braced herself against the wall, wincing in pain.

"If I know these two," Megan began, "and I do, they'll try to make this as dramatic and flashy as possible. Which means their attacks will get bigger and bigger."

"Which means we could still get caught in the cross fire," Alex said grimly.

"I'm not worried about us."

The two Marauders and Snape were still standing off to the side, in close proximity to the dueling TGs. James and Sirius' expressions had changed from looks of worship to looks of enrapture at the magic show around them. Alex could partly understand why; the attacks were getting flashier, just as Megan predicted. Lily was using a combination of martial arts and wandless magic while Orion was manipulating the elements and summoning little pixie-like figures, which bit and scratched at Lily. The fight appeared to be going nowhere, as the two girls were too evenly matched, as far as Alex could see.

A flare of golden light ricocheted off the stone wall, dangerously close to James' head. He didn't even blink.

"Would it be bad if they died?" Alex asked with a touch of hope.

"It would be very bad," Megan said. Alex sighed.

"I was afraid of that."

Alex gave a rueful glance towards the slack-jawed morons at the end of the hall. Her gaze caught on the now bent double and twitching future professor. She couldn't see his face, but she could guess he didn't look good. Was this something they were doing to him or was he... was he trying to fight them off?

She remembered him being twitched and tugged around the dungeons during the last potions class she attended, like a marionette on invisible strings. He had tried to fight back then, too. That was the last time she had seen him, before he was replaced by that brainless Harlequin pretty boy. It was unusual, though. Why was he replaced instead of infected, like Luna and Granger? It was then a new idea unfolded in her head. Had he succeeded in fighting back? Was that why they replaced him?

Did they kill him?

"Bastards," she growled. "I had dibs."

Lily had lost her patience. She was no longer smiling and her clothing was smoking from the attacks her former friend had thrown at her. When did Orion learn these attacks? When did she become so strong? Lily hadn't anticipated such a struggle and now she was cursing herself for it. She gathered as much energy as she could and flung it all into her next attack: a perfectly executed round-house kick, which she landed on Orion's face. She broke away from the struggle to catch her breath and examine the damage. She put nearly everything she had into that attack and it showed.

Orion didn't look good. Her nose was gushing blood and the beginnings of a black eye were already materializing. She bared her blood-stained teeth at Lily and spat into a corner. A small sound -- like someone dropping dice on the ground -- told her that Orion was spitting out some teeth. She smiled with satisfaction. This seemed like a good moment to gloat.

"We are not all equal, Orion," she said. "I am more powerful than you. I am prettier than you. I am more interesting than you." She flung a ball of red energy at the bloody girl, which knocked her back into the wall. "I am better than you. I always have been, always will be." She swaggered towards the twitching, nearly lifeless form on the ground and knelt down. "Do you understand?"

Orion looked up into the face of her former partner in crime. Although Lily didn't realize it, she didn't look so good either. Several red welts were forming where the pixies had bitten her. Her hair was unstylishly disheveled and smoking at the tips. Her lip was split and her eyebrows completely gone. Even though she was in a great deal of pain, Orion couldn't help but giggle at the sight, although it ended up sounding more like a gurgle.

Lily's brow furrowed and a frown tugged at her lips. The former comrade was looking even worse now, with blood leaking from her temple. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she giggled at something. Had she gone insane?

Deep inside, Lily felt the vaguest stirrings of pity. Something long ago repressed began to resurface.

Poor girl... Lily blanched at the thought. She knew it wasn't hers, but hers. The other girl. The Before Lily.

Things are better now, she told Before Lily hurriedly, mentally shoving the thoughts and voice back into the depths of her subconscious. You're powerful now. More powerful than any one else.

"But I can be merciful," she whispered. "I'll end this for her." She raised her hand and a small ball of energy began to form. "You are a vampire after all," she went on. "I am the Slayer. It's only natural things would end this way."

Orion looked up in time to see death sparkling in Lily's palm. She squeezed her eyes closed.

When the dust cleared, there was nothing left but a smoking black circle.

Everyone was silent. Megan's eyes were fixated on the smoking circle, dumbfounded. The Marauders had creases in their foreheads, as if they had seen something troubling but couldn't process it.

"What now?" Alex whispered. "Can I just use the purification spell or what?" Megan shook her head.

"No, you have to remind her of her past," Megan said. "You have to bring back some un-glamorous memories that the parasite will have tried to repress."

Alex ran a hand through her hair in frustration. "Fantastic. I'm so glad I studied up on the adolescence of Harry Potter's dead mum in case a situation like this should arise."

Lily straightened up, tossing her charred hair over her shoulder.

"Well," she said, smiling, "that was..." She paused and her eyes fixed on Snape as if seeing him for the first time. Her expression faded. The Slytherin was bracing himself against the wall with one arm, head bowed and struggling to stay upright.

"What are you trying to do, Snape...?" she asked sweetly, moving closer. "You look like you're in pain..." Snape's head snapped up and his expression was that of a cornered animal. Lily reached out to him with a gentle smile.

"I can help," she offered, her voice soft and serene. "I can make things better for everyone. I can--"

Something sharp but blunt was jabbed into the side of her neck.

"Can you stop talking? Is that in your vast arsenal of abilities?"

Lily knew two things then: a) the thing pressed to her neck was a wand and b) she really should have paid more attention to the Hufflepuff girl and her scruffy side-kick. She gave the taller girl a side-long glance.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

Alex really didn't know, but she would be damned if she admitted that. "That's not how this works," she said, covering. "You don't ask questions. You stand very, very still."

There was a pause.

"And then what?"

Alex coloured. "What did I just say?"

"Lily!"

There was a new figure at the end of the hall, quickly approaching them, and for a wild moment, Lily believed reinforcements had arrived. It wasn't. It was Peter Pettigrew. She swore under her breath.

And something deep inside her, something kept repressed for so long, began to stir. There was something refreshingly familiar about the pudgy boy trundling down the hall. He was so... normal.

He's a rat, she reminded herself. He's a liar, a traitor, and unattractive to boot.

He's Peter Pettigrew, she thought dizzily. A chubby boy who hangs out with Potter and his group of hooligans.

He's a rat.

He's nice enough but shy and can get carried away with enthusiasm.

He's a traitor!

He does well in Transfiguration. In fact, he once helped me with my homework...

"No! I don't need help with homework!" she screamed, clutching her head. "I'm smarter! I'm stronger! I'm better, dammit!"

"Lily...?" Peter drew level with the others, looking confused and concerned. "Are you okay?" He gently put his hand on her shoulder. She flinched and gave him a wild-eyed look.

"Peter...?"

A small movement in the corner of her eye distracted Alex. She glanced over and saw Snape relax slightly and pull himself up right, looking confused but relieved. She met his gaze and glanced over to Megan, who gave an imperceptible nod.

Her mind raced. What now, what now? Throw the purification spell at her and hope it doesn't kill her and destroy the future? Wait and see if she gets better on her own? No, I don't have that kind of time. I need to go home, before I screw up the timeline any more.

"Alex!" Megan hissed. "Now or never!"

Right. Here goes nothing...

"Purus Morbis!"

Lily's eyes went blank as the spell shot directly into her neck, and something came out on the other side and went splat onto the far wall. Lily staggered forward and fell into Peter's arms.

"Lily!"

Alex held her breath and closed her eyes.

"Is she...?"

"She's breathing," Megan whispered. "Congratulations, the future will probably continue as planned."

Alex exhaled and sagged with relief and sent a silent thanks to whichever deity was listening.

"Now what do we do?"

Silence.

"Megan?"

"Would you look at this..."



Roll ‘Dem Bones
By Kyt Dotson

It were nine-bells when the winds shifted, bringing with them the scent of roast mackerel from the galley. Most of the sailors on deck had been roused and stomachs rumbled in anticipation of the meal, but a different fate clutched our bellies that morning.

A shout came up from the crow's nest, "Un bateau! Un bateau! Awey starboard!"

As many hands as feet clattered across the deck to the starboard and leaned hard against the rail. I'll ne're forget that image so long as I live of that black prow'd boat cutting a feather against the deep azure sea. Not a man aboard needed the smell of sulfur and burning canvas to know what fate had us in its jaws--as the flames licked from those masts, whipping hungrily in the wind.

A chill went through the crew as the boatswain's whistle shrilled. "Man the guns! Man the rigging! Powder shots and charges full, we may have only one shot! Get a move on! Do you want to be dead or worse!"

For it were the Burning Sails and there, high on her highest mast, the Red Jack flew, a’blazoned skull and crossbones over the flapping joli rouge. We couldn't yet see the silhouettes of the men on that demon vessel, but surely if we could see their whites there'd be murder in their eyes. Some said the captain had insulted Connie Bluelark in another life and now she came asking her revenge.

My rifle slung easily from my shoulder as I took station behind Johnny Edgar, a bright boy of sixteen. Too bad that the lad will never see his seventeenth. I tried not to think as I bit the bullet and poured the powder down the barrel, belowdecks the toms were being set, but I knew it was for naught--not a boat has ever suffered the Burning Sails and lived to tell the tale. I stamped the bullet deep into the throat of my gun and affixed the ramrod to the stock.

With death in my sights and cold stones in my gut, I held my peace and prayed to the Good Lord to keep my aim true.

"All cannon! Give 'em a broadside!"

The roar of the guns split the day and the ship rocked as if a great hand had smacked us. Billows of ghost-white smoke belched across the blue. "Reload the guns!" shouted the quatermaster. I could hear his voice rough and booming in my ears even though the man were a deck below me and the thunder of the cannons still rang in my ears. Blood trickled down my neck. I had gone deaf in one ear.

When the clouds of white cleared, the helljammer were still there--unscathed and untouched, she swung and her cannon ports opened, bearing free the silver maws of ten and twenty iron barrels.

The Burning Sails returned the gesture--her flaming cannon tore through our hull, and smashed our mainmast to smithereens. Splinters flew, screams abounded, and the weeping of men caught my ears as I watched Johnny Edgar die at his post. He would be one of the lucky ones, I told myself as I held steady.

Only a knife in my hands, I stood no chance against these hellsmen; I'd blown my wad into the chest of the first boarder and it hadn't slowed him a bit. The fight abovedecks was a quick one, our crew had been gutted like our boat, and there was little fight left in us. Beaten and bloodied, I bowed my head under the rapier of a rough jowled man with eyes that burned like irons from a fire. He stayed his blade after I dropped my knife.

Waiting.

And there she was, larger than life and full of it. The demon, Captain Connie Bluelark, wearing a dress of black sackcloth, with the crush of gold and jewels glittering from her throat. She made pause for every survivor and made the same offer:

"Death or eternal servitude," 'ole Connie said, her pistol leveled at my skull, and her eyes pierced through me like an awl.

"I pray the Good Lord my soul to take," I said trying to recall my vespers, "...forfend me from evil."

I closed my eyes and wondered if I'd hear the gunshot when Connie pulled the trigger.

"Amen."



Sonata's Test
By Caitlyn Wells

Sonata took a bow to the roaring applause from the audience, her wavy blond hair cascading over her shoulders. Deep in her bow, she hummed a spell. She knew the performance had been about her skill and artistry and not the magic of song, but she couldn't help this. It was her last performance as an apprentice, or so she hoped, and she wanted to go out with a bang. She rose from the bow in an explosion of butterflies, and when the butterflies had cleared away the girl was gone.

She found herself on the green room floor in a fit of giggles.

Now, now, she chided after a moment. You can't let your master see you on the floor like a first-year apprentice. You do want to graduate, don't you?

Somehow she managed to straighten herself and plop into a chair. The applause had faded now that she wasn't right there to receive it. It didn't matter. She could hardly wait to talk to her friends about the recital. She hadn't botched it like she'd botched all her other recitals. Even if she was small for her age, no one would be mistaking her voice for a ten-year-old's any longer.

The door to the green room opened and in swept her venerable master Cadence, pleased smile on her face. Sonata rose from her chair.

"I knew you were ready, Sonata," Cadence complimented. "You switched so easily between your chosen instruments, and I loved your touch of magic at the end."

Sonata rightly beamed at the praise. Cadence was not known to compliment apprentice songstresses easily. "Thank you, Lady Cadence."

Cadence took a breath, and gave a decisive nod. "You have passed all your skills tests and performed so well in this concert. I have no reason to hold you as an apprentice any longer. You ready for your Destiny Test."

Sonata went still as a statue, all that joy seeping away into dread. She'd forgotten about that.

"Why are you so afraid, Sonata?" Cadence asked.

Sonata shook her head and tried to grasp at that joy again. "Thank you, Lady Cadence. It means so much to me."

"Contra has an opening today, her only opening for the next month," Cadence said. "You know the hall, I'm sure."

Sonata nodded slightly.

"If you hurry there, you should be done in time for dinner. Congratulations, Sonata," Cadence said. "You have been a pleasure as a student. I hope to continue teaching you, if destiny permits."

The master songstress swept from the green room then, leaving behind a girl in a state of terror.

Sonata had heard all sorts of things about the Destiny Test and the hall it was administered in. Some said it was an auditorium filled with specters who made you sing your soul out. Others disagreed, claiming the room actually held a garden of thorns. Tales of its nature varied as much as one songstress's destiny varied from the next, but none of the tales sounded particularly pleasant to Sonata.

She rose to her feet and moved down the halls of the Songstress School in a daze. She knew that this was coming, but she'd hoped she would have a little more time to prepare. Most songstresses got sent off for a year or two before they were allowed to be tested. Sonata didn't want to be special if it meant facing terrors unprepared. She only realized she had come to the door when its monitor spoke in her lilting voice.

"Sonata, take a seat," the songstress said cheerily. She gestured toward the chair beside the door, and Sonata sat as prompted.

She could make out the voice of another young songstress singing on the other side. That singer sounded so beautiful. Her voice resonated with the magic of this place and sent chills down Sonata's spine. She looked at her hands, nowhere else to look in the bare hall. They were small, much like the rest of her, and they weren't holding on to much hope. Sonata really doubted she could manage two excellent performances in one day, let alone two hours. Was it possible to fail the destiny test?

Butterflies beat at her stomach at the thought of what awaited her in that room. Her mind plagued her with darker and darker thoughts. What if she was not ready for this test? What if her ill preparation gave her a dull destiny? What if she had never really been meant to be a songstress? Her parents would be so disappointed. She didn't know what she would do. They had sacrificed so much to send her to the school. How could she do that to them?

Her heart thudded in her chest like a taiko drum. She closed her eyes and listened to the music of it, and her fear started to seep away. Her venerable master had sent her here because she found her worthy of it. It would be all right, no matter her destiny.

"All right. You're up."

Sonata glanced up at the other songstress and somehow managed a smile. The songstress opened the door and let Sonata pass. Before she went through, though, the door monitor rested a confident hand on Sonata's shoulder.

"Break a leg, darling."

Sonata's mustered smile became a bit more solid.

Of all the things Sonata had expected to see in the room where she would be tested to discover her destiny, she never thought her own flute and violin would be among them. She'd left them just offstage only a few minutes before. There they were, though, sitting atop the most elaborately-carved chestnut brown piano. A golden french horn laid beside them. Sonata smiled. She'd just started learning to play the french horn but didn't yet have one of her own. Her parents couldn't afford to send her every instrument she picked up on a whim.

Her old friends practically pleaded to be played, and the piano and horn both called in harmony. If Contra hadn't spoken, Sonata would have succumb to the call and been lost in the music for hours.

"Sonata, you have come to be tested for your destiny," Contra said. A smile rested on her face, which was surrounded by ringlets of silver hair. Few people could say how old she was, but all agreed she still danced and sang with the energy of a songstress in her prime.

Sonata turned and bowed to the head songstress, remembering where she was. "Yes, oh venerable master."

"For this to go well, you must listen," Contra instructed. "Have you been taught to listen, young songstress?"

Sonata simply nodded. Of course she knew how to listen. Listening was so important in music. If you could not hear the pitches perfectly, you could not match them. If you could not match pitch, you could not harmonize. If her tongue hadn't been tangled by a confused question, she might have voiced the opinion. She thought she was there to sing, not listen.

"Then sit on the piano bench and listen. Don't listen to your thoughts. Don't listen to me. Just listen. When you feel the music inside you, you may convey it using your choice of instrument."

The young songstress crossed the floor and sat at the bench as she had been asked. Her thoughts ran rampant through her head. What was it she was supposed to play? What song? She knew so many, but Contra would have heard them all. Just for some comfort, she reached for the french horn and placed it on her lap for comfort. How was she to know what to do?

The breeze came so suddenly from nowhere, wrapping around her like a blanket. She closed her eyes and welcomed it into her heart. It echoed Contra's words.

Don't listen to your thoughts. Just listen.

The breeze whispered in her ears, telling her of the lovely purple flowers blooming out in the garden. Suddenly she was there, tickling the vines and caressing the soft petals. The wind sang to them. No, Sonata sang to them, for she was the wind, and they grew more beautiful and vibrant at the sound of her breezy voice.

A rabble of butterflies with rainbow wings fluttered just above the flowers. Light and swift, Sonata helped them in their flight toward the ocean shore. Almost by magic, the butterflies all became flying fish. Sonata wondered if they had been fish out of water all along. She followed them as they flew away from the shore.

Waves splashed and crashed around her, becoming her dress. She gusted about, sometimes tossing the water and sometimes being tossed by it. The water and the sky flowed into one another, though they seemed separate. They danced together so closely that Sonata barely knew where she ended and the waters began. Above her, the oranges and pinks of sunset faded to deep, dark blue.

With a tidal crash, the waves tossed her high into the air to dance with the flickering light of the stars. She noticed for the first time that stars came in many colors, blue and red and yellow and orange and violet. They, too, sang. Each whispered of times long past, tales often forgotten, and the secret place where dreams began. Sonata knew she could never match their song, but she felt if she could only capture a fraction of that song's ancient magic she could become the greatest songstress who had ever lived.

She must have sung with the stars all the night long, for the pale pink light was returning. She caught hold of a small red-brown early bird and rode along upon its back. The rest of the wind gave it the lift it needed to soar. The bird trilled a lovely note to greet the day and thank the wind as it started on its journey. Animals, it seemed to Sonata, always knew to be grateful. If only people could be as such

As quickly as she had started on her journey she found herself sitting on the bench with her head upon the french horn on her lap. She didn't remember playing or singing, but Contra was applauding her. Sonata laid the horn aside and stood, then gave the neat little bow she knew she was supposed to give after a performance. This time she didn't think to put in a flash of music magic. She didn't rise from her bow.

"I... don't remember singing or playing, venerable master," Sonata whispered. "Why do you applaud me?"

"The wind carried you far, Sonata," Contra said. "It tells me this just as it showed you many things. The wind is always with us, even when it is still. It carries our songs for us and sometimes it only wants for us to sing its song. As it showed you these marvelous things, you sang the wind's song. It is grateful for your beautiful arrangement."

"And I'm grateful it carried me so far," Sonata said. "I never knew how far and wide the wind travelled."

She rose from the bow, but still didn't lift her head to meet Contra's eyes.

"Sonata, I see a question on the tip of your tongue," Contra said. "Come closer and let's talk."

"What about my destiny?" she asked. "What does this mean for me?"

"It means that wherever you roam, the wind will be your friend," Contra answered. "To be honest, young one, though we may get glimpses of the future, your destiny is in your own hands. Some songstresses forget this and tie themselves to what is said after they take this test. I would not like for them to do this. Those of this sort become what they become because they feel they must become it and forget to appreciate the journey until it is too late."

"And, did you get a glimpse?" Sonata asked. "Of my destiny, I mean?"

Contra smiled. "With a song that beautiful, I couldn't have avoided one. You are to be a roaming songstress. You will travel with another songstress and aid all those you come across. You will make some interesting friends and find yourself in some difficult positions. All the detail beyond that is up to you to sing. I will assign you a companion songstress within a fortnight and soon after be on your way. Enjoy your journey, young Sonata."

"Thank you, Lady Contra."

Sonata took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her heart was racing again. She bowed once more, quickly, and then skipped from the room like the young girl she was, her blond hair tossing every which way. A bright smile rested on her face. If half the things she had seen through the wind were to come her way, she could hardly wait to meet her destiny.

Point! What’s Your Point?
#22 Goal Setting
Jeff A. Van Booven

With the new year many people set unrealistic goals that they'll never achieve because they're too damn hard. Goals like not killing anybody, and trying to be nicer to people are completely unreasonable goals. Society it too much of a crock of s**t for any one person to go through an entire year without killing anybody. Resolving to stop smoking is a more likely goal than not killing anybody, though I wouldn't recommend having both goals at the same time, because quitting cigarettes increases the likelihood of murdering some worthless pissant.

This is why I'd like to spend my time in this column discussing proper goal setting technique. First off, don't set hard goals to achieve. These goals are hard and take effort. Humans are not by nature good or evil; by nature they are lazy. Nothing affronts your humanity like hard work. It's not necessary anymore to toil and trouble with the creation of modern machinery. In fact, it is a little known fact that the goal of modern science is to invent computers and machines that will eventually do our science for us. So as you can see, you shouldn't set high goals for yourself because ultimately it's not needed.

Good goal setting on the other hand is simple. Good goals are ones that are easily achieved, such as sleeping in till two. It's a simple goal that requires little to no effort. You're almost guaranteed to be successful at accomplishing this goal and thus will feel better about yourself for meeting your goals. If you keep your goals small you'll achieve more. Your life will be successful, happier, and filled with more accomplishments rather than staggering disappointments. Go forth and achieve!



Undercurrent
By Tailos

There was the taste of burned-out motherboards on the wind, that night. Jimmy stood opposite me, pulling his clothes tighter to himself as the last puff of smoke trailed from his breath. He dropped the cigarette filter to the floor.

"Bloody cold tonight."

I smiled behind the raised collar of my coat, "Ah, the problem with being Human." He laughed, must've sensed the sarcasm in my tone.

"Shut your noise-hole. Must be - what - a good minus ten?" Thought it was colder than that. "When's the contact gonna show up?"

I looked at my digital, "Any minute now." He would scowl and pull out another cancer-stick, just like the last four times he’d asked. And then he'd ask again when there was no more disease left behind the filter and repeat.

I brought my eyes off the lighted face on my wrist, and sure as hell, a fresh cigarette was already threaded between his stained lips. You got like that in this job; knew your partner's little routines in and out almost better than they did. Didn't know how, but you just sort of picked it up. Knew how he wasn't shivering, just trying to make conversation because he was scared. Knew how he smoked those cigarettes right down, four packs of twenty a week, 'cause it took his mind off worrying about who Jenna was sleeping with tonight.

But I looked to my digital again. "Something’s wrong. He should’ve been here by now."

And Jimmy was right in the line of fire. Shot twice - brachial nerve, then heart - by my contact as the b*****d jumped from an alleyway behind us both. Those cybernetic installations didn't save him like he planned. And as my contact clutched at his neck, crying as blood pumped horrendously from his carotid, I scooped up my partner and held his corpse. The cybernetic thermoregulator kept him warm until the paramedic team arrived.

The worst part must've been going back into the office. Jimmy's nameplate echoed his killer's voice until I couldn’t stand it any longer. His desk cleaned out, I dropped it all off at his ex-wife's. Couldn't explain everything to her, though, as we shared tears over the box of effigies to his twenty-something years in the service.

Eventually, just like how I had to leave during his funeral, the shock became depression.



But I soon returned to that office with my badge in hand as my finances dwindled. You had to eat and I couldn't stand the taste of that soy crap on the market. It was surprising how much the place hadn't changed. Figured a month or two would see some changes. That same static bass line played rhythmically in the peripheral, and none of those flickering ceiling diodes had been replaced - two had even popped a chemical leak and were dripping down on some patroller's desk. H-and-S would have a field day finding someone to yell at.

Arisato's pride, Hideki, shot a grin at me as I eased myself back into the precinct. The kid was in charge of maintaining computer records, and because of his youth, quickly became the brunt of our jokes. Most of the outrageous tales heard during chow-down starred Hideki as the victim. A couple of the patrollers a few years back tried to rewire his cerebral I/O and ended up frying his neurons. His old man didn't have to pay for Hideki's circuit restoration, but the culprits got themselves an early retirement from the force because of it.

I feigned a smile as he strode on over, "How’s it goin'?" First guy I’d seen all day in the Precinct with a smile on his face, and usually it meant one of three things.

"Not bad at all," his new English language chip responded in polytone, "How was your holiday?"

I planted myself on the edge of a desk. Hideki's natural curiosity got him in trouble sometimes, snooping around the precinct for dregs of data on fellow officers. As much as I liked Hideki, I wouldn’t have him snooping into my life outside the office.

But hell, I told him anyway. How I'd spent the time in bars, getting my a** wasted on various concoctions of alcohol, and being fixed up on Xeroxine any time I wasn’t higher than a corporation’s ceiling fan. But I was clean now, and wanted to just get back to my own office and be alone. The kid seemed to understand as I stood and left him to his own devices with only a "see you ‘round".

Our office stood empty with walls of smoke hue, smell of gunpowder and the taste of formaldehyde. The empty desk next to mine made me choke and I hurried across to my datajack refuge. Words blotted out dying images as I plugged into the matrix, switching my mind across to receive all recent case reports. Three homicides, two missing persons, and nine cases of reported kidnapping were streamed across to me; what a lovely city. I read until the fragments of Jimmy were out of my head.

And an image of his killer materialised under the second homicide case as the current suspect. My compiled binary consciousness died as I demanded all listed personal information in the databanks. A name and address, that's all I needed.

The data flashed onscreen at my selection.

- - -

Street thugs, drug pushers and cyber-whores stalked the roads of Qui-An City at any given time - it was hard to walk metres without getting accosted by at least one of them trying to push their wares for a couple of credits. And after the Watershed Hour, numbers tripled. As did cases. Beneath the advertisements were homes to most, waiting under that same neon-green glow for customers. But for the contaminant-free goods, not the poison peddled from those halogen-brokers, you'd have to hit up the local Lord. And that Lord in Juna District was Preston Clark.

I couldn't think of a reason not to see the sleaze ball. He'd know if something criminal happened in his district. Hell, the guy practically organised the scenes half the time. Heard through the precinct that he had a couple of Joes on his payroll, too. But most importantly, Preston would have all the information I needed. Right down to where my suspect bought his sex stims, if that was my care.

'Star Crescent' was a nice enough establishment. It only embezzled a few thousand chips a night from the punters, and had a respectable single-figure score in recent alcohol-related murders. The lines were always long, and tickets were sometimes hard to find. It cost me a few favours to get my hands on one, as the bouncers didn’t give two shits if you were brass - you line up like everyone else does.

I stood in line for an hour. The night's bouncer was labelled with a nametag too small to read. You got that sometimes, a management joke: "If you can read this, you're gonna get slugged". My tickets - and nearly the hand holding them - were taken and the bouncer gave me a shove towards the main entrance before I could make some crackshot retort. Heavy industri-acid beats flooded my ears even before I opened the door.

Place was packed; the dance floor a sweaty gyrating mass of metal-heads to the beat of NeoPixa's latest. Wasn't my kind of sound, but I never did get into music. I picked up a shot glass as the near-naked waitress sauntered by - if it looks, smells and tastes like chlorine... - before heading to the back of the club.
Heavies surrounded the table, the greaseball Preston in the centre of 'em, screaming in the face of some saucy looker in his arms. I squeezed in and the crime lord scowled at my interruption.

Underneath the heavy bass beats I heard a question. Probably asking what I wanted - decided to go all or nothing. Out of my jacket I produced a photograph. And his bottom lip faltered.

"I'm looking for him."

Preston waved the heavies away from his proximity. They left him a few feet to talk privately with me - I pulled up a chair. "You're in over your head, cop."

"Don't care. I want answers, Clark - do you have them?"

"I don’t think so."

"Need something to spark up that microwave?" Made a motion to the wires jutting from behind his left ear; Preston’s face darkened - bingo.

An ashtray fell from the table as he slammed his hands down. "Tell you what, cop. How 'bout we play us a little game?" I didn’t stop him, "You ever play blackjack before? Twenty-one, pontoon?"

" 'Course. It's what we do instead of goin' out and arresting your a**, Clark."

The crook flashed a full set of teeth and dealt out two cards each. No expense spared on the dentures; full silver, ivory capped, things would cost a small fortune on the street. I raised my edges, sighting eleven strong. His eyes told me House was stronger; went for another card, "I'll hold, Preston."

House drew a card and another. Five card trick for twenty-one, maybe? I waited. Preston did too. Another mix started up in the interlude of the last, some new teknologika band I'd not heard before. Preston drank his pint, probably considering what the next move was and seeing if he could figure me out. Five card trick, I thought again.

"Come on, Clark. It's your draw, I'm held and high." - I wasn't, but he couldn't know that - "You ain't winning me, are you. Last card's your chance."

And the b*****d held, instead, and smirked. "Blackjack isn't a game of poker, cop. Let's see your hand beat my nineteen." Sure as all hell, his hand held it.

I cursed and threw my cards down - seventeen.

"You lose. And I just can't seem to remember that information you asked for," I heard Preston’s piggish laughter even above the synthesized solo blaring in atmospheric, "Better get on out of here, cop. We're done talking."



- Zoeidina critiques:



I liked it, but there were just little errors. Transition, especially in the beginning, was iffy. Just make sure that the reader knows as much as the writer.



Editor's Note: I would just like to say that our late release is entirely my fault. domokun Sorry!

Next, Happy New Year! I can't believe that our next issue is our 2nd anniversary. It really feels like our last anniversary was just a few days ago.

Anyway, thanks for sticking with us!

THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 25.0 - February '07


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 you!
5. La Revue - Reviews on a variety of entertainment products.
6. Critic's Corner - Double whammy this month—two critiques from two awesome critics!
7. The Afterthought - A preview of 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 up. Deus ex Machina is a private (yet active) guild of about 170 members with an expansive 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 Board

Hey You! (Yes you.) 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. Donators will be listed and thanked publicly in the Afterword. Thank you!





PART I. Poetry
Listed in alphabetical order by title.

historical nutrition, by Scary Write-Bot 1500
Subtopia, by Oleander Darkheart
What's That Bracket?, by Prairie Fire



historical nutrition
By Scary Write-Bot 1500

I ate quarrels
like Wonder Bread, smothering
proccessed packing material with butter
and jam. Young,
we sat like statues
and drank miracle-potion and had muscle spasms.

Statues blind,
that view romance like a mating season --
we couldn't break the marble
shell. Zeus tapped
a chisel to my head, and eggshells
covered the ground --

like a yolk, I crashed and sizzled.

"You Roman sculpture, you realist."
It was tossed into the air, like chefs
thrown into a McDonalds
kitchen. Chips
in rock ballroom-danced across the room,
yet I still asked Aphrodite
to tap on your skull as well.

Subtopia
By Oleander Darkheart

My father played guitar.
Not well,
but he claimed he'd hawked his soul to the Flames
for a better shot.
"Woked up this morning, canned heat was on my mind/
Woke up this morning, with canned heat, Lord, on my mind."
I wanted to scream when he said that,
but mother monitored.
"Len,"
Leave the girl alone.

Neighbor Ann, just nine boxes down,
peddled her flawlessly packaged household
by the pound.
Her theory of relative dusting and
quantum
table manners was a scandal,
but we all knew her physics were a time-bomb
predestined to mushroom through our breathing air
like sweet, gagging gas
and as such would duly evaporate.
New Years, at least,
was when we,
fermented,
began to wonder if
Suburbia
was worth the Salt we’d spilt on it.

In the muggy summer after, Sister Jenna -
not a nun -
was an insurrectionist.
Showing things to the innocent boys
and men
that our parents hadn't seen since the sixties.
(I tried that, once,
but in the middle of our X-
/over-
rated climax
I wanted to be sick all over the
two-tone dashboard.
His taste in rock
was lousy.
Sorry,
Sam,
nothing personal.)
Definitely
not a nun.

Jenna left with the sucking tide, and
I heard
Neighbor Ann had a skirmish with the local narc.
Father, though,
undying,
fingered Dylan on our front porch while my mother perched
hands and knees, rubbing
to the harsh blows of the metal
pick.
I'd go back, but
my recollections would only be crippled
by reality.
Sporadically,
the phone rings,
and,
when I pick it up,
all I hear is the soft plucking of strings.

Maybe my father is
damned.

Our lullaby was in E.
Strum,
Ibanez.

What's That Bracket?
By Prairie Fire

[Carni]vore.
Or,
[Coni]ssouir.
What does this mean to you?
Cause it means only frustra[tion]
To my
Spell
Check.
Red squiggles
Of indigna[tion]. [That rhymes.]
I’ll be hearing about this over dinner tonight.
“How was work today, Dear?”
I’ll be feeling it
Hot and mean
Across my face
Sometime ‘round dessert.
What’s that b[racket]?
That’s what I’d like to know.
Is it what the kids today
Do to look cool? [Obligatory social commentary]
Is it empha[sis]?
Is it d[isi]nterest?
Is it something I missed in school? [Sex? Drugs? Pretentious BS?]
My spell check prays for hands
So he may strangle and ch[oke]
This not so funny j[oke]
This insult
Of [poetry]
From [society].
Would you like a C[oke]?
[This is important][.]
[This is not][?]
[Carni]vore.
[Coni]ssouir.
Do you think I'm cute?
Circle one.
[Yes]
[lol NO!]
I think I’ll stick to prose.



PART II. Prose
Listed in alphbetical order by title.

Intemperate., by Prisma Colored
Letter to Susan, March 5th 19--, by radioactive alchemist
Nothing Gold Can Stay, by Jasper Riddle
The Samurai, by Kita Iqbal
Science, by Scila Verna



Intemperate.
By Prisma Colored

It wasn’t so often that she felt this way.

She sat on the edge of the yard, shivering under the low wooden outcrop. Her toes almost touched the snow. It was a game she liked to play. How close could she get, and how cold, and she planned her maneuvers for when the deck buckled and reached for her. Just in case.

She liked cold more than heat. When she was married she played a game, during the day. Her clothes would fall off, piece by piece, and pool on top of the crusted-over snow. They were too light to break through, but she wasn’t. She cracked the top and loved it, like crème brulee. The pile grew beneath her, even more precipitation, and she would stand in the middle. Convulsing and swelling. She liked to watch her skin turn white. Only when her husband wasn’t home.

He wasn’t home so much.

Her house opened up to the woods, for a mile or so. She’d never met her neighbors, and she only wished she did at those times of day when you’re done with it all and need someone else to give you a reason to exist. Twenty past, she thought, most days.

She sat there now, on the pad of her sliding door, and let her cracked toes hover over the burning white blanket. The little hairs on her ankles rose and fell, lazy like a wind-bound parachute. The temperature tickled her thighs, and she was shamelessly reminded that she wasn’t wearing anything under her bathrobe. Something pulled at her insides, and she went back in.

It wasn’t a very big home. She stayed in the basement to sleep and eat and watch television. She wanted visitors to see her empty living room, and dining room, and kitchen, and feel sorry for her. She slept in the basement with the heat down low, and dreamed about burglars every night before she fell asleep. Sometimes she left the door unlocked. Only ever the one to the woods.

She didn’t ever get any visitors.

It was the basement she stayed in because her husband never went down there, not once during his time. She didn’t hate him or love him, or resent him. She only really liked untainted things.

Snow, and fixing cold.

She cooked herself a cup of tea in the microwave, and put her nose close to the steam. Her eyes crinkled and cried. She admired the withering mother-love of fire and heat and brewed things, but never, ever loved it like she loved its friend. Her own was creation, and inconveniences are always worth it when you see how pretty they are.

Her robe slipped down around her elbows. The porcelain left cruel red marks where she laid it, but it felt lovely when they faded. She reached up and touched herself, and her hands were less confident than she liked. Her dripping fingers were cool with contracting tea and string marks, and who really cared that she was sticky now. There would always be ways to wash it off, and anything off.

She knew from experience.

She toyed with her muscles and let her fingers die, and watched in slow motion as the china left the air and kissed the carpet like an Eskimo. She took deep and lusty pleasure in watching her own ultimatums make waves.

She made her way back outside, somehow, and this time she let herself touch the snow, all of it. Her feet curled in pain and arched in ecstasy, and the woods were her next destination. It only seemed right, to her.

The soft terry belt dragged behind her, leaving vicious little zig-zags like a self-assured cat. It only just stirred the surface, that little pinna of snow that refused to assimilate, or missed the sealed-shut gathering by a minute and a sudden drop in temperature.

She hemmed a little tune as she went. It was the rude cacophony of the microwave, but she didn’t realize it until she reached the wood. She smiled, then, wide and uncertain and a horror to look at, even with no one to see. She could only just catch the homes of her neighbors, dry and delicate like giant leaves to make up for the ones the trees had lost. The barren branches blocking her view made great spider-cracks in the pastel siding, letting her look in and around and invade their privacy just a little, so they felt uncomfortable in their armchairs and tried not to think about anything at all.

She had a son, once. He was only three years old and he left with the ink and papers. She’d asked, so serious, if she was meant to sign in blood and her husband screwed up his face and didn’t say anything, and her son’s screams of giddy oblivion broke through the thin-checkered glass of the lawyer’s door and she thought of counting the contents of her medicine cabinet when she got home. He left with the ink and papers and acceleration and the seduction of the cold, cold air that doesn’t leave room for love, anyway.

It was all for the best.

Now she let her robe fall off and pool around her ankles and her nonexistent feet. She fell softly after it, and lay like a broken praying mantis on the nearly untouched snow. Her shoulders and thighs and breasts grew rough with gooseflesh, and she wanted to cry, she was so glad. She was falling asleep. Walks were so terribly, terribly tiring.

Somewhere, distantly bright and too painful to dwell over in everyday life and everyday death, was that little place she went to every night after she stood and decided that perhaps she’d better lock her door after all. She sat there, warm and surrounded and so very, very happy. She sat, and she wondered, with real innocence, when she’d stopped missing sun.



Letter to Susan, March 5th 19--
By radioactive alchemist

Dear Susan:

I hope this letter finds you in better health than the last time we spoke. You must be lonely up in the mountains, or has your sister come to stay with you yet? I haven't had the chance to see or talk with her lately, what with tending to my mother's ill health. The woman is tenacious as ever--I simply wish she would leave this world already! She has been hounding Roger incessantly and it causes us no small stress.

Enough of this trite talk, however; that's not what I've written to tell you about. Surely you don't want to be burdened by my worries, having enough of your own. No, I've written to tell you an account of a strange thing that has happened to me. The incident was nearly a month ago, but this is the first time since my recovery that I have felt confident enough--no, that I have felt a burning need--to put it to words. I have not spoken of it to anyone else, nor do I think I shall ever. It would be embarrassing enough as it is, and I feel that it has changed me enough for others to gossip about what might have transpired that day.

If I recall correctly, it was to you that I mentioned--offhandedly, and I wouldn't be upset if you don't remember me saying such--a certain series of unfortunate accidents and deaths in the history of our family, and Roger, bless his heart and his imagination, wondered if perhaps there might be a curse involved. When he mentioned it, of course--well, things have changed, but I didn't think much of it. But then I recalled how four or five generations back how the family had that plantation down south, and...well, I couldn't help but do a little research into it. Those plantation slaves, they put store by their black magic--they might have laid the curse, as that seemed to be when these events had started. Roger of course, agreed, and he felt it prudent--in his imaginative fantasy!--to see if the curse could be lifted, providing there was such a thing. I don't know how he arranged it, but before I could even dismiss it as a childish explanation and tell him that such things only existed in stories and in the mind he found a charming mulatto girl who claimed to know voodoo and brought her to our home. It wasn't as if I could say no to a consultation once she was there.

The whole thing was very informal but also very strange, and it upset me to no end. I begged Roger to not let her return, but she had pronounced that there was a curse upon my family line and he simply would not let the matter rest! She returned two days later, and we commissioned the parlor for the event. She brought a younger girl with her as her assistant; I never learned that girl's name but she was of no consequence; she did only what Emily--that was the girl's name--told her to. She lit up the fireplace, and produced ten or so candles which were placed about the room and then lit, and the lights were turned off. Roger, now being a part of the family and thus under this 'curse' as well, also had to be present to take part in the "cleansing ritual," as she called it. It was all very arcane and disconcerting, and more than once I thought about speaking up to stop it--but Roger seemed to put so much store by it that I held my tongue and my wits.

The girls had us sit down in chairs, placing us on either side of the fireplace. I was on the left side, and Emily attended me; her assistant attended Roger. She had me sit in an awkward position, with only the balls of my feet on the floor to 'ground' me, leaning forwards, with my hands on my knees and looking up at an angle at the blank wall. It was very uncomfortable, and I couldn't help fidgeting. She started making signs over me with her hands, all in silence. I remember my legs shaking, but that might have been due to fear. I must confess that I don't remember what happened after that--I blanked out. At the end of it, however...something was wrong, or had gone wrong. I was alone in the parlor. The world looked wrong--I could see out the window from where I sat, although I was sure the curtains had been closed before. Everything was covered in a grey-white fog. Things that should have been there--buildings, trees--were missing, and things that shouldn't have been there were. Outside the window there was a gnarled tree, black with age, which kept moving and twisting in my vision.

I became very frightened. I wanted to yell, to scream, but all I could manage was incoherent mumbling. I tried to call for the girl--it took me quite a while to get my lips to form the words. Her name wouldn't come out right, and it was barely a whisper. Finally, however, she came back into the parlor. She seemed confused at first, and then became frightened. She asked me what I saw, and although speech was a struggle--I could not feel my mouth to move it--I told her of what I saw, of the fog and the tree. She said something about a veil, and looked positively worried, which frightened me more. Curiously, I had no thoughts of Roger during this time.

I had risen to my feet, but my feet were the source of much worry; I worried that if I removed them from contact from the floor that something bad would befall me. She had me sit back down, in the same position as before--but now it did not bother me to hold it. She made signs, and recited things in a different language, all to apparently no effect as I felt no respite. After that failed, she began to ask me questions. I remember the first one almost exactly--she asked me where my soul was. The rest were mundane things, questions about things I should be familiar with; but I was at a loss to answer any of them. Finally she left the room, presumably to find her assistant.

I felt an unaccountable urge to leave, and so I rose and shuffled--I did not want to lift my feet from the floor, as I have said--out of the parlor and down the hall to the kitchen, and I went out by the kitchen door. Down the street I went, but I did not get far before I met a young colored woman coming from the opposite direction. She approached me, and seemed to know that something was wrong. Taking me by the arm she gave me instructions to turn around, and she led me back up the street to the house. Emily met us at the kitchen door, and the woman scolded her profoundly and then sent her to bring an ink pen and some paper. She returned, and the woman wrote spells out on a few of the pieces and then folded them up. The first one she placed in my mouth and told me to swallow it. I nearly gagged upon it, but the woman was insistent. The last thing I remember thinking was that my mouth felt very dry; and then I remember nothing until I woke up the next morning, lying on the sofa.

It seemed at first to have been a dream, but it was so profound and vivid that I worried it must have been real. This revelation threw me into hysterics, and Roger came to me; I don't think he remembers any of it, or if he does his memories must be much different than mine. I don't believe he is aware of what happened to me, but I find myself unable to blame him. It was the girl's fault, after all.

Afterwards I was very upset and depressed, and I caught a fever which put me in bed for a week. I felt that the girl had not, in fact, relieved the curse--if there was one--but had put something on me to cause me to sicken. Needless to say, I have no reserves about admitting to the reality of this voodoo magic, although it pains me to do so and I should expect that you might think I am only making this up in my resultant hysteria. Regardless, I believe it to be true; nothing could convince me otherwise at this point.

I will be departing to a more agreeable climate, as you yourself have done; I, however, am headed to the coast to stay with relatives in the Carolinas. It may be a considerable length of time before we see each other again, but by that time we will hopefully be in better health and better spirits.


Your dearest friend,
Jessica



Nothing Gold Can Stay
By Jasper Riddle

Sarah had been watching him for some time now, but this was the first time she'd actually worked up the courage to go and talk to him. He would come in every day at the same time and take the same seat, but wouldn't order anything; he would simply sit and stare out the window for a few hours, then would get up and leave. He never said a word to anyone.

He'd been sitting there for a while already, so she had to make her move soon before he left.

"May I sit here?" She smiled at him, hoping to get a smile in return. He looked at her.

"Go ahead."

She sat down, smiling more broadly at the fact she had gotten him to speak. Now she would engage him in conversation and discover what the deal with him was. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be anything remarkable about him that she could strike up conversation about.

That was, until she noticed his wrists.

"Interesting scars you got there," she said, reaching forward to tap the table next to his hand. He jerked as if she'd startled him, then turned to look at her.

Pulling down his sunglasses so he could look at her over the top, he leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "And how are they interesting?"

She blinked and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Well, at least he was talking to her. "Well, it's just interesting that you don't cover them up or anything."

"Why would I cover them up? I'm not ashamed of them."

"Well, cutters--"

He cut her off midsentence. "Kindly do not associate me with their ilk. I am not a cutter, nor are these marks those of failed suicide attempts. Their story is much more interesting."

"Then how'd you get them?"

He smiled. It was a pleasant enough smile, she supposed, but there was something of a smirk about it--smug about knowing something she didn't. "I'll tell you tomorrow. Same time, same place." He shoved his sunglasses back into place and got up, then was gone.

There was something mysterious about him; it was like something on TV, almost. One of those heartwarming stories about people overcoming their dark pasts to fall in love again. Those movies usually always made her cringe and change the channel, but there were a few she could stand. So she returned the next day, hoping to get the entire story in the time he would be there; but he didn't get there at the usual time. She had been waiting at his table for an hour and was about to leave when he walked through the door and took his spot.

"You're late," she said, crossing her arms.

"You're early. Where was I?"

"Your scars."

He leaned back. "Right. Of course. How did I get them, was it?" She nodded. "I was captured by an organization whose leader holds a grudge against the government."

"Anarchists?" He certainly knew how to get her attention. Sure, it would probably be a fantastic tale filled with lies, but Sarah had nothing better to do.

He waggled his hands in the 'sorta' motion. "Of a sort, I suppose. But that's not why they captured me."

"And why did they capture you?"

"That's for tomorrow. Get here on time and I'll tell you more than a few lines." And he was gone.

She showed up a half an hour early this time, and he was already waiting for her.

"Now you're the one who's early," she said, smiling.

"No, you're the one who's late. But I'll tell you anyways, since it's a good day."

"Good?" She took off her jacket and sat down. "It's windy and cloudy out there." She peered at him. "Hey, you're not wearing your sunglasses." She stared at him. Without the sunglasses, he looked fairly normal--and rather attractive.

"You're right, I'm not. That's why it's a good day." He sighed. "The light hurts my eyes still. You see, when they captured me, they kept me in a white room all the time, with the lights on all the time."

She grimaced. Not that it was a nasty thought or anything, just that she wanted to convey sympathy without using words. It seemed to get the point across anyway, because he nodded and bit his lip.

"I'm sorry, I don't seem to have answered your question from yesterday. I hope you'll forgive me for that."

"Let me guess, you'll answer it tomorrow?"

He shook his head. "Nah. It's a good day. Why did they capture me? Because I stood against them. I was a member of their organization--a puppet--" he spat out the word, "unable to fulfill my own mission because they tied me down to thiers. I'm thinking of suing, you know, for cruel and unusual punishment and a lack of the writ of habius corpus. But it would never go to court."

She blinked. He certainly had an interesting train of thought. "Mission?"

"Yeah." He smiled and stared at the table. They sat in silence for a moment before he got up. "And that's for tomorrow."

"Wait! What's your name?"

He paused and glanced at her, still smiling. "There are those who call me...Tim."

"Tim." She nodded, more to herself than to him, and when she looked again he had left.

Before she could get up, someone else sat down at the table. They were very pretty for a girl, if a little flat-chested.

"Excuse me..."

She did a double-take. They didn't really sound like a girl..."Yes?"

"Who were you just talking to?"

She shrugged. "Just an acquaintance. Why?"

They blinked, then bit their lip and looked down at the table. "I'm his best friend. I can't talk to him, so I was hoping you could give him this." She was handed a sealed, unstamped letter, which she turned over in her hands. All that was written on it by way of identification was "To the Lost", a phrase that she assumed was some kind of code.

"Oh...kay...I'll try. Why can't you give it to him yourself?"

They looked down and smoothed their skirt. "My older brother wouldn't like it if we were spotted together."

Sarah nodded and smiled knowingly. "Protective, huh?" She imagined a pair of star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet, only less tragic because it was obvious neither was dead. Tim's scars probably were old suicide attempts if she followed that logic.

A low laugh. "Overly." A pause, then Sarah extended her hand across the table.

"I'm Sarah."

"Elijah."

"You're a guy!?" She barely just kept her voice down; the costume was so convincing! No wonder they didn't sound right!

Eli laughed, looking almost ashamed. "Yeah. It's the skirt, isn't it? I'm sorry--I've been wearing girl's clothes more and more often lately..."

She freaked. "Well, normally I think guys in girls clothing look kinda weird, but you really pull it off--I mean, I thought you were a real girl for a moment there--you look really nice. You really do."

He smiled and looked at her levelly. "Thanks, I guess. Just get that letter to him, please."

She nodded. "I'll do my best." This time she was the one to get up and leave.

*

It was still cloudy the next day. When she sat down, the first thing Sarah did was hand the envelope to Tim. He stared at the writing.

"Only when we are lost can we be found," he mumbled, glancing out the window. "These paths of embers do not allow for footsteps."

"What?"

He smiled vaguely, but not at her, and tucked the letter in a pocket. "This is something best saved for a sunny day. For now, I have a tale for you, don't I?"

"Today's chapter: what is your mission," she said, waving her hands around mockingly. He nodded, apparently not taking the joke.

"My mission...my Reunion." Turning back to her, he leaned forward and said with all seriousness, "I am to obliterate humanity."

She blinked. His story had taken a surreal step backwards from paranoically amusing to outright insane. He didn't seem to notice her shock, but continued speaking, rubbing his wrists gently.

"We are a diseased species, a Medusatic parasite that kills all beings it sets its sights upon. From grass to stone, life to death, taking more than is given...I am to exterminate them all, following in the footsteps of those before--wiping the earth clean of our ilk in order to rescue our mother planet from her monstrous brood."

She stared openly now. Either he was an amazingly good storyteller or he had escaped from a mental asylum. What if he was a serial killer? "But--you're human, aren't you?"

"Yes." He sighed. "Such a shameful existance, to be one of the ooze and the muck, unable to rise above to a greater calling. Or perhaps to sink below." He sat up straight and crossed his arms. "I have seen the angels of a twisted god, and discovered that he is a merciless being to merciful purposes."

She glanced at her wrist, hoping to make up an excuse to get away, when he sighed again.

"That's why they locked me up. But they had--have--nothing to fear. I won't do anything so long as my promise remains intact."

"You--your promise?"

"Glad to see I'm not losing you. That's for tomorrow." He got up and left. She remained where she was. She did want to know more--he left at the most interesting parts, and she could never stand having a question remain unanswered; but he was revealing himself to be odder than she could ever have previously imagined.

Biting her lip, she dug around in her pocket. It should be here--ah! There it was. She pulled out her lucky half-dollar and stared at the face on the coin. "Heads I keep coming and listening, tails I stop coming and try to avoid him." Closing her eyes, she kissed the coin and flipped it up in the air.

*

He was reading the letter when she got there. It was slightly cloudy still, so she assumed it wasn't a first reading. Biting her lip, Sarah slid into her usual seat and waited for him to finish.

"You're like a monkey." He didn't look away from the paper.

"What?"

"You're in a tree overhanging my chosen path. You'll talk to me, but you won't join me because you've got a path of your own. Or maybe we're simply meeting as a crossroads." Now he looked at her, folding up the letter and putting it back in the envelope, which he put in his pocket. "That would be more likely if not for the fact that I don't believe it is. So you're a monkey." Folding his hands, he said, "My promise is Elijah. You've met him. He is my proof that good people exist on this planet, and so long as he remains alive I shall never harm a human soul."

She blinked. "Then why did they lock you up? You can't hold someone for thinking murderous thoughts."

He nodded. "Thinkpol. But it was more that I was a danger to them, I think. I knew things about them and their leader that they couldn't afford someone to know if they weren't fighting alongside them. I stood against them and they couldn't let me do that."

"You're right. We can't."

Sarah looked up in surprise, but Tim didn't move.

"Hello Jason. I'm surprised it took you this long to find me."

"Shut up." Jason tapped his fingers on his cast--his right arm was broken, from what she could see. She wondered if it had something to do with Tim--he could be truly insane, but she doubted that now. Unless this man was playing along, Tim had to be telling the truth.

"I can't be affected by you anymore, Jason." Tim turned to face the older man, crossing his arms defiantly. "Didn't you learn that before? I don't want to be involved in your civil war!"

"I'm not going to try and get you in it anymore." Jason looked at Sarah, who stared back with wide eyes. Who was in the right? She was so used to her daydreams sorting everything out as good and bad, but she didn't know what to think now. "How much does she know?"

Tim shrugged. Jason scowled. Sarah attempted a smile and tried to get up. "I really should be going, since it appears you guys--"

She was grabbed by Jason's blonde companion. "Sorry, but I'm afraid you have to stay here until this is all sorted out."

Sarah didn't so much sit down again as collapse into the seat as her knees gave out. Oh God. They were going to take both her and Tim and lock them up because she knew too much. She didn't want to go to prison! What would everyone say if she just vanished? Her hands went to her mouth, eyes tearing up.

Tim rolled his eyes. Silly girl--he had known she wouldn't be able to take it, but he found no pleasure in seeing her cry. "Oh stop it."

"How much did you tell her, Tim?"

"Why are you even asking? We both know what will happen to her; it doesn't matter if she knows about your precious organization or not." Glancing at Sarah, he rose to his feet and faced the older man, reaching into a pocket and pulling out his sunglasses. "What have I done, Jason? Seriously. Look at me and tell me what I have done since I escaped."

"You escaped. You killed two people--"

A bitter laugh. It was probably this that jerked Sarah from her self-absorbed fit of anxiety, and she stared at the man with wide fearful eyes. He was a murderer--he was a bad person! Why were they keeping her here?

"I didn't kill anyone. They died in a car crash, from what I hear."

Jason stopped. He seemed offended, but she couldn't figure out why. Glancing up at the blonde man, she grabbed his sleeve. "Please..."

He ignored her, watching his dark-haired companion.

"That's just it. I haven't done anything. You, on the other hand..." He waved his glasses in front of the other man's eyes. "I'm going light-blind because of you. I'm scarred for life, both physically and mentally. My life is ruined because of you."

Jason opened his mouth to say something, but Tim wasn't finished yet. "You can just shut up. For once try and listen to others instead of having them listen to you."

Sarah shrank into her seat and whimpered when she saw Jason pull out a gun and aim it at Tim. He stared at it scathingly. "Are you going to kill me, Jason?"

Jason said nothing. Sarah started to cry, a stifled sniffing and gasping; Tim's eyes flickered in her direction, but he didn't move. "Face it, kissass, I've done nothing!"

"Shut up!" Jason roared, shoving the weapon against his opponents' forehead. "You've done enough. Keth, get someone to take that girl away."

Tim took a step backwards and fell into his seat. Jason kept the weapon trained on him. "I don't want to kill you, but I will if I must."

"Didn't want to dirty your hands until now, is that it?"

"Interesting last words." The gunshot ripped through the air. Sarah jumped and screamed, collapsing to the floor in an uncontrollable fit of weeping, eyes shut and fingers wrapped around the leg of the chair as if it would somehow save her from what had just happened. Someone had been killed. She was--oh God--was she going to be killed next?

Jason handed the gun to Keth, composure regained. "******** godmoder."

"I'm a non-playable character in your game. You can't attack me." Tim was pressed against the window, visibly shaken, but none worse for wear. Jason lunged forward and whacked him with his cast--Keth winced at the dull crack as Tim's head slammed into the window.

The room was silent except for Sarah's untamed sobbing. Jason stood with cast raised, awaiting a counterattack.

Tim slid down the window a bit, vision sliding about. He hadn't thought of blocking against physical contact attacks. Could it even be done? "God...dammit."

Jason didn't say anything, merely scowled and lowered his arm. "Keth, get Nicola to wipe the girl's memories."

Tim tried to stand up, swaying as he leaned forward; he flopped forward onto the table, closing his eyes in an attempt to ward off the dizziness. He knew Jason was right there. He realized that he would be recaptured for all his running--futile motions in the eyes of a sick deity.

Jason waited for Tim to rise, and when he didn't Jason moved forward and pulled out a pair of handcuffs he had taken to carrying around with him, just in case this opportunity arose. Tim didn't fight back when the older man cuffed his hands together. Jason frowned.

"This isn't like him at all."

Keth glanced up from where he was trying to pry Sarah from the chair. "Aren't you glad he's not fighting back?"

"Slightly."

Keth shrugged, finally resolving to pick up the girl chair and all if he had to. Thankfully, she let go when he grabbed her around the waist. "He's got a point, you know. About not doing anything."

"Shut up."

He didn't want to go back to Hell. Purgatory. That singular point in the universe that was a black hole of the mind, an endless white abyss.

"I know you can hear me, Tim."

But where was the handbasket?

"You don't want to go back there, do you."

Sin in Heaven...

"I have an offer, if you're willing to take it."

Redemption in Hell...



The Samurai
By Kita Iqbal

Fabien likes to sleep with supermodels. Their frailty in his strong arms arouses him, all porcelain doll faces and stick arms. He likes their apathetic submissiveness, the casual disregard for their own bodies and beauty. He can never feel guilty with a supermodel. He sits on catwalk sidelines where he blends in with his dark sunglasses. You can see him in flashes if you watch the fashion channel, and squint.

The model he sleeps with tonight is Sue Anne. Her mother wanted her to be called her first name and her father the second: in the end, they were awarded joint custody. Though she is classified as “White” on her agency’s website she has but a thimble full of Japanese blood in her veins, dating back centuries, some great great great indiscretion. In an exchange trip to Japan, a schoolboy told her that her ancestors were samurai. She believes it to this day. He didn’t know anything, he just wanted to sleep with her.

Fabien spotted her with a thin red scarf over her face like a mystery. The rest was like a white wedding dress designed by a spider. She looked like his alien bride. Her complex gloves almost totally hid her tattooed forearm: now, on the bed in his grip, he reads

remember, you are a samurai.

embedded in black ink.

It is the most humid night of the year. Their sweat angels stay burnt into the mattress well into the early morning. She washes him off in the bathroom but still she is sticky. She returns to the bed and lies down beside him and watches his smoke circulate the room. It’s too muggy to snuggle. He puts out his cigarette and switches out the light. They sleep as on opposite sides of the mattress. It’s the only possible way. In the morning, if either ask: the weather will be blamed.

Another model asked Sue Anne about her tattoo. They were young and naked and it was un-awkward conversation. She told her it was to guide her decision making, to always make the right, honourable and moral choices in life. It made her feel special. Her parents weren’t samurais - this was a recessive trait, she the first in over a century.

This morning she stares at the tattoo and doesn’t understand what it means. It looks grammatically incorrect somehow. She rubs it and it doesn’t go away. She keeps rubbing until the thin layer of sweat begins to roll into little dark grey flecks - they almost look like black ink, but no, just dirt. I’m stuck with this forever, she tells herself. One bad decision, and I’m stuck with it forever.



Science
By Scila Verna

Summer smeared on the knees of his pants and the elbows of his sleeves, green and smelling like a fresh cut lawn. He had tucked his legs beneath him to sit in the grass and let the sun beat him like an angry father. It was too nice a day to waste on moving and so instead he caught himself in the lull of the swaying breezes and daydreamed, braiding blades of grass absently to occupy his fingers. They seemed to go outside more often now, he and his father, breathing in sun rays and dandelions and trying to stay seven forever. His father, who sat next to him, tried to stay thirty-seven forever. Neither won; they aged with the minutes.

He leaned over and plucked a dandelion from its earthly perch, turning it about to see if it was fit to share. Its stem was still slick with dew and water taken from the dirt; its head drooped under its own weight. He propped the head skywards again and produced it, offering it graciously to his father. "Dad," said he, "a Danny Lion for you."

"Joany," said his father, child-care voice pumped fuller of sweetness by the pet name. "Thank you, Joany. Dan-de-lion."

"Danny Lion," replied Jonas in agreement, and that was that, no more. He returned to his braiding and weaved another leaf of grass into the strand. It was difficult working with his father peering over his shoulder, hovering like the hummingbirds and helicopters they sometimes saw. The tension grew so that he had to glance back at the older man with a withering look of disapproval on his young face. The look was met with a cough and his father turned away lightly.

"So," said his father conversationally, and the man instantly took pity on himself. To have to provoke his own little boy into conversation - most children chattered! Jonas spoke less than his father would have liked, and when he did speak at all it was all sophisticated mutterings to a boy that wasn't there. "So," he repeated. "Why are you sitting when you could be out and about and we could, ah, play hide-and-go-seek?"

"All right," said his son abruptly, "go count. But count to one thousand. I'm having a contest with Sebastian and don't think it will end very soon."

Jonas' father looked defeated, muttered "There is no Sebastian," and began to wander aimlessly off. Jonas sat firmly where he was, pulling grass from the meadow and flicking bugs from the flowers. As his father moved away, he added, "I'm so winning, you know." As if for effect he waved his flexible string in the air, flaunting its length. His father shrugged and began to count.

"You aren't. Mine's longer. And also you and I both know for a fact it's Sevashtin." His brother was smaller than he was but Jonas was easily trumped by Sevashtin's sense of pointedness. All points were true as the little brother picked up his weaving and showed it off to Jonas and everyone who cared to see, exposing it to the breeze. It was nearly a third longer than his and Sevashtin stood triumphantly. "I'll let you catch up, then. Do you think you can hear me from the tracks?"

Together they wandered towards the train tracks, talking of important things like the Juicebox Quality and Taste Amendment to be installed the following week and also that a bug was in Jonas' hair (it was removed and Jonas demanded executed, in some words). Jonas took the weavings and Sev took a pink many-petaled flower in his mouth. Their father reached one hundred and thirty-nine.

"What do you think is up with Dad?" Sevashtin hopped onto the train tracks and wiggled. The sun struck his orange hair and made it seem like sundown. Jonas in turn sat cross-legged on a dry patch of grass with his socks pulled up to his calves so his ankles wouldn't tickle in the crowd of feathery blades.

"What do you mean?" asked Jonas. "He's Dad."

"He said I wasn't me earlier. Or, or that there was no me."

Jonas paused to think of a suitable reply to this and came up rather short. "I told you he was Dad."

Sev wobbled on the train tracks and balanced on one foot. Planting his other in the gravel nearby, he turned to face his older and taller brother with his hands resting on his hips. "But dads don't just forget their sons, right?"

They contemplated this for some time, listening to the birds and to the subject of this conversation still counting.

After a minute, Jonas suggested, "I guess he's crazy."

"I guess," agreed Sevashtin, and went about his way, pacing on the rails. Jonas attached a new piece of grass with expert handling. They were quiet and the sun was tiring their eyes, although the day was still not close to being full. At Jonas' angle, Sevashtin eclipsed the sun in the middle of his route like an orange moon. They lost themselves in their occupations.

Sev stopped.

"Dad's gonna die one day, isn't he," he said. Jonas blinked and half-gagged; his father was a clutzy and sometimes unintelligent man, sure, but he was Dad nonetheless - the thought of him gone was odd, disturbing.

"Yeah," he agreed slowly. "What about it?"

Sev bounced to the ground and folded into himself, sitting with his legs drawn up close on the metal track. He peered over his knees, chin propped up on the scrawny joints. "I was just thinkin'. . . he's not gonna say goodbye to me, will he, Joany?"

"Don't be as dumb as he is, Sev," said Jonas. His eyes turned like those of a scolding teacher. "He'll say bye to alla us."

"I think he'll just say bye to Mom."

Their mother was previously undiscussed, almost forbidden as a topic. She was so often out of the house - they never acted as if she were real. She was safe from their trouble-making in that way, of course, but then she was also like a lovely, far-off myth. Their father called out, two hundred and twenty-seven.

"Dad won't die, then," said Jonas in compromise. "He'll sleep for a long time and turn into a kid again, and then we can play together."

"Oh." Sev left it at that. "Ok, then, can you tell him to start now? I'm getting kind of bored."

"Only because now I'm beating you," challenged Jonas, and Sev stuck out his tongue.

Suddenly their father called out one thousand pointedly and they suspected foul play. Jonas dove behind a low tree anyways, and Sev crouched behind the rail of the tracks, orange head poking out like a stick in the mud. Jonas whispered quick warnings, pressuring his brother to hide across the tracks under a bush that sat plumply there. Sev shook his head no and before Jonas could argue his father had jogged towards them, singing his words and pretending not to know where they were. He glanced once at the tracks, stared straight through Sevashtin, and looked behind a rock. Jonas blinked and didn't move. Sevashtin's laugh was almost cold, but it died in on itself before it really began. They met eyes and felt entirely frigid.

Something jumped and grabbed at Jonas' thin shoulders with a frightening grasp. Jonas screamed - his captor merely laughed.

"Joany, geeze, it's just the game," assured his father between loud heaves of laughter. Jonas wrenched from his father's hands with a glare, the type only a little boy can give. His father shrank with apologies but Jonas was staring again in Sevashtin's direction through scrutinizing eyes.

Sevashtin flickered, stuttered, and disappeared entirely.

Jonas' heart next to stopped.

"Hey, uh, sport," his father said, and Jonas turned on him angrily, eyes vile.

"Dad!" he snarled. A distant train roared with him.

"Joany, calm down." Jonas seethed against the reply but it continued otherwise. "He doesn't know better." And Jonas glanced back to see Sevashtin, as if he hadn't left. But what was different was that Jonas' face fell.

"What?" whimpered his father. As time returned to normal, Jonas shook his head, silent in the breeze and shock. His father's slow voice was flooded over by the screaming train. When he repeated himself loudly he said to them that he was going to get the car ready and it was time to go. Jonas nodded, caught in his daze, and glanced away.

"Jonas--"

But this was Sevashtin's voice.

The train plowed at the panicked face of Sevashtin and showed zero signs of stopping. Jonas knew then that he couldn't do anything but turn away, hoping the screams of his little brother glanced off his ears. He heard the train zip past and Sev's scream die and pulled both down his throat with a thick swallow.

"Let's go home, then," Sev said next to Jonas and together they left the meadow with their braided grass strands left limp on the ground.

An English Extravaganza
Directed by Serieve



5th Period Hot Spot, by Chel-cha
In-Class Individuals, by Serieve
Third Period With Mr. Cummins, by Potter
Untitled, by enchantedsleeper



5th Period Hot Spot
By Chel-cha

“Will you stop with the racist comments!” That was Mrs. Jamison’s 5th period AP English class for you, a bunch of smart kids, with smart mouths and rhetorical questions. Amy sighed from her seat in the back corner of the room. She looked out the window at the falling snow, wishing she were out there instead of in class. She glanced at the clock.

’11:12.’ she thought. The period didn’t end until 11:44. She sighed again and tuned back into Mrs. Jamison who was currently reading out the next assignment.

“Okay, so you’re going to be drawing a scene from Greek and Roman mythology onto the paper that Maria just passed out.” she said. “Once you’ve finished, write your name on the back and a few short sentences explaining your picture. You can choose from the Gods, The Trojan War, Achilles and Tantalus.” Amy grimaced in her seat.

‘Another drawing assignment? Isn’t this an English class?’ she thought. She started down at her blank sheet of paper and sighed and thought about what to draw. It wasn’t that she couldn’t draw, for she could. In fact, her work was being displayed at one of the Art Fairs at the local colleges. Her abilities just came better when she could work at home, alone, in her room where there was silence. Amy finally decided on drawing when Prometheus gave fire to man. As she drew her picture she looked around the room. Melody and Rachel were talking quietly in their corner of the room so no one would hear. Amy shook her head. There had been a rumor of a Burn Book going around and Amy was suspect number 3.

“Can we draw the genitals??” questioned Julio. The class broke out into laughter and giggles. Mrs. Jamison shook her head.

“Julio if I see anything X-Rated on there I will fail you this marking quarter. You understand me?” she said sternly.

“I was just asking.” said Julio resuming his drawing. The class went back to their chatter and by now Amy had finished her scene. Now she was coloring it in - that is she was until Rachel approached her.

“Amy. Do you have anything to do with this Burn Book?” she questioned. Amy glanced at the clock behind Rachel.

’11:27.’ she thought. Rachel spoke louder.

“Amy. Answer me.” Amy looked up at her and shook her head.

“I know not of what you are talking about. Who told you I was involved? Was it Kelly?” she asked.

“No. I’m not telling you.” said Rachel. “Some one told me they saw my name in that green book that Sally is always carrying around. You know? The one with your name and hers on the cover.”

“I’ve never written in it Rachel.” said Amy.

“Don’t lie b***h!” yelled Melody from across the room.

“Ah! Excuse me. I will write you up if you yell across the room one more time young lady.” said Mrs. Jamison. Melody stuck up her nose and scoffed. The clock now read 11:37. “Okay. Let’s clean up. Colored pencils go in the bin. Not on the floor. Leave any finished work on my desk.” Amy stood up and went to put the colored pencil back in the bin on the front table. When she returned to her desk she found a letter:

If you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell us who’s got the book.

Amy looked up from the letter, threw it out and went back to cleaning up. The clock read 11:43.

‘Come on. One more minute.’ thought Amy grabbing her things. She was almost home free until Melody came up to her.

“Listen. When I find out who’s been talking s**t about me you better hope it ain’t you.” she threatened. “Cause if it is I’ll-“ RING! The bell went off and Amy was out the door. She felt like someone was following her but didn’t dare turn around. She had to find Sally and get this whole Burn Book ordeal sorted out.



In-Class Individuals
By Serieve

The first and chiefest charm of my English class is that it is a showcase of interesting individuals. Second is the coffee on Tuesdays and Thursdays. A close third are the full-length windows.

My teacher, however, is not on the scale. She’s new to teaching and does well enough, but I often reminisce about a certain almost-crazy, politically incorrect teacher that I had last year. I only had her for a semester before she was put on probation. Her downfall was my favorite lesson: “The Brother.”

It was an absurd block of words with a handful of periods, expletives in every other line, and not nearly enough capitalization. I looked at it and thought “What idiot wrote this, and why are we studying it?” Then she read it, and I learned what stream-of-consciousness was. Yet the religious references and the expletives and our teacher’s trust in us did her in; we were called into the office one by one and asked to confirm our teacher’s guilt. I haven’t seen her in a year. Last I heard, she was fired, though I never learned the administration’s reasoning.

But again, my current teacher does all right. Each day we discuss our lesson and prepare for the AP Exam. Just the other day we were reading the released essays for the Synthesis essay (in which you read several sources on an issue and form an opinion in 15 minutes; then you have 45 minutes to effectively synthesize those sources in an essay that supports your position) and laughing at AP students who asked rhetorical questions in first person and spelled “candidate” three different ways. Diagramming and grammar have also (once again) been drilled into our brains. In our free time we’ve been forced to read classics like Frankenstein, The Prince, The Crucible, Ethan Frome, The Allegory of the Cave, and now The Great Gatsby. Also thanks to her, William Zinsser’s On Writing Well and Thomas C. Foster’s How to Read Literature Like a Professor have fallen into my hands by recommendation.

And of course, she provides the coffee.

And like any advanced English class, we have those unique and lively individuals who often exercise their free speech in class, causing both teacher and students to enjoy the dry academia of Synthesis essays and diagramming. We have one political fanatic who’s not afraid to offend and be crude while debating his political stance. His specialties are Bob Dylan, Jack Kerouac, and sarcasm. One charming red-headed girl has clothes from every time period and loves to draw and act. She’s one of those types that has connections everywhere and always knows the latest gossip. Then there’s the odd yet confident trombone player with bug-eyed glasses and slacks and a sweater. You know, the type that speaks in jargon twenty-four seven? Somehow he’s managed, with his extreme confidence, to fit in among the “cool” crowd.

It's surprising how well one can get to know people in an advanced English class—even if you just sit and listen, or stare out those floor-length windows. Often, they get off topic; politics, opinions, drugs, food, books, music, squirrels—you name it, we’ve mentioned it. That’s when said individuals get their minutes of classroom fame, even if their banter is reduced to petty name-calling and satiric japery. Despite my classmates’ antics, I know that they’re sharp, observant people. And fittingly, I enjoy their company as much as I enjoy the class.



Third Period With Mr. Cummins
By Potter

I walk in, usually dancing or singing something from a decade or two passed, and take my seat. You couldn't tell from my choice in seating how much I'm in love with that class. Far right, third-to-last desk. One of the desks right by the bookshelf, which happens to be filled with science fiction and fantasy and an assortment of odd and strange readings.

Ptew! The sound of a blaster firing breaks conversation. That would be the teacher signing into his computer. I know that sound like the sound of a transporter, or a Romulan War Bird decloaking. It's the unofficial start of class.

"So, who bothered bringing their book?" The man in the front of the room rolls his eyes. He's in his mid-thirties and prone to sarcasm, wit, and drama. An English teacher in the truest sense of the word, teaching by example and book alike. Half of us bring out our books. Less than that do so because we look forward to whatever we're reading that day.

"Hey, Emi, don't this month's donation items bite?"

"Open to page four-seventy-eight."

"Not now, Zach."

"HAHA--"

"Tom, shut up!"

The class proceeds very much the same way every day. Those of us who care enough to pay attention do, those who don't interrupt until we who care call them out and have a nice little verbal throw down. The lesson continues.

Honestly, I think, the teacher deserves more respect. He's a complete snark, but at least he's no bore. He always has something interesting to say if you let him, a story to tell, or book to recommend, or even a quick insult that you need to learn to take in stride. It helps that he knows his memes. English is more enjoyable with bits of Engrish slipped in. "Someone set up us the Scylla!" is always good to hear, even if no one else gets it.

Five minutes left. Everyone's either at the door or wandering off down the hall. I'm huddled near the teacher's desk with a particularly violent set of twins trying not to get caught in the crossfire. Cummins is amused.

Zach pipes up again, knowing I probably won't cut him off this time. "So, Emi. The donation items."

"Yeah. They suck pretty bad. End of story."



Untitled
By enchantedsleeper

English lessons... well, where do I begin? Perhaps I should start with my barely-remembered lessons with Mrs. Thorpe (or Thorp-edo as she is more commonly known) in the first year - roughly four years ago. I remember only snatches of them - highlights, if you will. I can remember on several occasions sitting staring into space, bored out of my mind. (Mrs. Thorpe's teaching style isn't the most captivating). I can remember studying The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe in play form, and reading ahead in order to alleviate my boredom whilst everyone else read round v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. I can remember having one lesson a week in the library (40 minutes of just reading - bliss!) and studying a book about Russian Jews in the time of World War Two which had the word 'Steppe' in the title. I remember what was possibly the best lesson of the year, in which we went outside and looked at the trees and fruit, and later wrote poems about Autumn. I remember studying The Lady of Ise and Chaucer's Cantebury Tales. I remember scribbling frantically in the end-of-year exam, writing a story about dolphins, receiving full marks for it, and later having Mrs. Thorpe tell me that she could count on one hand the number of students to whom she had awarded full marks in her teaching career. (Either she's very stingy, or guilty of gross exaggeration. x3 My money is on the former. She's not an exaggerating sort of person).

Next, my second year. Mrs. Hurlock was a fun teacher to have. I remember how instead of clapping, we'd do little funny hand motions, opening and closing our fingers in order to keep quiet. I don't remember much of what we studied, except for A Spoonful of Jamby Michelle Magorian and enjoying it a lot. I can recall clearly the time Mrs. Hurlock went ballistic when someone spilled a drink on a desk. (She can't abide drinks in the classroom, and so to actually spill one was an unimaginable crime). I remember having to write a story beginning with the sentence, 'The sun beat down like...' and I remember her saying that when writing a story, you should discard the first idea you come up with, since it'll be the obvious one. I still use that advice.

Third year: my favourite year. Perhaps I'm remembering it through 'rose-tinted glasses', as it were, but Mrs. Wray was a truly excellent teacher. Instead of studying the same books as everyone else, I read more advanced novels - To Kill a Mockingbird, Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca, and Jane Eyre. Two out of three times it was simply because there weren't enough copies of the book we were meant to be studying (and the other time was because I read the book we were meant to be studying on the day we were given it XD), but it made me feel special. I remember studying A Midsummer Night's Dream, and going into the Memorial Hall to act out scenes on the stage - something that Mrs. Hurlock promised to do but never actually did, whereas Mrs. Wray did. I remember studying The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman and just sitting, listening to Mrs. Wray reading it rather than follow the text. I remember sitting between Amy and Fleur, and getting to be pretty good friends with them. I remember studying love poetry - I generally dislike the topic, and yet I enjoyed it with Mrs. Wray. We did one about an onion, and one about a box. I remember having class discussions too, and almost getting into an argument at one point, though fortunately the other girl shut up before I let loose on her.

For my fourth and fifth years, I have been back with Mrs. Hurlock. There's no such thing as 'advanced classes' in my school - or indeed in the whole country as far as I'm aware - and we're not normally put into sets for English, but mercifully they decided to experiment with our year and created one top set, and made the rest of the classes equal. I ended up in the top set, and I like it that way. I can't claim to find the GCSE material fascinating - most of the time it's downright dull, and I despise picking short stories to bits and finding hidden meanings in every single line of poetry to the point of excess. However, Mrs. Hurlock lets us listen to our Ipods or MP3 players (or Zen Micros, in Sally's case) when we're working on an essay, and I do like essays.

My favourite essay to write was one comparing Charlotte Perkins Gilman's Turned and The Yellow Wallpaper (which only those who had been in Mrs. Wray's class the previous year had studied). I was the only one who did that combination of stories - and since they were by the same author, it cut down a lot on background research! The other two essays I have written were one on love poetry (again! :XP smile and the other on Shakespeare's Othello.

Yes, we fought our way through Othello during the course of our fifth year, and we have also managed Death of a Salesman as well. I have to say that having Mrs. Hurlock in the fourth and fifth years isn't as good as our second year (though the study material is much to blame for that) - she sometimes contradicts herself, and is very fond of nagging us to do more things for ourselves - take initiative, be proactive - and insisting that she's 'not our secretary'. Several people have pointed out - not to her, but to each other - that during our fourth year her excuse for taking ages to mark our work was that her fifth years took priority - and yet now we're fifth years, she still takes forever!

My favourite part was when we had to write a short story entitled "Through the Keyhole". Creative writing is my forte, and I spent several enjoyable lessons just letting my mind wander through possibilities for the story. When I got it back from her, I panicked at the sight of a fluorescent Post-It note stuck to it - what had I done wrong? - only to find that it was a note telling me to please use a bigger font next time!

We don't do much by way of class discussion - sure, we say stuff, but we never stray as far from the topic as it would appear Serieve's class do (I'm jealous surprised ). The best class discussion we had was when we spent an entire lesson talking about dreams (half the class were away) in preparation for studying a poem related to that topic. I also enjoyed the discussions about other personalities and doppelgangers which ensued from studying Sylvia Plath's "Mirror" (one of the better poems on the syllabus).

So, there's all that I can say about English at my school. (Hope you're still awake and reading!) I intend to take the subject at both AS and A level (i.e. for the next two years) and although I'm very sad that there is no creative writing on the syllabus whatsoever, I reckon I'll enjoy it.



Serieve's Note: So there's a lot going on at The Press lately. We just bought a new guild, which is under construction, and we're looking for someone to replace me because I plan to retire. And as you can tell, I very much need to be fired for being a lazy editor and publishing this issue one month and five days late. We could also use some dependable staff as well.

Anyway, if you're interested in being the new owner and editor of The Gaian Press, please contact me. Applicants will have to undergo a training and trial period, which I will hopefully be able to walk them through. This way we can be sure that the applicant is serious, as well as allow the staff to get to know them. Running The Press is time consuming and not easy, so please think carefully.

On a happier note, welcome to our newest staff member and reviewer, PANIC! On The Enterprise. 3nodding

Donator Thank You's: Much thanks to Taione, who donated 2000g.