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 Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 6:59 pm
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:00 pm
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 1.0 We find the best so you don't have to. IN THIS ISSUE...1. The Neighborhood Watch - A quick look around the world of Gaia 2. Honorable Mentions - Poetry and fiction submitted and scouted by the best 3. Goad the Goat - Musings from a homo-intellectus 4. Do Not Eat This Column - Even if it makes you hungry 5. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press 6. Critic's Corner - What doesn't kill you makes you stronger 7. Writer's Aide - Help is just a click away 8. The Afterthought - A short overview of our next issue and other upcoming Press events peiormentis reports... - Gaian Homes Preview. Le Gasp! Homes for our wonderful little avis? What ingenious things will they think up next? - Gaia Naked Day, February 12-14. Hmph. Do what you wish. I, for one, will be keeping my clothes on. Kraeela reports... - Some fellow Gaians (with the help of mod VO) are attempting to collaborate on an RP style story of Gaia. Writers, click here for more information. - Gaia's 2nd Anniversary Ball took place Friday 18th. Hope everyone had a good time in spite of the lag! alicemae reports... - In honor of Valentine's Day, everyone received a box of Valentine chocolates to give to that special someone. For those who missed this chance in receiving chocolates, don't worry! They're still available in the jewlery store in Barton Town for 100g per box. - Gaia is currently working on a new one-on-one chat system called Hangouts! Stay tuned as it develops. Serieve reports... - Going Postal! Have you donated lately? Sent in a drawn picture with it by any chance? Gaia shows its gratitude with Going Postal! All pictures sent in by donators are displayed for the world to see. The Nakie Day Controversy: For, or Against?Many of us on February 12, 2005, went around posting in the forums with our avatars bare and naked for the world to see. However, many of us did not. Which were you? Supporters say it shows unity as well as equality. No more envying the wealthier member's avatars, or having newbies flamed for something they've done. Who's to say which is which on Nakie Day? Others did it just to go with the flow, or to show how sexy they could be beneath their layers of clothing. On the other hand, some members had no choice. MinaMouse Well, I'm in my undies. I think this is a great idea, since it puts everyone on the same level and you don't have to be intimidated because you see that somebody has this super-rare item. You can just strike a conversation with anybody. Plus it makes my 13-year-old mind giggle insanely. Hehe naked. Those who were against Nakie Day say that Gaia is where it is today because of it's unique avatars. We show unity already simply by all being here and dressing our lovable little representatives. Several members dressed in as many layers as they could, calling it Absurdly Overdress Your Avatar Day (AOA), or Wear As Many Layers As Possible Day (WAMLAPD). Lucedes WAMLAP DAY. because Gaia's items are what keeps it apart from any other forum. without items, I'd be so gone it wouldn't even be funny. Then there are those who were neutral to the whole situation. Many were amused at the ongoing fight, though they took little to no part in it. Whether or not the neutral members dressed or undressed was solely their decision, however, and many stayed as they had always been. Calica ~sigh~ Nakie day was created so people could have fun. So I say just let them have fun. They are not doing anything to hurt or insult you. A monstrous mash lay seeding on the lawn, whistling to forget it was chiseled to smile. (Smashing, really.) It may have been lit from within, but not even tea candles could temper the splattered obit. Like a note dropped in the hall between classes, or a carnival game carelessly shattering glasses, it lost its eyesight to prankish misery. (And just when the optometrist had sent the bill.) Even a head made of straw knits tighter memories than a cavity of lightbulbs. Choiceby Morgan-Le D.In the darkness Tears had formed Death...he had mourned Out of darkness came a light Shining there, Beautiful, bright Loving voices from afar, But the darkness stood Black as tar Out of darkness came a light Shining there Mysterious, Bright Crowds of people, leisures, love In the darkness, there it stood But the light from above... It grew brighter, as it should Beating, beating Hearts were beating Smiling, loving, yet very needing Faces smiling, laughing, loving Even brighter the light grew shining In between, Love and Death In between, Fright and happiness Turning from each side to another He held his cross, He closed his eyes Taking no steps Making not a noise Out of the light a voice whispered 'die.' Still standing there, Still closing his eyes Still holding his cross Still not making a noise Out of darkness a voice whispered 'die.' The path chosen The path taken Needs no explanation Smiling faces turn to frowns That way...they stay frozen. Circlesby Ivy Blacktwenty-seven lines of dry words, like ill-formed autumn leaves they will return, full-circle, to spring, she believes. twenty-seven buds in spring, fed on the dead, their lost brethren-- all those words waiting to be read. twenty-seven circles: trunks, crowns, lives, in the tired trees she harvests, each autumn, for what she thinks she sees. twenty-seven dreams, of trees, and leaves, and mere humanity but these are only words, these dreams, are only vanity. twenty-seven lines, each one trying to be wise. Order of Societyby the.god.of.iceConvention and convictions Connived corellation of constructions Simply in society an existence subliminal Perhaps ethical but never rational Intelligent invocations of interests concerned Viceral victims of victorious capitalists Dictations of directors directed to devulge Dogmatic drivel to drive the simple mind Sold out slaved sardonic saviors of society So said, so lived, the order, we, state. Sanctimoniaby ZimskyIt isn't any compromise keeping me awake only those dying eyes perhaps it's my mistake p***k your finger on the spinning wheel now it is time to sleep forgot to feed the muse again beyond the window creep hold out your palm for blood to spill into the casket wide peek into the velvet slumber get up and crawl inside illusion in the corner eye forget the image there mystic in simplicity people begin to stare possibility fused to moral a hard key to uphold but with this key open the door to greatness brave and bold casket closed fate decide your choice plated for bliss only god knows what's in store of an entity like this. Vulture spottin'by The Rebel prince!Far from merry weather, jazzin' in a 'super' kind of busied basket. [a central park of sorts] towers and prison guards bring such champagne faces to... alcoholic mothers... and their paper rollers?This vault notion turns me on like sun keepin' his distance. (no way I'm screwin' you, he says) 'the boys' on their monday machines swirlin' and twirlin'
who knows what
pirate plunder are going to be committed?Shadows make the best friends while you dance and hop rope, inside an eye of a hurlin' hurricane. I'm looking out the stained glass. it hurts, singin' this garden song. Sights of fast; past romances stringed by a wired wire puller. Yeah, it's sorta depressing and (reminiscing), but I'll breathe in, and labor out inside this golden feathered graveyard.  PART II. FictionListed in alphbetical order.It Comes Away Redby DispatchNAThe smoke sets off an alarm in my mind, a warning to run from the unclean jazz bar into the bright, frighteningly real city of Paris. Shoulders tensed and jaws clenched in an effort to control myself, I stiffly turn to my right and encounter a freshly exhaled cloud of smoke. My eyes burn as a reminder to blink. Through the green-grey pollution, past the sweetly intense saxophone solo across the room, a boulder of a man looks me right in the eye. The smoke is pouring out of his mouth. He's like a ******** train. Lethargically, he scratches his chin, covered in stubble and sweat. His movements are slow and calculated, but not once do they lose their arrogance. "Do you mind?" I ask, knowing that most likely he does and I'm playing right into his hands. Surprisingly, the man only throws the offending cigarette on the floor and mashes it in with his heel. I'm tempted to argue the sanitation issue, but hold my tongue for fear of my sanity. I do my best to ignore him as I continue to listen to the band play a nostalgic piece. I hold my beer at the bottom of the neck, as do half the occupants of the room; my stance is casual, and my clothes are meant to blend in. So why the hell is Goliath still glaring at me? I smooth down my shirt in an attempt to calm myself. I have been so good for so long? This is not the time to start again. I don't want to move again. And yet, at the first sign of advancement from him, I move. I leave, holding tight to the neck of the beer bottle. I can't tell who's watching; I can't remember the difference between red and green, door and window, danger from safety. And then I'm outside, and it's a lovely spring night; a night for lovers. And I'm standing in the middle of a breeze, shivering from my sudden and sickening paranoia, holding a near-empty beer bottle in front of a prosperous bar. The man's no where in sight as I do my damnedest to figure out what's a taxi and what's an actual car. I feel something on my arm and - ********, it's just like in the movies - I turn around, and there he is. He's lit up a fresh cigarette, as if to taunt me. He smiles around the cancer, his eyes unreadable. He's leading me, taking me from my post on the curb. Where? Where else? Where do men take people like me? What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to act? I love this s**t. I'm led around the walled-in jazz music, to where a grey garbage can slumps in a rather forlorn fashion. And the dirty deed is done. He doesn't make a sound as I pierce his belly with a shard from my beloved beer bottle. Only looks down in fragile awe, as if the scent and glitter of the blood is not enough to convince him that this is more than just a movie. Delicately he reaches down and dips a finger in the steadily pouring stream. It comes away red, a red that cackles in the spring night meant for lovers. I am silent, standing away from his, extra glass crying to me from the ground. I bend down and pick up a piece, twirling it in my hands. His eyes widen in fright as I lean forward and carefully, with the detail of an artist, paint a taut tight-rope across his neck. The glass comes away red. * "We had to drug her." "It was that bad?" "Nightmares again." The Badger BrigadeChapter One: It Startsby Hemp Fandango"World serves its own needs, Listen to your heart bleed, Dummy with a rapture and the revered and the right, right. You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light, Feeling pretty psyched." - "It's the End of The World as We Know it" by REM. Sara Marigold stared up at the magically enchanted ceiling in the great hall of Hogwarts. The sky was littered with large, black thunderheads and a storm was inevitable. She amused herself by trying to work out where lightning actually came from while Professor McGonagall continued to read out the names of first year students waiting to be sorted. "Larger lot than usual, isn't it?" said friend and fellow Hufflepuff fifth year, Elizabeth Gould. "It'd be because of Dumbledore," Alex Worth said knowingly. "What with the rise of you-know-who, parents are anxious to send their kiddies to Dumbledore's protection." "I wish they'd all just hurry up already," Sara muttered to her friends as they applauded yet another newly sorted Gryffindor. "I'm hungry." "Oh, relax, Sara," Alex said, stretching her arms and indulging in her irritating habit of cracking her neck. "McGonagal's almost finished." "Oi, you lot," hissed seventh year Beth Harris down the table. "Keep quiet until the sorting's finished." "What is she going on about?" Alex whispered when Beth had turned away. "Since when were we not aloud to talk-" "We're not going to tell you twice," Ernie Macmillain snapped from further along the table. "Oh, stuff it Ernie." Alex muttered sulkily. "Doesn't matter," Sara whispered. "They're done, see?" Indeed it looked as if the last student had been sorted and now McGonagall walked forward but stopped, startled, when Dumbledore stood up suddenly. "We are not finished sorting just yet, Professor McGonagall." he said, his eyes a-twinkling. "We have a new student this year, a transfer from America. She will be entering her sixth year. Please welcome, Miss Polaris Riddle!" There was scattered applause as a young woman of about 16 strode into the hall. Her waist length onyx black hair was streaked with blood red highlights. She wore a black Good Charlotte shirt with a pleated, short skirt, which clearly displayed her long, shapely legs and spiked wristbands. Her many facial piercings glinted in the candle light, as did her amethyst eyes. "Hold on," Elizabeth said, sounding annoyed. "Since when did we no longer have to wear our school uniforms?" "Yeah," Sara agreed, frowning. "And since when could we have piercings and hair streaks without McGonagall pitching a fit?" Elizabeth shrugged and glanced at McGonagall. She was amused to see the teacher's lips thin and her eyes narrow. Her amusement turned to disbelief when the newcomer came up and ripped the sorting hat right out of McGonagall's grasp and put it on her head. "Bloody hell," Sara breathed, gaping at the student. "What an idiot." The hat sat silent on the girl's head for some time. Polaris kept making faces beneath it and she kept muttering things like "...I'll hex you if you try..." "Wait, is she threatening the hat?" Hannah Abbot asked incredulously. "The bloody Sorting Hat? Who does that?" "The same kind of genius who annoys McGonagall," Zacharias Smith answered from further down the row. "And be quiet." Finally, after about ten minutes of debating, the hat shouted out: "SLYTHERIN!" and there was much applause. "Finally," Sara said. "Now we can-" SLAM! went the doors of the Great Hall. Every head in the hall swiveled in its direction as, on cue, lightning struck impressively, outlining a very female figure. The figure, clad in a large cloak with the hood hiding her face, strode directly up to the teacher's table. She pulled off her hood, revealing a very beautiful face. She shook out her mane of platinum blond hair, which flashed in the candle light. Her crystal blue eyes surveyed the hall with a curious look. She turned to Dumbledore and had a hushed conversation with him. "Students," he said when they had finished. "May I introduce another student joining this year, Miss Serena Greenleaf. She comes to us from the distant land of elves." The beautiful woman bowed her head demurely. ""Distant land of elves"? I thought they worked in the kitchens?" Sara asked. "She doesn't look like a house elf." Alex said, tilting her head from side to side. "From any angle." Serena took the hat from a confused looking McGonagall's hands and sat primly on the stool. Another long stretch of silence followed as the hat sat in deep thought on her head. The assorted Hufflepuff's all began to fidget and shuffle nervously. Some engaged others in quiet conversation. Sara couldn't help but notice that theirs was the only house not staring in rapt attention at the "elf". She glanced around and saw that Zacharias was also giving the other houses a shrewd stare. Finally the hat shouted out "GRYFFINDOR!" and all was well again. Although Sara couldn't help but notice how enthusiastic the Gryffindors had become. They were practically wetting themselves with joy. "About damn time," Alex muttered folding her napkin into her lap expectantly. "I'm starvi-" SLAM! went the Great Hall doors. Again. "Oh, come on!" Alex shouted, earning a round of "shh"s from her house mates. "There, there, Alex," Elizabeth said, patting Alex on the back. "How much longer could this go on?" *** Over two hours, apparently. As the doors slammed open once more, Alex stared intently at her plate, her brow furrowed. "No food's going to appear no matter how long you stare at it," Elizabeth said as she filed her nails. "Actually," Alex said not looking up, "I'm trying to decide whether I should eat it or kill myself with it." "Tough choice, that," Elizabeth admitted. "Better flip a coin." Many of the Hufflepuff's had lost interest in the Sorting Ceremony. Those that hadn't were running bets on just how long it would continue for. Many others had fallen asleep, started a game of cards, and others, like Alex, were seriously considering eating their plates/robes/mates/all three/etc. "Strange," Sara mumbled. "What, is there another winged one?" Elizabeth asked dryly without looking up. "Well, er, this one has cat ears and a tail," she admitted. "But that's not what I was talking about. Have you guys noticed that none of them have been sorted into Hufflepuff? I mean, they've gone into every other house but ours." Alex looked up and saw that, indeed, the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables were practically bursting with new transfer students, and even Ravenclaw had increased its numbers. Hufflepuff, on the other hand, had been spared. Not a single multi coloured head sat at their table. She also couldn't help but notice that even though the ceremony was dragging on into the wee morning hours, every single person in the other houses still applauded like mad whenever a new student was sorted. Alex moaned and rested her head on her plate. "Nuts to this," she proclaimed. "Let's just go to bed. I doubt any of the teachers are going to notice." Sara had to admit she was likely right. Each teacher's look varied from bemused to brain dead. With two notable exceptions; McGonagall, who looked as if she was struggling between displaying the same brain dead look as her colleagues and Snape, who had a vein throbbing on his temple was currently leaving the land of "furious" to "bloody livid" as yet another punk American was sorted into his house. Sara imagined the fact that the student had the last name "Snape" added to his fury. "I had no idea Snape had kids," Sara said. "Poor things." she added as an after thought. "Yeah, well," Elizabeth said, returning to her nails. "I didn't know Potter had so many twin sisters. You learn something new every day." "Death is welcome," Alex muttered from her plate. "Alright, alright, let's go," Elizabeth said, getting up. As she did so, a few others followed her, including Ernie and his crew. They sidled quietly from the hall, missing the dark looks being shot at them from the assorted transfer students. "Bloody hell!" Alex shouted, throwing up her hands dramatically as the started up the stairs. "That was amazingly stupid." "No kidding," Susan Bones said, slouching dejectedly behind Ernie. "I thought I was going to die from boredom." "Really? I thought hunger would do me in first." Alex groused rubbing her stomach. "I hate going to bed hungry. I should've eaten my plate when I had the chance!" They arrived to their common room and Ernie spoke the password ("Bubotuber!"). When they entered they saw that they were not the only students to escape. Sitting by the fire was a seventh year boy, named Conrad Coates. He was bent over the table, writing intently on a scrap of parchment. He turned to see them standing in the entrance way and quickly stuffed the parchment into his robes. "Hallo Conrad," Hannah said before yawning. "What are you up to, Coates?" Ernie said suspiciously. "Writing to my mum." he said, smiling cheerfully. "Before the first day of classes?" Ernie asked, cocking an eyebrow. "She worries, my mum," Conrad said smoothly as he stood up. "There's no reason to take such a tone with me." he said, sounding wounded. Ernie snorted. "I take a tone with you, Coates, because you are a prefect's nightmare. I do remember confiscating more than thirty galleons worth of rubbish from you." "I don't remember you confiscating rubbish, Ern," he said, his cheerful tone never faltering, even at Ernie's bristling. "I do remember you unfairly stealing Terrick's Terrifick line of cosmetics. The finest of the fine." he added. "That's the stuff that gave me a rash! All over my face." Elizabeth exclaimed. "It was awful. I broke out in red blotches and everything." "Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back," Conrad said smoothly. Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak again. "For thirty days," he added quickly. Elizabeth huffed and folded her arms over her chest. Ernie sighed and headed upstairs into the boys' dorms. Hannah and Susan soon followed. "Now that they're gone," Conrad said quietly after the sound of foot steps faded. "May I interest you ladies in some food?" he reached into his robes and pulled out a loaf of bread and some apples. Alex reached out hungrily but was stopped when Sara grabbed her wrist. "How much?" she asked flatly. "I'm wounded. What makes you think I wouldn't just help out my fellow house mates in times of need?" "Because you're Conrad Coates." Elizabeth said from behind Sara. "How much?" Sara repeated. "2 galleons per apple, 5 per loaf of bread." he said crisply over the sound of Alex choking. "5 galleons? That's daylight robbery!" she said after she recovered. Conrad shrugged. "Take it or leave it." 15 galleons were produced, with much mutinous muttering from the girls. They took their bread and padded up the stairs. After they had settled down for sleep, Sara stared long and hard at the ceiling. All these new students, she thought. I wonder where they all come from. Sighing, she turned over and fell into a light sleep. Untitledby goatcreature__MAGNUMWelcome to The Gaian Press in the Writer's Forum, we wish it the best! As an introduction to what we hope will be a lasting attraction, it becomes important to explain the purpose of this column entry. This will be a post-up dedicated towards the aid and advice that can be offered to the Gaians of the Writer's Forum. With a forenote of summary over the recent events or highlighted threads in the WF, it will be followed by a piece of writing advice for those endeavoring writers out there. It would be much appreciated, if there is a question or some form of help we can offer, to PM it directly to goatcreature__MAGNUM whereon he may best help or answer questions to the utmost of his abilities. And who knows, addressing issues openly may help more than one person out there with similar problems. A second submission may be added with a brief post-up from a friendly WF regular, who may be familiar to those who frequent the WF. And that's all folks! Hope to keep the topic on current WF events and to see that this thread flourishes well! On the note of posting a first entry, we will cover a simple topic that I cannot stress enough. Please, people, before you post, read the stickies or back-log a few pages to see if the topic you're deciding to submit hasn't already been done before. Checking back four pages or so really isn't that difficult a task. And for reading the stickies, believe us, there is nothing more frustrating than seeing work submissions being entered in the WF and neglecting to notice or submit them properly in their designated sub-forums. Really, let's make an effort and reduce littering in the beautiful WF, land of the free and home of the endangered "homo-intellectus." You Are Not A CriticWhy some critics could use criticism themselves.by Bane is on Fire!A routine sweep of the Prose and Poetry forums will reveal several things to most discerning readers - low quality poems and stories, blind praise being dolled out arbitrarily, author hissy fits and the occasional criticism. When I first joined Gaia in late 2003, the Prose forum was an oasis for snarky and harsh critics. Critics like January, Puchiko, Jahoclave and clarion savaged poorly written prose with wit and style. Most of these people have either left Gaia or have stopped critiquing, though, and they've given way to a new breed of critics - critics who don't have a clue what they're talking about. I've always been a proponent of jagged reviews - when you're critiquing, there's no point in sugar-coating and sparing the author's feelings. They're posting their work on the internet to improve, so you've got to show them where they're bad so it will stand out in their mind where to improve. But recent criticisms I've seen strike me as being without any real substance. A lot of critics have gotten the idea that giving a few lines about how the poem/story sucks and maybe throw in a personal insult or two will make them cool and edgy on the forum. Guess what? It doesn't make you cool or edgy. I don't have a problem with snarking in a review. What I do have a problem with is when the review looks less like a critique and more like a couple of snappy one-liners that'll look good if someone sig-quotes you. I'm also a firm believer that critics need to know what the ******** they're talking about. If you're critiquing someone on their rhyme scheme, you've got to know the poetic flow. If you're critiquing someone on their vocabulary in a story, be sure you know what the words mean and how they're used. And so on and so forth. So why do we have so many critics running around these days who don't seem to understand the works they're critiquing? Most reviewers seem to be so vague it hurts these days...why are people suddenly so adverse to giving specifics? I really do think this proves one thing, that many critics on Gaia don't have any idea what they're talking about and so they stick to throwing out vague comments on why a story or a poem sucks. There are still plenty of good critics on Gaia, ones that are specific and knowledgeable, and still manage to get a few witty comments in there. But they're a dying breed, being knocked-out by the aforementioned critics who seem to enjoy notoriety more than anything. A few suggestions to the critics, from me to you: - Be Specific: I may have already mentioned this, but it bears repeating. Instead of saying "Your vocab sucks. Use a thesaurus," use examples of how the poem would work better with different vocabulary used. - Review The Poem, Not The Author: Why bother attacking the author? In your initial review, saying things like "Oh, you whiny baby. You're not really suicidal, so get over it. Go to hell, a*****e!" is not being a critic at all. Your job is not to make assumptions about the author's mental state, your job is to review the work they've produced. Ad hominem attacks will never make your critique anything but a load of "controversial" bullshit. - Defense =/= Hissy Fit: When an author replies to your review and defends their work without saying anything like "You suck!" or "Your review is s**t! Go to hell!" - they are not throwing a hissy fit. They are reasonably disagreeing with your review. Remember, the critic isn't always right, and the author doesn't have to take every word the critic says with a bowed head. - When In Doubt, Say So: If you're not sure about how a word or something else is misused, say something like "I'm not sure, but I think this is misused," rather than "this is misused." It'll be a lot less embarrassing if you're wrong. So those are some little suggestions to critics on how to prevent from being a "notorious" critic like I have talked about for this column. Socio-Political (De)volutionby The Mad Poet of IshtarWith dust for fingers we trace lines in the clean white signature of God (or your highest power of choice) and dream it stays. The grey streaks, the amber waves of brain burned out on too much television. Which does not rot your heart, surveys say. Light up for a Thrill ride, on the musical edge. Songs used to be written in His Name but these days just spit it out like a curse. Could be worse. Never better though, and if you vote for me I'll make your piss Rainbows. Yes. And s**t gold. I have a plan! To make everything sharp and clean and right in these childish scrawls of grit, cheap grime painted glitz. Just don't mention where, too loud. With dust for fingers we paint lies in the buried name of God (or your new-age substitute of choice) and forget who made hands in the first place. - Dragon Lilly comments: Socio-Political (De)volution I also liked. It is quite interesting and I don't believe that I've ever seen that point made before. It seems at least a bit true, unfortunately. I don't like some of the word choices, the curse words in it but they do get the point across. Some of the lines seems to be divided up in strange places but all in all, it's good. - peiormentis critiques: It Comes Away RedDispatchNA The smoke sets off an alarm in my mind, a warning to run from the unclean jazz bar into the bright, frighteningly real city of Paris. Shoulders tensed and jaws clenched in an effort to control myself, I stiffly turn to my right and encounter a freshly exhaled cloud of smoke. Maybe the tenses need to be cleaned up a bit in the second sentence. I love the first sentence. It appeals to me in some strange sort of way. There is an invisible rhythmn between it's lines. DispatchNA My eyes burn as a reminder to blink. Through the green-grey pollution, past the sweetly intense saxophone solo across the room, a boulder of a man looks me right in the eye. The smoke is pouring out of his mouth. He's like a ******** train. Lethargically, he scratches his chin, covered in stubble and sweat. His movements are slow and calculated, but not once do they lose their arrogance. Pass means to go by. Past means a preceeding time. Pass would be more fitting. The swearing doesn't seem like a must, but it appears to be in character so I won't complain. The imagery of the man is very well done. You didn't seem to put much into it, but I still have a very clear image of him. DispatchNA "Do you mind?" I ask, knowing that most likely he does and I'm playing right into his hands. Surprisingly, the man only throws the offending cigarette on the floor and mashes it in with his heel. I'm tempted to argue the sanitation issue, but hold my tongue for fear of my sanity. I do my best to ignore him as I continue to listen to the band play a nostalgic piece. I hold my beer at the bottom of the neck, as do half the occupants of the room; my stance is casual, and my clothes are meant to blend in. So why the hell is Goliath still glaring at me? Dun Dun Duuuun. So many questions. The narrator seems to have an unexplained pent up anger. Has she been holding in her emotions for too long? Hmm? DispatchNA I smooth down my shirt in an attempt to calm myself. I have been so good for so long. This is not the time to start again. I don't want to move again. She says she been good for so long, but she seems to be bringing the trouble upon herself by "playing right into his hands". Maybe she does want to move again. And yet, at the first sign of advancement from him, I move. I leave, holding tight to the neck of the beer bottle. I can't tell who's watching; I can't remember the difference between red and green, door and window, danger from safety. Why is she so unhinged? She played into hands. She wanted the attention and now she's running away. Maybe she has already lost her sanity. It's a very good description of how she's feeling though. A whirlwind of color flashes through my mind as she runs away. DispatchNA And then I'm outside, and it's a lovely spring night; a night for lovers. And I'm standing in the middle of a breeze, shivering from my sudden and sickening paranoia, holding a near-empty beer bottle in front of a prosperous bar. The man's no where in sight as I do my damnedest to figure out what's a taxi and what's an actual car. I feel something on my arm and - ********, it's just like in the movies - I turn around, and there he is. He's lit up a fresh cigarette, as if to taunt me. He smiles around the cancer, his eyes unreadable. He's leading me, taking me from my post on the curb. Where? Where else? Where do men take people like me? What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to act? I love this s**t. She played into his hands, then ran away, and now she tells us that she loves it. She wants the attention or maybe your trying to confuse us on purpose. Sometimes confusion makes for a good writing style. This could be one of those times with a little more clarity. How oxymoronic. DispatchNA I'm led around the walled-in jazz music, to where a grey garbage can slumps in a rather forlorn fashion. And the dirty deed is done. He doesn't make a sound as I pierce his belly with a shard from my beloved beer bottle. Only looks down in fragile awe, as if the scent and glitter of the blood is not enough to convince him that this is more than just a movie. Delicately he reaches down and dips a finger in the steadily pouring stream. It comes away red, a red that cackles in the spring night meant for lovers. I am silent, standing away from his, extra glass crying to me from the ground. I bend down and pick up a piece, twirling it in my hands. His eyes widen in fright as I lean forward and carefully, with the detail of an artist, paint a taut tight-rope across his neck. The glass comes away red. Irresistable imagery. Delicious descrption. Excellent elaboration. You have traveled the path to my heart many times now with your wonderful way of showing her every move. You might want to edit the first and second sentences. I think the second might be a fragment without the help of the first. The sentence, "I am silent, standing away from his, extra glass crying to from the ground." might have too many commas, but I'm weak in the grammar department. I could be wrong. It doesn't seem to make much sense the way it is, though. DispatchNA * "We had to drug her." "It was that bad?" "Nightmares again." I must say this is a wonderful ending. It wraps it all up very quickly without much need for explanation. No need for the public to be wary of a murderer. Here are some helpful links that the lovely Serieve put together. Enjoy! - www.positiveteenmag.com- www.teenwritersdream.com- www.upwordspoetry.com- www.bartleby.com- www.rhymezone.com- Look forward to the Seven Deadly Sins Writing Project. Headed by Serieve and backed by seven talented writers, watch as Pride, Envy, Rage, Sloth, Greed, Gluttony, and Lust take on poetic form! - We're currently scouting for a gifted artist to illustrate or donate a picture for next issue's cover! Choose one of the seven sins (or all of them) for inspiration. - Calling all writers! Did you like what you read? Think you can do better? Don't delay, submit today! Guidelines can be found under the first post of the Press Headquarters. - Like to critique? Love to write? Is Gaia like your second home? Get a job at the Press! Applications are found in the first post of the Press Headquarters. - Editor's Note: And so ends the first issue of The Gaian Press! Thank you very much to everyone that made this project possible. I was met with some doubters when I first posted this idea onto the forum, but I think the dreamer in all of us won in spite of everything. I'm very excited to see Gaia's future for writers, and I ask you, dear reader, to stay tuned until our next meeting. The second issue of the Press is due out March 1, 2005, so I promise that this is only the end of a beautiful beginning! - Special Thank You's: Serieve, Dragon Lilly, and peiormentis for signing up from the start, and sticking by the Press ever since. Dev Kimiko, for designing all the gorgeous banners you see titling each section. And, of course, all the talented writers and staff members who lent their voice and credibility to this fledgling 'zine!
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:04 pm
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 2.1 + 2.2 We find the best so you don't have to. IN THIS ISSUE...1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for the A.D.D. generation 2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted and scouted by the best 3. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you 4. Science 101 - For the scientist in you and me 5. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press 6. Critic's Corner - What doesn't kill you makes you stronger 7. Beyond the Box - Featuring Serieve's seven deadly sins writing project (say that seven times fast) 8. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some THE SCAVENGER HUNT...As a small thank you to our readers, the staffies at the Press are sponsoring a scavenger hunt in this issue! There are three "magic links" hidden throughout the entries, and each link will lead to a secret thread. Money prizes will be awarded to the first person who replies! Simply include the magic word in the post and I'll tranfer the funds to you! Good luck and have a blast. PS: Each reader can only win one magic link! Sorry to those who have keen eyes, but we're just trying to keep things fun and fair. Kraeela reports:...- 3rd Annual User's Ball takes place March 5th! ...- A great writer is always an excellent reader. Here's a Book of the Month club to foster the reader in you! ...- Are you an avid movie watcher? Need to keep up with your fanfiction? Here's all you need to know for official movie release dates! ...- Thinking to start or join a writing contest? Click here for all the information you ever need know! ...- Looking for a contest to join? Here's a monthly writing contest that awards 750g to the winner! ...- Are you interested in the story of Gaia? Well, look no further, here's a place where serious, literate roleplayers with the help of mods (yes, real live mods) can complile a history of Gaia in the RP Forum. ...- These avis can shatter mirrors, hehe. Take a gander at The Official Ugly Avatar Contest now! peiormentis reports:...- There's a pen pal exchange at the Writer's Forum. Looks like it has hope! alicemae reports:...- Live the Gaian Dream. Become a homeowner today! PART I. PoetryListed in alphbetical order.February 14thby JillibeanChoking on geometric shapes constructed of bittersweet chocolate, filled with your choice of monocot, dicot, or polycot, resting comfortably within ventricles and atriums, wrapped in plastic, thick cocoa pulsing through the aorta. Send me a greeting complete with sharp saying lo and behold paper cuts galore. Grasp a single white rose in your left hand, the thorns tear into your palm, you drop the ivory bud in anguish. Crimson, vermillion, maroon, blood spews all over, until the flower starts to blush. You clench your hand into a fist, then bandage the wounds with white lace. So this is how we express love? Seems quite painful. I'd much prefer you offer your condolences rather than share chocolates, scribble on scrap paper, or murder innocent angiosperms. You could do that any other day. But today, today we mourn the death of Saint Valentine. Fried Potatoesby Todd O. MasseyI see you as I always do, through the eyes of an only child, groggy, half-zombified--another hard-to-get-up-this-morning morning-- I see you in the kitchen, through our living room "drive thru" window. You're shirtless, wearing shorts that are (you'd never dare call it) grunge halfway up your stomach, and the air, my head, are weighed down by the aroma of margarine and three diced potatoes sizzling densely to drown out the voices on the TV, Charlie Gibson, Diane Sawyer; they weren't your voice, you were the only real thing in the morning. Mom always told you the potatoes would kill you. The fat, the carbs. Before, she said it was the cigarettes, but you gave those up a while ago, Besides, Dr. Atkins is dead and you're still here. Something in those potatoes made you invincible. This morning is different. I'm just a ghost in the thickened cholesterol mist, and you left the TV off for some reason. I want you to notice that I'm not reaching for the cold cereal, I go nowhere near the fridge. I grab a plate and get in line behind you for a share of your breakfast. And then, words break the dawn: "You want potatoes?" "They'll make me strong, right?" "You're my son...you're already strong. These will make you feel alive." I clutch your large round torso-- you're the Buddha, the idol, the (never false) god you, and perhaps I, never knew--I say, "I can't die, as long as you still live." Once More Through the Looking Glassby TheLadyPtaliThe sky mourns softly 'round my toadstool seat, Judgement Day's close at hand, I look'd through the mirror to see my soul's reflect in this desolate land. No more do white rabbits scurry by, I shun the queen's demand, For darkness has fallen and, Alas; It seems I'm halfway to Wonderland. Subjugated Peregrinationby OsakePenguinOaken crossbow; the cord is tensed, bolts will teem Land softly on shed doors, department stores, everything Ill-equipped, I run in fear, hold everything held so dear Diary, It's just the way they said, I should have paid attention Fees, deft demands, let me divulge on how it all began It wasn't that long ago, cliffside singing insanities, soulfully and so The edge would never let you go, the raindrops tilled for sow Swim out until taken by the cold, sunsets on the shore Arcane silhouettes gallivant until the flickering stars Harsh dayspring assault, backwards woodwork mechanized - Flown to drabber lands, beauty in it's evidence, mentally condemned "There's purpose," he spoke "Follow and you'll see" And with a wink "Resistance is obsolete" So I took my seat as convinced flooded the aisles Poetry became more and more grammatical Even punctuation took its place. As all things not literal were labeled a disgrace Something sparked a fit of rage, I leapt forth from my steely cage Dashing, blurred reaction, anti-rebellion units swift to simmer Spotlights cast lanky shadows upon concrete crosscuts To my side, painful grazing bolts, slackened sprint Falling flat, clawing forward, clumsy descent unto flowing conduit Washed up: fatigue forces slumber on a sunset shore Hopefully a less turbulent awakening PART II. FictionListed in alphbetical order.The Badger BrigadeChapter Two: Major Malfoy MalfuntionI enjoy alliterations, so sue me. by Hemp FandangoThe three fifth years rushed down the halls of Hogwarts, attempting to beat the bell. Due to the previous night's excitement they had over slept and missed breakfast. "That's it," Alex said as she came to a full stop, panting. "I can't," pant, "run any more. Not on," pant, "an empty stomach, anyway." She leaned against the wall for support. Sara sighed. "We have to keep going, otherwise we'll be late. For Potions. Remember Potions? Remember Snape? Remember how it's a ridiculously bad idea to be late for Snape's class?" "I remember," Alex grumbled, ruefully pulling herself up right. "I just don't care." "We don't have to run, though," Elizabeth said helpfully. "I mean, we're almost there... Er, I think." she gave the portraits a nervous glance before setting off with the others in a quick stride. "Did you guys see Zacharias this morning? He looked like hell warmed over." Sara shook her head, looking concerned. "You saw him? Where?" "When we were running out of the common room he was there, asleep in the arm chair." Elizabeth said. "Huh," said Alex. "That's odd. Do you suppose he stayed for the whole sorting?" "I heard from some sixth years that it went on till four in the morning." Elizabeth said knowingly. "Hmm..." Alex looked thoughtfully at a gaggle of exhausted looking Gryffindors as they shuffled past. "They look a little... brain dead, don't they?" Elizabeth frowned. "Their eyes were all glassy-oof!" She stumbled backwards, and turned to look at the person she had walked into. A glance at the green and silver robes told that this person was a Slytherin. A glance at his face, however, revealed that person was not home at the moment. "Er, watch where you're going?" Elizabeth said a little nervously. "Huh?" the Slytherin said staring glassily directly at a point just above Elizabeth's head. His face was slack and his voice strangely lifeless. A few moments of silence passed and the Slytherin did not even twitch. Alex experimentally waved her hand in front of his face. "I guess he had a late night too?" she said, peering closely at his face. "His eyes are all blank... like a zombie's. Ooh!" Her voice became excited. "Do you think he's a zombie? That would be so cool!" "I don't think he's a zombie, Alex." Sara said quietly. "This is Draco Malfoy." Elizabeth and Alex stared at the Slytherin carefully. "I'll be a monkey's... you're right," Alex breathed in amazement. "It's hard to recognize him when he's not sneering or calling me the "m-word"." Elizabeth said narrowing her eyes. She strode up to him and started to poke him. "Oi, you! Guess what? A muggle born is touching your expensive robes! What are you going to do about it, eh?" "Liz, don't-" Sara shouted. Malfoy's eyes flashed to life suddenly and his moved in a blur. SMACK! Elizabeth reeled backwards, clutching her cheek where and angry red handprint was starting to form. "You didn't have to do that," she muttered. Alex bristled. "Oi! What's the big idea! What kind of sissy man slaps girls?!" Her hand plunged into her robes- -and froze. "What in the name of spork are you supposed to be?" she said, gaping. Striding up the hall was the beautiful, stunning, etc. Polaris Riddle. She tossed her long onyx locks over her shoulder and scowled at the assembled Hufflepuffs. Malfoy turned around and smirked at her. "Hello, Polaris," he said smoothly. Polaris sneered at him. "Hello yourself, Malfoy. I know you think you're a ladies man, but I am immune to your charms." she said, her violet eyes flashing green. She continued down the hallway, swaying her hips as she went. "I am fascinated by her immunity to my charms," Malfoy said out loud, seemingly to no one. "I must make her mine, so that I may prove to myself and others how great I am. I certainly hope I do not fall in love along the way." With that he turned to follow her like a lost puppy. "Um," said Alex, her hand still in her robes. "That was different." "Owww," Elizabeth whimpered. "That really hurt! I bruise easily too." she added sullenly. "Well, at least we now know the cure for zombie-ism." Alex shrugged and released her wand. "Yes," said Sara staring thoughtfully ahead. "I think we do. And it wasn't you, Liz." she added. "As soon as what's-her-face turned the corner there," she pointed to the far hall. "Malfoy hit you." Alex snorted. "He slapped her, you mean. And do you really think those two things are related? How do you know it wasn't Liz's poking?" Sara sighed and gave her a long-suffering look. "Use your head, Alex. Liz walked into Malfoy earlier but he didn't do a darn thing. He knows she's a muggle born, he's called her the "m-word" before, remember?" Alex growled. "I remember." "And then you tried to curse him but missed. And then he cursed you. And then Snape gave you a week's detention and 50 points from Hufflepuff-" "Yes, okay! I remember! Thank you!" She scowled. She remembered well, as her pride never really recovered. "I'm glad." Sara said, a touch dangerously. "Then you might also recall when I warned you not to? Repeatedly?" "You want to make something of this?" Alex said, becoming riled up. "Er, guys?" Elizabeth said tentatively. "What?" they both snapped. "The bell guys. Remember class?" At once they both paled, showing that among the things they managed to remember, class was not one of them. "Oh hell." The bell sounded, as clear as ever. The girls tore down the halls, swearing as they went. *** "How nice of you to join us, ladies." Snape said as the girls sidled into the room. "I'm sure there is an explanation for this?" They exchanged quick glances uncertainly. Sara cleared her throat and spoke. "Erm, we slept in." She caught the look on the professor's face. "But only because we were kept up by the sorting!" He seemed to consider this and Sara was sure they would get off with only ten points gone when- "Yeah, why didn't you tell us you had so many kids?" Alex asked from behind Elizabeth and Sara. Snape's eyes narrowed and Sara grimaced. "30 points from Hufflepuff." he snapped. "Now sit down!" Sara shot Alex a dirty look as they took their seats. "As I was saying," Snape continued through gritted teeth. "Today we will be working on antidotes." He began his lecture and the class fell into an unusual stupor. Sara yawned and her eyes began to droop as Snape's voice became nothing more than a soothing white noise. A hand shot up suddenly, startling some of the class from its doze. No one ever interrupted Snape during a lecture. Especially not a Gryffindor. "Excuse me, sir." a soft, musical voice said. "But I think you are mistaken." Now the whole class was awake. They had never seen a murder before. "I beg you're pardon?" Snape said, his voice becoming quiet. The girl, Sara saw, had shining red hair that fell down her back in graceful waves. Her eyes were a sparkling emerald green and there was the faintest dusting of freckles on her pale, creamy skin. Sara shook herself, startled at her flowery thoughts. "I said," she continued smoothly. "That you're wrong. You see, you shouldn't use shrivel figs when you make an antidote. Redbyrns are much better." Snape stared at her. "I have been in potions for twenty years. I have never heard of a "redbyrn". 20 points from Gryffindor." He turned and tried to start again but was interrupted. Again. "Sir, please," the girl said again, while the Hufflepuff next to her began to edge away. "Redbyrns can be found in the marshes of Frylding." Snape's eyes squeezed shut and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "What rubbish is this? There is no Frylding. Another 20 points from Gryffindor, miss...?" The girl drew herself up haughtily. "My name is Adrienne Delacour-Weasley. I am the lost Weasly cousin from Beauxbatons. I transferred this year because I ran away from my abusive aunt and uncle, who are related to Fleur Delacour which-" "Yes, yes." Snape said wearily. "I understand now." Elizabeth turned to Alex. 'Weasley??' she mouthed. Alex shrugged and glanced over to Ginny to see her reaction. And stopped. And stared. And wondered where Ginny Weasley had gone, because the girl sitting in her place was not - could not have been! - Ginny Weasley. And yet, she had the same red hair as Ginny, but with the tips dyed purple. One eye was green but the other was an ice blue. It was hard to tell if Ginny and whoever this was shared the same face, as it was hard to see her face underneath all of her dark make up and silver piercings. She wore a shirt with some kind of band logo ("What in the name of Merlin is 'Slipknot'?"), which had been torn just enough to show her navel, which was pierced, and large, baggy black pants that looked almost impossible to walk in. While Alex continued to gape, Sara finally took notice of their class. Some of the Gryffindors had a blank look in their eyes while others... others had many coloured eyes. Sara finally realized that they were surrounded by... them. Everywhere she turned, there was another girl in black and goth make up, with dyed hair. Or those in baby blue and white towel track suits. They were everywhere. She turned to Elizabeth. "Something's very, very wrong," she whispered urgently. "Look at Snape," she mumbled back, staring in fascinated horror at their professor. Snape's eyes had become blank and glassy. He moved in jerks and stumbles, as if he was a puppet being lead around by his strings. "We really need to go," Sara repeated. She grabbed Elizabeth and Alex's arms and stood up. "Sir," she said loudly. "We're not feeling well. We're going to... go now." Snape didn't respond. He just stared right through them. "Sir?" Sara repeated nervously. He turned suddenly to Adrienne Weasly. "THIS IS MY CLASS!" He screamed, uncharacteristically using all caps. "WE WILL DO THINGS MY WAY!" Sara looked alarmed. Alex hissed something to the nearby Hufflepuffs, and started to sidle carefully out the door. Others soon caught on and began to follow, leaving the Gryffindors and what once was their professor to their class. "Sweet Merlin!" a boy said, clutching his chest dramatically. "What was that?" "I don't know," Sara said darkly. "Something very strange is going on." "I've never seen Snape act like that before," Elizabeth mumbled. "What, like a spoiled child?" Alex said. "Me either." she shook her head. "Did you guys see Ginny? At least," she said uncertainly, "I think it was Ginny..." adding, "Do you guys know what "Slipknot" is?" "I think it's a knot. The kind people use for hanging, I think." Elizabeth said, looking rather shaken. "What a stupid thing to have on your shirt. Damn goth kids." Sara sighed. "Something very strange is going on here." SymphonyRated R - Violence by IgbyA large orchestra will normally consist of 96 seats. These seats are divided into sections such as strings, percussion and woodwind. When led by the right conductor an orchestra can produce some of the most emotionally stirring pieces of music known to man. The vivid imagery they can produce, the feelings they can muster, the spirit they embody is nigh impossible to put into words. 'Beautiful' does not suffice. Most people will argue that the world has already seen its greatest composers come and go. They will list the usual names one automatically associates with classical music, and it would be difficult to find anyone to disagree with the statement. Difficult, but not impossible. For their will always be those that are egotistical, ignorant or crazy enough to think that this pop culture soaked world could spawn another great composer, or that they themselves could write better music. While on that note, ladies and gentleman, allow me to introduce your conductor for the evening, Richard Finch! Now although Richard has a great love for classical music, he had been turned down by every music school in his city. Not for lack of talent, but for his ideas, because of his habit of defying convention and the fact that he refused to take his pills on a regular basis, if at all. Psychiatrists would tell you he is unstable, his family would tell you he's just plain crazy, but Richard would tell you that he is a genius, and one way ahead of his time! In his mind, the music schools denying him access only cemented the idea that he was a visionary, one of the great minds of his generation. After all, aren't all geniuses misunderstood at first? Richard was slightly disheartened after the last music school in his city turned him down, so much so that for three days he sat in the darkness of his room, headphones immersing him in the sounds he so adored, the sounds that he so badly wanted to improve upon, but how could he do that without his own orchestra, without proper tutelage in the various nuances of classical music and conducting? The strain on his mind was unbearable. Soon he became numb, his mind unaware of what song was being played, for the first time in his life the music evoked no emotion from him, and that is when his revelation occurred. Defying convention was his speciality, so in that sense he didn't need a proper orchestra. How does the saying go? 'The whole world is a stage', I believe. In that case, the stage would play host to Richards very own impromptu orchestra. His music would transcend everything that had gone before, the emotional power of it would be unmatched. It would be from the heart, though not necessarily his own. The early evenings during the month of July were always warm, which insured that public parks were always brimming with people. It was for this reason that Richard chose a park near to his home for the world premier of his as yet untitled piece. He had chosen a spot on a small grassy hill, one that elevated him above the rest of the parks inhabitants, as is customary for a conductor. Dressed in his finest outfit, and immaculately groomed, he attracted a fair amount of attention, even more so when he bowed formally to the waiting crowd, they cheered, wondering if he would perform something for them. Richard often used baton when he practiced conducting, and he intended to use one for this performance, he slowly drew it from his pocket and held the 9mm pistol high in the air. The crowd fell silent; they must have been as excited as he was! Richard's sweaty finger pulled down on the trigger, the shot fired high into the air, followed in that split second by the screams of those in the park. His masterpiece had begun. Richard aimed down, moving his free hand with grace, following the pitches of the screams. He pulled the trigger twice in quick succession, sending two terrified people crashing to the ground in agony as many others scrambled to escape. The wind began to blow, the nearby stream seemed to become louder, the screams of men and women mingled together. Nature and man in unison, creating a sound so pure. Firing blindly caused screams to rise and fall, the two bodies near him provided constant sounds, yet they all seemed to fit. Richard was unaware of how many bullets he had left, he didn't care, he fired again and again for he was immersed, mind and body following the sound, his arms would rise and fall again and again in flamboyant movements. Quiet, loud, heart wrenching, stomach turning, his master piece quickly took shape, encompassing so many aspects, he'd never dreamt of something so magnificent. Soon the urgent sound of sirens became apparent, rising more and more with each passing second, the piece was building to a dramatic ending, and in the middle of it all stood Richard, composing as his idols would have. This was it, his big finish. He slowly opened his eyes, and for a split second he caught a glint of something off in the distance, a faint smile played across his lips as the bullet from the police sniper tore through his skull. The conducter fell silently to grass. Soon the screams would die down, the sirens would disappear, and the world would hear about Richard Finch's one and only performance, and of the huge effect it had had on those who witnessed it, no one would forget. After all, they're called classics for a reason. Paragraphs and Youby JahoclaveWhat is a paragraph? The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language defines it as: "A distinct division of written or printed matter that begins on a new, usually indented line, consists of one or more sentences, and typically deals with a single thought or topic or quotes one speaker's continuous words." So there you have what a paragraph is. And notice that nowhere does it specify how many sentences a paragraph has to be. It can be any number of sentences. Yet upper level teachers have a strange notion that paragraphs for high school students need to be five to seven sentences. Now I ask you, does that assumption fit the definition of a paragraph? No, it doesn't. It's actually counter-productive to the writing of a paper because as a writer, you're forced to include more filler into a paper that is not necessary. This filler information drags a paper on and does not help clarity or brevity of points being made. It also teaches misinformed information about structure, something you would think English teachers would be adamantly against, yet they are some of the biggest culprits. And now, a brief interlude... OXFORD: We have the Holy Ellipses. WEBSTER: Yes, of course! The Holy Ellipses of English! 'Tis one of the sacred relics Brother English carries with him. Brother English! Bring up the Holy Ellipses! MONKS: [chanting] Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem. Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem. Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem. Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem. WEBSTER: How does it, um-- how does it work? OXFORD: I know not, my liege. WEBSTER: Consult the Book of Grammar! BROTHER ENGLISH: Grammar, chapter two, verses nine to twenty-one. SECOND BROTHER: And Saint Steve wrote the ellipses up on high, saying, 'O Lord, bless this Thy ellipses that, with it, Thou mayest punctuate Thine sentence to show pause or to omit words in Thy mercy.' And the Lord did grin, and the people did use periods and cotton colons and semicolons and commas and question marks and syntax and diction and large chu-- ENGLISH: Skip a bit, Brother. SECOND BROTHER: And the Lord spake, saying, 'First shalt thou take out the Holy Pen. Then, shalt thou write three periods. No more. No less. Three shalt be the number of the periods thou shalt use, and the number of the periods shall be three. Four shalt thou not use, nor either write thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once three periods, being the third period, be reached, then, usest thou thy Holy Ellipses of Antioch on thy paper, who, being grammatically correct in My sight, shall read well.' ENGLISH: Amen. KNIGHTS: Amen. ...this concludes our brief interlude. The point of the matter is no teacher can validly claim that a paragraph must be a certain length in sentences. A paragraph is about a topic, no more, no less. If you are done with a topic and you wish to move on to a different idea, you should do so. You should not drag a paragraph on that you have nothing more to say on. This is something somebody trying to meet a length requirement would do. It's childish, immature, and shows that you have less value in what you write. Therefore, the next time a teacher tells you your paragraphs aren't long enough; ask them to define what a paragraph is. And then tell them your paragraph meets their definition and that your entire paper, the amount they wanted total, fits their requirement. And artificially inflating a paragraph just because of a misinformed notion would only make the paper worse. Playing God?by NobrinStem cell research is growing ever so fast in the advanced world of today. As scientists and researchers continue to learn more about stem cells, the closer we get to treating diseases. Mexico, Ukraine, Barbados, and China are just few of the places now helping patients with methods yet to be proven safe for the general public. Treatment using stem cells is costly, usually above ten grand. Unborn fetuses are used to make solutions. These are then processed to create cures for diabetes, depression, and multiple sclerosis, or the hardening/thickening of parts of the body. Dr. Valentin Grischenko saw noticeable changes in his patients. Ukrainian scientists started their own clinic named EmCell in the early 1990s. Dr. William C. Rader, a Malibu psychiatrist, had been mentioned about EmCell and decided to start his own company that treated in the Bahamas. In 2000, problems arose as he was supposed to leave due to television reports. Currently, Rader owns a company called Medra Inc. He has treated over 1,000 people, $25,000 for the beginning treatment and the $8,500 for the following. If so many people were able to be treated and received positive changes, perhaps more stem cell research would result in more cures for more diseases. Quote: "I have literally cured early Alzheimer's." Another Ukrainian, Dr. Yuliy Baltaytis, a physician, did not believe that Ukraine would get any credit at all if not little for the accomplishments in stem cell research. Quote: "Everybody understands the Moscow ballet. Everybody knows the Kalashnikov rifle. Everybody knows the first man in space was Yuri Gagarin. But nobody believes we can do something first with stem cells." Dr. Hongyun Huang, a Beijing neurosurgeon, is also running an oversea treatment clinic. He learned about olfactory ensheathing glial cells, or cells that support the process of respiration, and wanted to try them when he returned to China in 2000. Spinal cord injuries and amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS, were the first two diseases he treated. He tried treating spine injuries before trying ALS. Helping people recover from spine injuries is rather difficult, considering the amount of nerves near it. If the slightest twitch was made during an operation, a nerve can be hit and the patient could become paralyzed. So far, 2-0 stem cell research. These are a lot of facts to support that stem cells can help in the recovery of major diseases. Some think that it is just the beginning of the effect. It is either just the good or the bad aftermath that is occurring in the patient. Lots of money is spent on research, but if that's truly what is occurring, then money has gone down the drain. On another note, there is a rare chance that a stem cell may contain a disease in itself, such as cancer. Doctors could easily mistake them and place them in somebody. Lawsuits would be put up and protests would be planned; stem cell research would be put to a halt. Quote: "Most American doctors just tell patients, 'You will die soon. You can't get any treatment,' I never tell patients this word. Even in this condition, you must encourage the patient." Stem cell research can be man's greatest enemy or friend, depending on how others use it. When we learn how to manipulate stem cells, the question, "Is there a God?" will have its answer. The game's final score is 2-1. Treatment can be fatal, but it allows some to live a while longer, whether it is good or bad letting families enjoy each other's presence. Make a WishRated R - Child abuse and mild gore by Danube PMariet picked up the cake and admired her work. Perfect--three white layers coated with home-made vanilla icing, laced with pink trim. Thirteen candles graced the top; another precise measure to ensure ideality. Mariet strode over to the pantry and opened the door with her free hand. Stepping across the threshold, she shut the door behind her. The pink candles cast sent shadows running across the room and illuminated the table and its occupants. Felicia's head hung grimly; her dark skull was wrapped with a bright red bow. The wounds on her tied wrists had healed. A month or two in captivity had taught her the futility of struggling. Mariet set the cake down on the broken table, and the party guests watched blankly. She had ensured the attendance of Felicia's favorite fables by painstakingly painting their portraits. Baba Yaga's warty nose sent shivers down her spine, and the Bogart's skin melted delightfully. Each guest bore witness in their decrepit chair. Mariet disliked the velveteen rabbit the most. He was soft. Nonetheless, the six months since Felicia's first flow had provided ample time for extensive preparation. Meticulous reduction had transformed Felicia's childhood body into jutting bones and peach-fuzz skin. The girl's right arm twitched as her thick blood pumped slowly under her skin. "Now now," Mariet chided, "None of that. It's your birthday today, and I want it to be perfect, just like you." She waved her arm about the short table, "And look at the wonderful guests attending." Felicia strained to lift her head. "Your father has gifted us with his presence." Mariet pushed Felicia's chair closer to the table so she could see. The skeleton was cradled by the night-washed chair. Spider webs and maggots made him extraordinarily handsome. The child grunted, and twisted her shoulders in against her filthy ochre dress. "The birthday girl gets the first cut." Mariet gripped Felicia's bow and pulled back. She offered the glinting knife to Felicia, whose head lolled on her shoulders. "No? You want to open presents first?" Mariet frowned. Felicia had always been a bit of a fire cracker, doing things her own way. Maybe she had just failed in her motherly duties to teach Felicia the proper sequence of events. With hesitation, Mariet reached behind the Baba Yaga portrait and pulled out an oval package. "This is a prized piece, Felicia. Handed down through the generations for twenty-three generations. Your responsibility is to pass this on to your daughter, as I have taught you. Then she'll see her new body as you will tonight, for the first time in this mirror." Mariet stilled her excitement, preparing for her final resting place in the shadow realm--the end she had been waiting for. Everything would come full circle, including the time spent prepping Felicia for this exact moment. She had tutored Felicia in each event of the first feast on matronly flesh, that would in turn grant Felicia entrance to the realm of shadow; beyond the looking glass. The time of passing was at hand. She settled the package on her daughter's lap. Felicia threw her head back, and her black eyes ripped open with a violent light. The package exploded. Shattered pieces of the antique mirror ricocheted outwards. Mariet gasped painfully, and Felicia panted heavily to regain her minimal strength. "No more tricks. But, just for that, I'll take first cut." Mariet's eyes burned, and her heavy hand fell, bestowing a series of dry slices across Felicia's face. "The wish is still yours, unless you spite me again. Make yours, then grant mine." Felicia lifted her head like a newborn, and glared at her mother. The blue light of the candles writhed in Felicia's black eyes. "Remember; this is the first one to be granted." Felicia nodded, and her tangled black hair fell forward as she leaned towards the table. She took a shallow breath--extinguished the candles. Mariet's eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she heard a thick droplet of blood fall to the table. Felicia turned to face her mother. Thin lips on a thinner face moved quickly, and Mariet read them with horror. I wish I were dead. Symphony: A Critiqueby peiormentisIgby A large orchestra will normally consist of 96 seats. These seats are divided into sections such as strings, percussion and woodwind. When led by the right conductor an orchestra can produce some of the most emotionally stirring pieces of music known to man. The vivid imagery they can produce, the feelings they can muster, the spirit they embody is nigh impossible to put into words. 'Beautiful' does not suffice. Most people will argue that the world has already seen its greatest composers come and go. They will list the usual names one automatically associates with classical music, and it would be difficult to find anyone to disagree with the statement. Difficult, but not impossible. For their will always be those that are egotistical, ignorant or crazy enough to think that this pop culture soaked world could spawn another great composer, or that they themselves could write better music. While on that note, ladies and gentleman, allow me to introduce your conductor for the evening, Richard Finch! These two paragraphs might throw the reader off a bit. While they are necessary to the piece, maybe they could be spiced up a bit for the reader. You wouldn't want your audience to be turned off because they believe you're about to spout off about the declining condition of today's musical culture would you? Though I must say, it is definitely declining. In the fourth sentence, "their" should be "there." Igby Now although Richard has a great love for classical music, he had been turned down by every music school in his city. Not for lack of talent, but for his ideas, because of his habit of defying convention and the fact that he refused to take his pills on a regular basis, if at all. Psychiatrists would tell you he is unstable, his family would tell you he's just plain crazy, but Richard would tell you that he is a genius, and one way ahead of his time! In his mind, the music schools denying him access only cemented the idea that he was a visionary, one of the great minds of his generation. After all, aren't all geniuses misunderstood at first? I feel a little tense confusion in the first sentence. The name Richard Finch definitely throws me off a bit. Finch makes me think of Atticus from To Kill A Mocking Bird. Kind, loving and knowledgeable, not a crazed conductor determined to prove his musical abilities to the world one way or another. Small things like that can throw the reader of a bit. Igby Richard was slightly disheartened after the last music school in his city turned him down, so much so that for three days he sat in the darkness of his room, headphones immersing him in the sounds he so adored, the sounds that he so badly wanted to improve upon, but how could he do that without his own orchestra, without proper tutelage in the various nuances of classical music and conducting? The strain on his mind was unbearable. Soon he became numb, his mind unaware of what song was being played, for the first time in his life the music evoked no emotion from him, and that is when his revelation occurred. There seems to be an extra "so" in the first sentence and the sentence is EXTREMELY long. I'm sure it could be trimmed down a bit to add more clarity to the idea you're trying to get across. Though complex sentences are appealing to some people, I am a simple reader. Igby Defying convention was his speciality, so in that sense he didn't need a proper orchestra. How does the saying go? 'The whole world is a stage', I believe. In that case, the stage would play host to Richards very own impromptu orchestra. His music would transcend everything that had gone before, the emotional power of it would be unmatched. It would be from the heart, though not necessarily his own. Punctuation should be inside the quotations. "The whole world is a stage," I belive. Not, "The whole world is a stage", I believe. That's most likely just a typo, though. Igby The early evenings during the month of July were always warm, which insured that public parks were always brimming with people. It was for this reason that Richard chose a park near to his home for the world premier of his as yet untitled piece. He had chosen a spot on a small grassy hill, one that elevated him above the rest of the parks inhabitants, as is customary for a conductor. Dressed in his finest outfit, and immaculately groomed, he attracted a fair amount of attention, even more so when he bowed formally to the waiting crowd, they cheered, wondering if he would perform something for them. Last sentence seems run-on-ish-ish. It could be two sentences. "Dressed in his finest outfit...when he bowed formally to the waiting crowd. They cheered, wondering if he would preform something for them." Now that I think about it, it sounds fine both ways. Igby Richard often used baton when he practiced conducting, and he intended to use one for this performance, he slowly drew it from his pocket and held the 9mm pistol high in the air. The crowd fell silent; they must have been as excited as he was! You forgot a word before "baton." A baton, his baton, the baton, but not just "baton." Igby Richard's sweaty finger pulled down on the trigger, the shot fired high into the air, followed in that split second by the screams of those in the park. His masterpiece had begun. Richard aimed down, moving his free hand with grace, following the pitches of the screams. He pulled the trigger twice in quick succession, sending two terrified people crashing to the ground in agony as many others scrambled to escape. The wind began to blow, the nearby stream seemed to become louder, the screams of men and women mingled together. Nature and man in unison, creating a sound so pure. Firing blindly caused screams to rise and fall, the two bodies near him provided constant sounds, yet they all seemed to fit. Ah, this is why I fell in love with your writing. The description is wonderful and the use of nature to intensify the scene is used beautifully. Igby Richard was unaware of how many bullets he had left, he didn't care, he fired again and again for he was immersed, mind and body following the sound, his arms would rise and fall again and again in flamboyant movements. Quiet, loud, heart wrenching, stomach turning, his master piece quickly took shape, encompassing so many aspects, he'd never dreamt of something so magnificent. Soon the urgent sound of sirens became apparent, rising more and more with each passing second, the piece was building to a dramatic ending, and in the middle of it all stood Richard, composing as his idols would have. This was it, his big finish. He slowly opened his eyes, and for a split second he caught a glint of something off in the distance, a faint smile played across his lips as the bullet from the police sniper tore through his skull. The conducter fell silently to grass. "Conducter" should be "conductor" in the last sentence. I love the supense in this paragraph, the hurried style of description and the long drawn out jumbles of adjectives. Igby Soon the screams would die down, the sirens would disappear, and the world would hear about Richard Finch's one and only performance, and of the huge effect it had had on those who witnessed it, no one would forget. After all, they're called classics for a reason.
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:05 pm
This issue features Serieve's seven sins writing project. Each author was challenged to choose one of the seven sins, and inspire from it a piece of poetry and prose. The following entries reflect the fruits of our labor! We hope you enjoy this collection of talents, as it shall be the first of many themed writing ventures at the Press. Feel free, dear reader, to offer any suggestions for the coming issues! As always, we're all ears.  A picture is worth a thousand words. Here lies Kraeela's artistic interpretation of the seven sins. Click the thumbnail for full view!ONE. PRIDEUntitledby ZimskyExpected providence Courageous and great Fame and fortune To never dissipate Greeted with serenity I'll be taken there Whist lowly in their puddles Writhing with despair Heaven let me down To bless them with my touch My soul heaped with joy Immune to their crutch Chords of perfection To this now euphoric realm My grace to be admired Greatness overwhelm Blessings from Aboveby Serieve"'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'" The preacher paused, looking out at the pews full of so many lost sinners. Oh, how they needed him so. "Do you feel him there in your heart? Do you truly comprehend his presence?" His voice spoke on as he reached out to the congregation, inspiring them, filling their heads with the words of the Lord God Almighty. So many of them, sitting quietly row by row by row in the red cushioned pews. Sunlight from the Sunday morning sun shined through the stain glass images of Christ and the Virgin Mary, filling the room with their heavenly warmth. These were the moments he lived for. To have the Lord's hands guide him as he in turn guided so many poor souls away from purgatory, from the devil. What greater honor was there? Surely, God was smiling down on him, reserving an honored spot by his side. He would be the Lord's most faithful angel. Alas, he could not yet join his Lord in heaven, for there were still so many things left on Earth to be rectified. He would wait a while longer for the day of his glorious ascension! Once church ended, the preacher left for town with his wife and children. Today they had planned to spend time together for an outing. The sidewalks were crowded, and he and his wife kept a close eye on the children. Such sweet lambs they were, God bless them. His eldest son, David, was only nine. Their daughter, Cara, had just turned three. They came to a road crossing, and for fun, swung little Cara as they crossed, delighting in her joyful giggles. David held his mother's other hand as she was focusing on lifting her daughter. The preacher also watched the gleeful child. Neither of them saw the car. David screamed as the car wheels screeched towards them. Police sirens and flashing lights followed close behind. The happy family was ruined in a mere second, during which the preacher caught a glimpse of the man who would be convicted of manslaughter in the very near future. He'd not even had time to pray. There were vague flashes and voices that cut through the following darkness. Then at last, he opened his eyes. There were blinding lights and voices. Familiar faces pressed in all around him, hugging him and crying with their tears of joy. "Jane?" He asked for his wife and children in vain. "David? Cara?" One year down the road, he continued preaching the word of God. This, however, was to be his final sermon. "My own family, as you all know, is no longer among us. The Lord God has deemed them worthy of a place in heaven. He prepares them for the day that I join him, an angel trite and true by his side. I do not mourn; I rejoice." His eye wandered, and he glanced once more at the man, just barely in his twenties, sitting in the back of the church. He was the mirror image of his jail-bound father. A year had passed, but still the face of the driver was emblazoned in his mind. His son had joined the church not too long ago. He would never forget the young man's tears as he begged forgiveness for his father's alcoholic ways and reckless driving. He had forgiven him, just as the Lord would have; blessed him with his holy gift. God would be proud. "The Lord God asks that I, his most faithful of sheep and helper in the ways of a shepherd, gift all of you with the same gift the he blessed my darling wife and children with. The gift of heaven in all its glory." The mass of people questioned, wondered. He knew they were not ready for it. "Do not fear, for even as we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil; for he is with us; comforting us with his rod and his staff. Just as he comforted them." Their ascension to heaven was swift and grand. TV stations would spread the news that very Sunday morning. The blessing he had bestowed upon the foul sinners of his church ignited with a swell of fire and gas. The son of his family's killer would surely thank him in heaven. What better comfort for a guilty mind than that of the Lord's holy presence? TWO. ENVYUntitledby Dragon LillyMy eyes are full of longing The inner beast is loose I want that which is not mine And will have it despite the cost I grab, and snatch, and steal To feed this thing inside of me To satisfy this gnawing hunger This envy, this green jealousy Flee or face my wrath, you stupid Kindness, who wants not a thing In that, you and I are different For I long for everything Especially that which others have That isn't mine, nor would be Had I not intervened and taken It to satisfy my need My name is Jenny. I know envy, perhaps, better than anyone else. It has changed me greatly. This is my story:As a young child, I was perfectly content with what I had and desired nothing more. Unfortunately, this did not last. As I grew older, I started wishing for what the other children had. These thoughts were few and far between, back then, but as I approached my adolescent years, they grew in both strength and regularity. Yes, I was receiving my first true taste of envy. It wasn't the last, however. Far from it, in fact. At school, I met and befriended many people. Boys and girls, older and younger, it did not matter. But among all these friends was only one whom I could trust with anything and everything. Her name was Chris. After a while though, I began to envy her also. She moved with such ease among all the other youths, and all the cute boys were her friends. Her grades were always good; she had never made anything lower than an A in her life. She was creative, a good writer, and above all, she could fight. One day, she and Christopher, the best fighter among the boys, faced off. They were both determined to win. The match began, and after a long and grueling fight, Chris emerged the victor. The loser, Christopher, accepted his defeat gracefully. It was then that I realized I had feelings for him. We became friends soon after that realization. After we had gotten closer, I one day jestingly asked him whom he liked, though I believed he would not answer. I was wrong, for he replied seriously. It was Chris that he liked, his former opponent, my best friend. From that point on, my heart was ruled by the green monster, jealousy. I shunned Chris and hurt her emotionally. I ruined her reputation. Bit by bit, day by day, I became the personification of envy. But following my jealousy only led to more of it. I wanted things I could not have, and would do anything to get them. This proved to be my downfall. The things I did to satisfy the sinful monster inside cost me my friends and their respect. I was alienated and alone, but for my monster. And I know now that I'll die with this beast, this envy, as my only companion. Her name was Jenny. She was one of my best friends before she succumbed to her envy. This is what happened to her, and the consequences that followed. I, Chris, urge you not to listen to your monsters as she did. I've warned you of what will happen. I can only hope that you'll take heed of that warning.THREE. WRATH And here's the talented Murraben's drawing of most wrathful sin! Just looking into those ice blue eyes sends chills down my spine. Be sure to click for full view!Untitledby peiormentisBlue spots cloud my vision A red hue overcomes my face Warm anger rises from my depths My heart beats a faster pace Another tiny button pushed Another minor nerve clipped I've been shoved to my edge I've had my comely pride ripped Too many truths in playful jest Too much hurt in mocking words I can't control this powerful feeling My sense is lifting skywards Back away from my fury Its effect could be grand My body's moving without consent My rage snaps like a rubber band Mommy, Hug Me.Mommy is going crazy. I know I should run away but she was gone all day. I just want her to hug me. I shouldn't ask now, I know, but I missed her so much while she worked. She leaves all day and then comes back angry. She smells funny; like the juice in the fridge I'm not supposed to touch. I was good today. I wish I could tell her. I made myself dinner. Just like she asked. "Mommy, I love you. Did you have a good day?" I ask her loudly, but she doesn't hear me. She can't hear anything. She whips around and glares at me. Her eyes are glazed with the liquid of anger. Her face is flushed with color of rage. "Mommy, don't be mad. I just want a hug." She doesn't listen still. Her wrath is too thick. It's encumbered her being. It has weaved through her mind and squeezed through her veins. I'm afraid. "Mommy?" Her breathing is heavy. She drops the glass bottle in her hand. It shatters when it hits the floor. The shards of glass scatter. The bad juice spreads out on the floor. Its evil ingredients poison the tile, just like it poisoned Mommy. "I thought you said no more bad juice, Mommy. I thought you said you'd stop. You promised Mommy. You said." I feel water racing down my cheeks. Mommy promised. Sobs leak from my mouth. Mommy promised and it's all my fault she broke the promise. I was a bad girl. I should run away. Mommy will hit me, but I stay. "Why are you crying you petty child? Are your worries so bad?" Mommy finally hears me. "Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about." I can't stop, though. I can barely even breathe. My sobs are too heavy. My tears are too hot. "Muh-mommy. Uh-I just want a hu-ug." Mommy's eyebrows wrinkle. She doesn't understand. Mommy's going to hit me. I know it. Her hand raises. I try to get away. I knew I should have stayed in my room. I knew it was too late. I'm a bad girl. I make it to the hall. Mommy tramples behind. The floors are shaking with each of her big, heavy footsteps. She grabs the back of my shirt. She pulls me to her reach. "Mommy! I'm sorry! I won't be bad again! I'll listen next time!" But Mommy can't hear me. Mommy never hears me. I tense. Mommy raises her hand once again and smacks down with all her force. I feel the hot contact of her hard hand. I squint my eyes. My tears stop their flowing. Again and again her hand comes down on me. "I'm sorry Mommy." My voice is quiet and hoarse from crying. I walk to my room and lay in the middle of the floor. Mommy walks back to the front door. She leaves. All I wanted was a hug. FOUR. SLOTHUntitledby Bane is on Fire!Morning's broken in your faded eyes that pool from you like emerald lies. Your armchair's comforting, but in your mind you feel a creeping contribution that you're looking at the fourth deadly sin. Morning's broken in your faded eyes but with these "moments" you feel the jagged edge of the rawest deal and it all winds back to your emerald lies. Brands of apathy adorn your clothes a listless farce that waits to be exposed. Your breathing is without movement and your soul is on the line without chance of improvement. Brands of apathy adorn your clothes, which are mindless now and altogether too testy to disavow but still waiting to be exposed. Morning's broken in your faded eyes that pool from you like emerald lies. Brands of apathy adorn your clothes a listless farce that waits to be exposed. Adolescent Corpsesby alicemaeSluggish thoughts trudge through your mind as my bloodshot sight drifts in and out of focus. Let's down one more shot and smoke another joint, babe. No need to move your body from that spot. A lazy smile stretches across your face, and I'd smile along if I had energy to waste. Instead, I close my eyes and feel the eerie stillness of this moment. Damn, that's sweet. There's plenty of work to be done, but why should I bother? There are lives to be saved, but I'm no Superman. Let's leave it to the pros, you and I, we've gotten so good at that. They'll keep busy while we sip a cold beer under the California sun. We've already thrown in the towel and packed up our bags. What more can I say? I doubt there's anywhere to go, but it's amusing to hear the boss rant and rave about this useless generation and our seeming lack of purpose. Humanity's going to hell, anyway, so why not kick back and take it one aching hour at a time? Watch, as this very minute passes by, and slooow the speed of life to a standstill that only the ultimate slackers can emulate. Go on now. Just try to sit there with an idle mind. Block every thought and don't you dare conjure the image of an purple elephant with polka dots even as I say it. Oh, wait. Too late? Yeah, it takes skills you never knew you had, and only in this could we ever out-think you. But that's just what I think. You still think we're two bum-around kids with no future in life, and I couldn't agree more. These images reflected in your critical eyes are far from perfect, but wouldn't you know it? That's just what we are. Besides, a bit of powder and rouge can work wonders for living corpses like us, while cigarettes ease the lungs and mind. We're young and we can't be bothered by the likes of you, so leave us to our slothful ways. Inhale, release, and repeat. That's all I want, and that's all I expect. (Don't you wish you had it this good?) FIVE. GREEDUntitledby Dev KimikoDidn't you hear? Over the carpark speaker, on tabloid pages and from gossiping neighbours, that even God has a mobile phone. Harlot queens and interchange scenes of commuter shopping sprees. Where four-wheel drives stand in waiting lines on slick suburban streets. Modernities' vocabulary of avarice and apathy. Suavely grinning with courteous faces, for that larger slice of the proverbial pie. Untitledby KraeelaOh humans! You, blessed with rational mind and emotional heart! What great plans the great God has planned for those of beauty like yourselves! Beauty! Greedily you pluck the Fruitage fair to sight, gathering to your bosoms those sweet of voice and bright of eyes. Your hearts are so easily captured by the tender glitter of a ruby, the smooth surface of a diamond. You worship the delicate golden filigrees, caressing the novelty of technology. Ah selfish wretches! You give worth only to the beautiful, even as you don superfluous airs upon your own selves. Do you truly believe the empty flatteries? Don't bathe yourself in illusions of Beauty for such a wonderful gift can be seen only as reflections of one's soul. I ask you this, who can find beauty in you save those poisoned and disillusioned in their own thoughts of grace? Wanton collectors of all that is good and just in this fine world, stashing them in golden treasure chests to rot and waste away. Do you truly think that by surrounding yourselves with beauty you become beautiful? I tell you, beauty stolen from the righteous screams out against their injustice, eroding your soul even as you whimper in their sights. Do you truly believe in your convoluted minds that by hoarding all that is pleasant, you deprive the world of good? Look about you, wretch. The population of this world compete not for the gold you adore. The world cares nothing for your avarice, we watch in disdain as you chase after your hearts desires, like one tortured and bound. Look at us, those you sees as poor. Perceive that we rejoice in freedom from the base objects you so ardently desire. See and be astonished that we are happy, yes happy, that we do not have your new technology or shiny gadgets. As you hoard more and more, praying to your golden deities to grant you happiness; know that even as you seek to bleed from us every drop of gold and beauty we thank you. Indeed, you save us, extracting the vile from our human souls and taking it upon yourself to carry the heavy burden of greed. For truly, the only beauty worth human eyes be that which resides within the heart, the only jewel that claims right to a soul's binding is that of pure love, and the only land a man really needs measures six feet deep. SIX. GLUTTONYUntitledby KraeelaA glow to her face An apple in her womb In squalid splendor Love grows into fruit ___A steady pounding against his skull harassed him in the bright daylight, the sun's rays invading his dimmed sight. The thick velvet curtains did little to ward off the dawning day accompanied by the coarse voices of the farmers tilling his lands. Look at them. Filthy. Grimy. Their clothes made almost completely of darning and patches. They trudged the muddy fields, driven to work by starvation and empty children's mouths. ___"Master! I beg of you, a mere ounce of grain would feed my family a whole month!" ___The Baron glowered with contempt at the farmer groveling at his feet. "Scum!" He kicked at the man's ribs."The ounce of grain to feed your filthy children would get a good 3 silver coins." He started to walk back inside his mansion, disgusted by the farmer's poverty. ___"Master! How would we live?" ___The Baron, glanced backward at the farmer prostrate in grief. ___"Slut your wife." he replied coldly, uncaring. A tiny bed and tiny clothes Darned, sewed, darned again Royal plumage to an infant Whose mother smiles in rags ___He wanted more. Wanted to crush the sunburned faces always grinning, grind the calloused fingers always creating beautiful things from waste wood or trashed clay. He wished to rip their throats and drink their blood as they sang their folksongs in the midday sun. No matter how many hours he worked them, they found time to dance their jigs so he worked them some more -- to the point of death. He watched their families embrace newborn mouths with loving arms as he slowly starved them on insubstantial food rations. He wondered that they would give and receive love even as they knew he could easily take and kill any one of them at any time without question. ___As he walked down the halls of his mansion, door upon door opening to perennially empty rooms full of the world's finest luxuries, his heart clenched in fury as he thought of the laughter and joys filling the ghettos of the farmers. ___He wanted their life. ___Not as much as he wanted their death. Robust in health through the hunger A loving mate through poverty She thanked God for blessings For their meager fare And the constant eye of hope Amidst starvation, filth and despair ___He scowled at the mirror and the scrawny hag flicked it's finger back at him. He watched the slaves fit his coat and breeches, studied the sharp bones of his shoulders humping above the cloth. The shirt, five sizes too large, hung in voluminous folds about his caved in stomach. The flesh-less skin clung to his bones, giving him the appearance of a walking skeleton. Indeed, those who had seen him in this state forever told tales of a dead man with a hunger in his eyes that wandered the world. It was true, he was a dead man. But his eyes did not hunger -- they lusted. Centuries he wandered the earth, spreading his decease of excess. A parasite upon the human spirit, he fed his own constant greed for more with the end the needs of others. ___He ran long skeleton fingers over the cavity in his stomach. ___Tonight. ___Tonight he would feed. Tonight he would end the needs of another to fuel his own. Rings flashed before her eyes Diamonds scraped the flesh off her face She kicked and screamed Gasping as the life escaped her ___More. He wanted more. He gripped at her neck, his jeweled rings dug grooves into her soft meat. He shoved his thumbs into the soft meat at her throat, drinking in the warm red life water that seeped from her breasts. She writhed and kicked and he bathed in the soul that deserted her body. ___He stood and kicked the lump of dead meat. Three dead and the hunger still coursed through his veins. He thrashed the body wildly with his fists, pleasuring in the decay. His fist broke through the swollen belly. A ball of soft flesh, a tiny heart still beating. He grabbed the unborn baby in his fist, ripping it from it's womb. His eyes glowed in eternal hunger as he slowly squeezed his fist into a ball. ___He stared at his closed fist, his skin no longer sagged as his flesh inflated. He breeches felt tight about his thigh and his gut rolled in folds of fat. Momentarily filled with life, he gave the lump of flesh a last squeeze. ___The blood oozed in a steady river down his arm into his dark perverted soul and the hunger died in his eyes. For the eternal shadow A month passes like a second Stolen life ne'er rests till freedom speaks Delayed death gnaws at the flesh The skin sags The belly caves in The soul screams for new blood The eyes lust once more. SEVEN. LUSTBlue-eyed Cherry GirlsRated R - Strong sexual innuendo.by alicemaeBlue-eyed cherry girls With hair (too blonde) And breasts so big They could probably Carry the world Between their gigs. Dancing around a pole In lace And chains, Though mostly chains That slither across A neon stage. I'm captivated by The grind of their hips, And the sigh on their lips: Licking on popsicles, And other things -- That May Drip. A Short Love Story"Have a good trip, baby." "Will you miss me?" "Well, the sooner you go, the sooner I can begin to miss you!" "Haha, brat." "But I'm your little brat." "Will you wear the pink thing with lace when I'm back?" "Of course. But only for you, baby, only for you..." * The room was draped with satin sheets colored in hues of red wine and crimson roses. Candles lighted the air as pungent aromas of crushed petals and smoky fruit sifted thought her nostrils. She closed her eyes and released a lovely breath. Everything was so romantic. So perfect. It was going to be a magical night. She could feel it in her bones. Outside, the stars twinkled like a million city lights and the moon shined down in iridescent splendor. The table was set and hour grew closer. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Her lover was coming, returning to her at last, and what a lover he was! Her scarlet lips curled into the cool smile of a woman with a burning heart. There was no need for foolish keepsakes or flowery letters of schoolgirl caliber. She could recall his every feature like a blind man reading braille. His fair hair was always tousled just so as it framed a classically beautiful face. Yet such an angelic face contrasted his eyes, for those piercing eyes gleamed a devil's black, reflecting a soul that was as dark as her own, and perhaps even more so... He was such a brooding romantic. So perfect. It was going to be magical night. She could feel it in her bones. Turning this way and that before a glassy mirror, she made sure her reflection was a picture of womanly seduction. Dressed in pale pink silk lined with black lace, it was an image that inspired sweetness and sex all at once. Running her hands down her body, she suddenly caught a sparkle out the corner of her eye. Immediately, she pulled the ring off her finger and tucked it away into the drawer. Turning back to the mirror, the woman's smile widened mischievously. Matters such as these were quite romantic. Fleeting moments with her lover were meant to be perfect. And it was going to be a magical night. She could feel it from in her bones -- especially when the bullet ripped through her flesh and exploded her heart, killing her on the spot. Shortly after, a shaking hand dropped the gun. Her lover never came at all. * "I thought to surprise her. I thought she'd be happy to see me." "I know. But why did you do it?" He gave a shrug, his blue eyes calmer than a dead sea when he finally spoke. Simply and to-the-point. "She was wearing it. And I wasn't supposed to be back...for another two days." - Calling all writers! Did you like what you read? Think you can do better? Don't delay, submit today! Guidelines can be found under the first post of the Press Headquarters. - Like to critique? Love to write? Is Gaia like your second home? Get a job at the Press! Applications can be found in the first post of the Press Headquarters. - Looking for a place to advertise the thread showcasing all your written work? Or maybe you just want to announce a contest of sorts? Yet are you afraid that your post will be pushed into the forgotten pages within minutes? Have no fear, the Press is here! Advertise with us and ensure more exposure for your thread! We'll provide a link to your thread in our next issue, and it'll be 30g per line to post in The Watch, and 10g per line to post in The Afterthought. All profits will go to thepress mule and be used as prize money for future Press endeavors! So support a good cause and let your voice be heard at the same time! How spiffy is that? PM alicemae if you're interested. - Editor's Note: Aiyaiyai. Who knew deadlines could be this stressful? Getting the writing project together for this issue literally spread into the dark hours of March 22nd... If I took a snapshot of myself at 10:43 pm that night, then y'all could catch a glimpse of me running around like the mindless editor I am! So you must, dear reader, appreciate (just a tad) the efforts we grind for thee! Hehe. Anyway, I'm happy to say that this nightmare has finally come to its fairytale ending. The staffies at the Press came through again -- especially Serieve and Kraeela -- though I certainly feel like the proud mama of each and every one of 'em! You guys keep this bloody clock ticking. wink Once again, thanks to all the contributing writers. We look forward to your continued support, so stay tuned for our next issue! Muah!
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:06 pm
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:07 pm
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 3.1 + 3.2We find the best so you don't have to. IN THIS ISSUE:1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted and scouted by the best.3. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.4. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.5. Writer's Aide - Ever thought about getting published outside of Gaia? Well, Zacharra certainly has some helpful advice for writers in this issue!6. Beyond the Box - This month features some useless trivia to tickle your brain.7. Staff Spotlight - Meet the (mindless) brains behind this operation.8. Contest Finalists - And here's the moment you've all been waiting for, boys and girls!9. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.I apologize ahead of time for the missing banners in this issue! Dev Kimiko's hosting all our images right now, and her bandwidth has unfortunately been eaten up for the month. Everything will be be up and running again first thing tomorrow, so I figured that we might as well make the deadline and post the issue anyway! Enjoy! Kraeela reports:.....Had a bad day at the office? Click here for some good old-fashioned venting with your fellow writers.
.....In the mood for some thoughtful discussion? The Death of Creativity looms just around the corner.
.....Heard anything about the Shadow Forums lately?
.....Here's a thread for all you quote lovers-slash-hoarders out there!
.....Ever thought of entering a real poetry contest? Get your facts straight! Is Poetry.com a scam? Click here and here to learn more.
.....Do you like to read? Are you the mood for a name game? Click here to bring together the best of both worlds.Serieve reports:.....Are you having trouble thinking up names for your characters? Have no fear, The Gaian Bank Name is here!alicemae reports:.....Did you save up all your gold to buy a wig, only to discover one avi change later that your wig disappears? Don't put up with this nonsense! Sign this petition to protest our wigs for more than one-time use!Jahoclave reports:.....Here's another thread that gives advice to authors on creating character names.
.....Calling all writers! Having a bit of a dry spell? Here's a former sticky -- so you know it has to be good -- to help with just that!
.....The name pretty much sums it up: Mary-Sue & Cliche Anonymous. Shoo, now!
.....And here's yet a another naming thread for all you lovely authors out there! (Am I sensing a trend here? Hehe.)
.....N00bs please go here and reincarnate yourself into an enlightened soul.PART I. PoetryListed in alphbetical order.It has just been brought to my attention that one of our entries was plagiarized from a Something Corporate song. It has been removed from this issue, and we will never accept another entry from this author again. Let this be an example to future plagiarists in how swiftly and harshly The Gaian Press deals with stealing of any kind. The staffies at TGP came together because we wished to celebrate the creativity and brilliance of Gaian writers around the forum, and this kind of behavior greatly dampens the magazine's core spirit and camaraderie. No matter how clever you may think you are, plagiarism is the kind of desperate trick that can get students kicked out of universities, and I hope our plagiarist has learned some kind of lesson from this experience. I choose not to mention the author's name because this person has probably done enough damage to his or her own reputation. Fellow readers and writers, I beg you, please do not let this happen to you. On any given day, I would rather publish a rookie writer's original piece than a thief's masterpiece.If you were a wantby The Rebel prince!A half dead Mona Lisa
Awake with strange bruises
why could this be anything new?
Name it and I've got excuses.
Awake with strange bruises,
making me fond of cruises.
It could all be overdue,
awake with strange bruises.
Why could this be anything new?
---
Morning Marlboro
The sun comes cross my lap,
begging me to bang out.
Past a thunder clap
the sun comes cross my lap.
I can hear the rain tap
in this wasteland drought.
The sun comes cross my lap
begging to bang out.
----
The first ever won
There you go mother,
I left you my cell.
For unknown brother,
there you go mother.
Hung up for another
can you truly tell?
There you go mother,
I left you my cell.
---
I pour coffee
I let them play
with me in P-Town.
Is it today,
I let them play.
In the cafe,
it brings me around.
I let them play
with me in P-Town
---
On the 23 at 2
No, please don't be alarmed
if I fall next to me.
Even if you are the one charmed,
no, please don't be alarmed.
Even if you are the one unarmed
sleep close so I can see.
No, please don't be alarmed
if I fall next to me.The Original Balletby 10_6madhatterShe dances like an angel, with black ribbons in her hair.
A threadbare gown, with lace around, is all she has to wear.
Tiaras made of daisy stems hang loosely on a chair,
Antiqued pearls have wilted off and left the coronal bare.
She composes like a devil, with pink thistles in her heart.
A piano corpse, with no remorse, will only fit the part.
Using rotted strings and broken keys, she brings the world her art,
Serpentine solos unwind themselves and stretch their scales apart.
She imagines like a martyr, with blue thorns in her head.
An artless cross, protecting loss, watches the unkempt bed.
Sanctified ground shimmers with beads that the rosary hath shed,
Hail Mary, Mother of God! A prayer for her soul, now dead.Tearsby Dragon LillyTears fall
Like miniature
Raindrops
Leaving traces
On your cheeks
Like the tracks
Of a lone wanderer
Upon a dusty road
Unshed tears
Glint in your eyes
Like flecks of goldTouchedby Alice JenkinsTouched,
by an angel, literally.
[Pervert the youth]
An object of
a heavenly fantasy.
[What's your favorite position?]
Are you:
Bent over to the truth,
on top of all the lies.
Or just laid back
and enjoy the ride
of pleasure[x]confusion.
[Afterall, ignorance is bliss]
The choice between
Right 'N' Wrong
is a thinning line,
microscopic to the [naked] eye.
Touched,
by a devil, honestly.
[Spoon-feed the masses with
morsels of "truth".]PART II. FictionListed in alphbetical order.The Badger BrigadeChapter Three: The First Kill is The Hardest Nah, not really.by Hemp FandangoBeth strolled casually along with a gaggle of other Hufflepuff seventh years on the way to lunch, discussing the events of the morning's classes. "One of them had wings!" exclaimed a tall girl with short black hair. "Wings!" she repeated, shaking her head. "I asked her about them and she told me she was part angel. Then I asked her if she knew God and she got all huffy and then another one of them got all self righteous and went on for an hour about how Christianity was sexist and that Wicca was the one true path. She was still going on and on after I left." Beth waved her hand. "That's nothing, Katie." she said. "I saw one with cat ears and a tail. I asked her about it - who wouldn't? - and she told me she was half Set or something." "None of them liked to knit," a girl with curly brown hair said vaguely. "Whatever you say, Nance," the black haired girl - Katie - said, rolling her eyes. They stepped into the main hall and over to their table. Beth plunked herself down next to a very exhausted looking Zacharias. "How was your nap?" she asked, helping herself to the mashed potatoes. "Where were you?" Katie demanded, sitting on Beth's other side. "I didn't see you all morning." "I skipped," Zacharias paused to yawn, "I spent the morning sleeping." Beth rolled her eyes. "He insisted on staying for the whole sorting." Katie made a face. "Are you mad? Why on Earth would you want to stay for that?" "Morbid curiosity. And I wanted to see what we'd have to deal with this year. I noted that the other houses were acting strangely so I decided to investigate." he said. "Uh huh. So what did you find out, exactly?" Beth inquired. "That there is a lot of them," he muttered, resting his head on the table. "Ah," Beth said, smirking, "where would we be without your diligent research?" Zacharias didn't respond. His gaze wandered over to the Ravenclaw table. It was hard to judge what was happening to them. The Ravenclaw table, while not quite as full as the Gryffindor or Slytherin tables, had a number of new students sitting with them. Some of them appeared to be long gone, as vacant as the Gryffindors or Slytherins. Others just looked uncomfortable or confused. His eyes fell on a familiar dark, curly haired figure. He allowed himself to linger, taking in the tanned skin, the dark eyes, and the nice figure. Beth followed his gaze to the Ravenclaw table and smiled a bit. "Daniel's looking okay though, isn't he?" She gave him a sidelong glance. "I wouldn't worry about him." Zacharias broke his gaze away from the seventh year Ravenclaw, and poked at his food. "I'm not worried," he muttered haughtily. *** The next week passed in a strange blur for the Hufflepuffs. Classes had taken a surreal turn. It got to the point where they couldn't attend a single class without one of the new students portraying some kind of special power, such as the time one had turned into a unicorn during Transfiguration, or the time one revealed themselves to be a real seer during Divinition. It wasn't just the classes that the Hufflepuffs found most disturbing; it was the way they were becoming more and more ignored. Some teachers looked right through them, or didn't see to hear them anymore. It wasn't just the teachers, either. Students seemed less aware of their presence as well, and even their own statue sometimes wouldn't move aside when the password was said. It was almost like the school was forgetting about its fourth house. Some had given up on classes all together, and spent their time in the common room, writing to their guardians for help. The strange thing was, they never heard a reply from any of their mail. The Hufflepuffs were getting edgy and twitchy. Sara often saw her housemates' eyes linger on a mirror, as if making sure they still exist. Something had to be done. Sara padded down the stairs and into the common room where Elizabeth and Alex, who had quit classes after the second day, were playing a game of Exploding Snap. Alex looked up from her task of carefully placing a card. "Where are you going?" she said, her voice tinged with suspicion. "I'm bloody tired of hiding in the common room," Sara muttered, looking harried. "I'm going to do something about this... this..." she struggled for the proper word, waving her hands vaguely, "nonsense!" Without another word she stormed out into the hall. Alex and Elizabeth exchanged glances. "We should probably follow her," Elizabeth said. Alex sighed in irritation and stood up. "Yeah, yeah," she grumbled. "I'm getting tired of hiding too, actually." she admitted as they jogged to catch up with Sara. "So," Elizabeth said as she and Alex came up on either side of Sara. "What's the plan, chief?" "I'm going to go to the library and try to figure out what's going on," she said. Alex made a face. "Oh god, that's it?" Sara nodded. "Please tell me we're at least going to throw the books at them, right?" "If that's what it takes to kill them, then yes," Sara said with grim determination. "Maybe we should just ask one of them what they are?" Elizabeth suggested. Alex snorted. "Yeah, great," she muttered, "'Excuse me m'am, I was wondering if you could tell me what it would take to make you go away and never return.' Like that you mean?" Elizabeth stared straight ahead. "Worth a shot," she said quietly. "You can try it now, in fact." She pointed at a blonde haired girl, with sapphire blue eyes, dressed in Gryffindor robes and petting what looked like- "What the...? A unicorn?! How did a bloody unicorn get into Hogwarts?" Alex's voice of disbelief carried down the hall. The girl turned to give the approaching Hufflepuff's a questioning look. "Yes," she said, her voice like the gentle wind. "May I help you?" The girls were still gaping at the unicorn, which threw its head back, allowing its silvery mane to catch the sunlight. Sara was the first to recover. "Why are you here?" she demanded, glaring down at the delicate, young lady. She turned her soulful blue eyes to gaze up at Sara. "I don't know what you mean," she said, her full pink lips pouting. "My name is Lysandra, and I transferred to Hogwarts from America," she sighed, fluttering her long, thick lashes and continued. "You see, my parents died when I was younger and I don't even know how it happened, so I was sent to live with my abusive aunt and uncle-" "No one cares," Alex snapped. Lysandra turned and pouted at her. "Yes, I was teased back home too," she continued, resting one hand dramatically on her heaving bosom. "They used to call me such awful things, because I'm so terribly ugly," she tossed her head, allowing her own silvery blonde mane to catch the sunlight. "And they used to steal my lunch and my puppy was run over and it was all on my birthday-" "Oh my god," Alex said, burying her face in her hands. "I didn't think it was possible, but she's more boring than the library." "Yeah," Sara agreed, while Lysandra continued to chat mindlessly, unaware that her audience was no longer listening. "This is pretty useless." "Look!" Alex snapped again, grabbing the frail teen by her robes and raising her off the ground. "Shut up! Everyone has their problems, okay? You're nothing special! Here's an idea," She pulled Lysandra closer, until they were nose to nose. "why don't you quit bitching about it, and MOVE ON! Stop whining, goddammit!" "This is assault," Lysandra said, her voice trembling. "I don't want to hurt you, but if you don't put me down..." she trailed off. Alex narrowed her eyes and put her down, slowly. Lysandra smoothed out her robes and smiled at Alex. "What house are you from, anyway?" Alex snapped. "Incendo!" The hem of Lysandra's robes caught fire and - to the surprise of those present - instead of panicking, she just sighed and shot a thin stream of water from her finger. The girls were struck speechless. She looked up and gave them a dirty look. "I can control the elements," she said, a touch smugly. She sniffed and resumed pouting. "You're just a bunch of bullies too, then. Just like that time at my last school-" Alex groaned. "Shut up! Shutupshutupshutupshutup! SHUT UP!" Lysandra glared at Alex. "Fine," she said, quietly. "I'll give you a taste of your own bullying medicine!" She raised her hand and shot a fireball. Alex jumped out of the way, hitting the ground hard and singeing her robes in the process. "You people are always so cruel," she continued while Alex tore off her robes and proceeded jump on them. "Why am I always such a victim to others' cruelty?" "Because you like it," Alex said, while her robes smouldered. "You love being a victim, 'cause you damn well love the attention." Lysandra glared and shot another fireball. This time, Sara was ready and cast the shield charm. "She's right," Sara said while Alex cursed angrily, having needlessly jumped out of the way. "It doesn't sound to me like you hated the experience. Judging by the way you mention it all so casually, it's more like you're fishing for pity." "SHUT UP!" Lysandra screamed, her aura flaring up and sending the girls flying backwards. The unicorn reared in surprise, it's silver hooves flashing in the light. Alex cursed loudly, having landed heavily on her shoulder for the third time. She sat up, wincing, and pointed her wand at Lysandra once more, and screamed the first spell that came to mind. "Purus Morbus!" Lysandra's eyes widened. The spell hit her full force. She let out an ear-splitting shriek as white light enveloped her. "Hit the deck!" Sara screamed, throwing herself and Elizabeth on the floor. Her shriek cut off suddenly and the bright light filled their vision. Then, without any dramatic last words, Lysandra exploded. Sara groaned and tried to sit up, only to find her hair had become stuck to the floor by something thick, pink, and stretchy. "What the...?" She attempted to tug her hair free, wincing as she did so. "Ewww," Elizabeth made a face as she pulled herself free from the pink guck. "It's everywhere..." The pink substance covered the hall in splotches. A small, smoking scorch mark was in the center of the mess. "Ew!" Elizabeth said again, jumping back in alarm. "I think this... this is... Lysandra!" Alex pulled herself up, rubbing her aching shoulder, and examined the pink tar-like substance curiously. With a scream, Sara tore her hair free from the floor and stood up with Elizabeth. "What do you mean it's Lysandra? Humans aren't filled with..." She scuffed the substance with her shoe. "Pink... stuff." "Well, it wasn't here before Lysandra exploded," Elizabeth said, becoming annoyed. "'S taffy." Alex said. The two girls turned to where she was sitting. "What?" Elizabeth asked. "How do you know?" Sara asked, slightly wary. "'Cause it tastes like taffy. Very sugary." There was a long, awkward silence. "Ewww," Elizabeth said, recoiling in disgust. "Humans aren't filled with taffy," Sara said flatly. "Well," Alex said as she picked herself up off of the floor. "Maybe we aren't dealing with humans, ever think of that?" "You're a cannibal!" Elizabeth shrieked. Alex rolled her eyes. "Come on, Liz. It's not technically cannibalism if the person isn't human." "But, but," Elizabeth persisted. "She was human shaped!" "Look, I don't want to debate the technicalities right now." "Let's get out of here before we're caught by Filch," Sara said, gathering her fallen items. "Yeah, I guess," Alex grumbled. She paused. "Where is Filch, anyway? I haven't seen him around these days." "Not sure," Sara said, frowning. She shrugged. "But then, we've been in the common room for most of the time so..." she trailed off as they began to walk away from the scene, pausing occasionally to remove stray bit of taffy from their persons. "On the plus side," Elizabeth said, her voice fading as they rounded a corner. "We found out how to kill them..." The unicorn, having been long forgotten, blinked in confusion. It approached the taffy carefully and, after a few experimental sniffs, began to eat it. And that was the end of Lysandra. Eleanorby Helena Winge, a.k.a. DeliastereHe laid in bed for hours, staring blankly up at the ceiling high above, trying to doze off. The shine from the glow-in-the-dark stars he'd put up hardly a year ago had disappeared and only the pale luminosity of the moon lightened the dusky room. The sky lay in a clouded veil of darkness and the moon ensconced within the thick misty layers of despondency. And he couldn't sleep. Oh damn thee, insomnia, oh damn thee. In the murky light he felt as if the walls creeped closer, trying to suffocate him. Up at the ceiling dwelled the demons of his imagination, and they felt far too real. The devils of his mind stared accusingly at him, and he wanted to hide away to where their gaze couldn't see into his secret soul. He curled up to a ball under the blankets, shaking with terror. The blanket covered his eyes, and he felt that the room was filled with assassins, and in their hands were knives, shards that sought for a peice of avenging flesh. He tried to be reasonable in his panic, telling himself the monsters weren't real, and after a while he fell asleep in a restless slumber. The sleep didn't last long. The thunder woke him, and the rain fell heavily on the roof with the steady thud of relentless war-drums. The autumn storm brought back memories of a slippery cliff and horrible thoughts . The creatures up at the ceiling were still there, and all but one, a woman's gentle face, disappeared when a strike of lightning tore through the dark. The face was painful to him, the face of his loved, and she tried to reach out to him, so far away. Audacious tears stung his eyes, and as he tried to blink them away they welled up more. As soon as he closed his eyes her face was there, her picture seemed to be etched onto the inside of his eyelids. Sadness in her eyes and in the lines of her delicate face accused him for her terrible fate. "Oh why do you still haunt me, Eleanor?" he cried out loud. The blanket that still covered the lower part of his face muffled his anguish. Waves of guilt flowed over him, and he almost drowned in grief and the mistake replayed in his brain. The memories were all he had left, everything but a face up at the ceiling. The ghost of his beloved turned her face away from him and disappeared in a foggy mist, the tears dampening his cheeks. He moaned over the actions that took his love, and he wept himself to sleep, crying tears that couldn't replace white roses to her. The feeling of empty loneliness numbed him, and when he finally slept he dreamed of her. He woke up exhausted, worn out by sleepless nights, as if his life had ended at the same time as he took hers. And he knew this was the punishment for his distrustfulness. Lightning Flashedby Kestrel Arien, a.k.a. Kestrel Queen of WandsLightning flashed; in that brief instant, she could see that he'd been crying. Another flash; the changes in him were apparent. He seemed to have aged twenty years in the past four months. His face was drawn, and the fine lines around his eyes and mouth had grown deeper. Pity for him coursing through her, she leaned forward. "You can't keep her here, Damien. It's against the law." He looked up, and in another flicker of lightning, his dark eyes bored into her. "So let them arrest me, throw me in jail. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing does." His voice sounded old and tired. She sighed. "I can't order you to move her, but it would be in your best interests to do so." Gathering her things, she rose and left the room. He gazed after her expressionlessly. After he heard the front door close, he turned his attention to the front window and watched her disappear down the drive. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dreary room. Most of the furniture was shrouded in sheets and the walls were bare. Tears came to his eyes as he thought about how they had planned to brighten it up. Memories overwhelmed him and he felt he had to get out. And so, he headed for the only room in the house in which she had not been allowed: his study. He felt his way down the hall, opened the door, and groped briefly for the light switch before he remembered the power lines were down. Once inside, he sank into an armchair that had its back to the windows. Outside, the storm raged as it had been doing for several days. He laughed mirthlessly. Here he was, a man who hated the rain, in one of the wettest countries in the world. And for what? A woman he had thought loved him. Resting his head on the back of the chair, he alternately laughed and cried. When the emotional flood had subsided, he rose and started to walk around the chair to the window, forgetting about the small table beside it. He fell over it and swore loudly. After picking himself up, he turned and pushed the table away. There was a loud crash and the thought crossed his mind that he had just broken his grandmother's lamp. And he realized he didn't care. Damien ran a hand through his dark hair, which was even now shot with silver. He took a deep breath and looked out the window at a rain-washed, wind-torn garden. It had gone to weeds, all except the circle of roses in the center; he took care of them, for they were her favorite. A single tear slid down his face. Lightning flashed; he cried out and slammed his fist into the window. The glass shattered and the rain came pouring in. He didn't notice. Stumbling in the wind that came through the hole he had made in the pane, he made his way to the bookcase and felt around until he touched cold metal. He clutched the frame to his chest, and even in the dark, he could see her face. Her beautiful face, with those large, expressive, green eyes, framed by luxurious waves of auburn hair. His fingers traced the patterns etched into the metal frame, leaving drops of blood behind, as the tears began to fall again. "I'm so sorry, love," he whispered to the photograph. Finally aware of the rain coming through the broken window, he let the picture slip to the floor and, ignoring his bleeding hand, felt his way to the door, closing it behind him. He leaned against it for a moment, not sure what he should do or where he should go. But deep within him, he knew the answers to both questions. Lightning flashed through a window somewhere at the back of the house, and like a sleepwalker, he followed it to the kitchen. He lowered himself into a chair at the table they'd placed there so they could eat somewhere besides the formal dining room, and recalled that last night. It had been raining then, too. She'd told him she was leaving. He'd asked why. Head down, she'd answered that she was pregnant. He'd laughed and embraced her. "That's great!" he'd cried. And that was when she'd pushed him away and told him that it wasn't his. His smile had faded; he couldn't believe it. "Whose?" he'd asked, unwilling to consider she had another boyfriend . She'd looked him straight in the eye and said, "My husband's." And then she had picked up her bags and walked out. Anger rose within him; he stood and swept everything off of the table. Dishes hit the ground and broke into millions of tiny shards, spilling uneaten food across the tiles. Damien ran across the room, unaware of the dish fragments slicing into his bare feet. He flung the kitchen door open, and lightning flashed as he headed out into the storm. Thunder boomed overhead, but he didn't care. Trampling weeds and grass, he made his way to the circle of rosebushes that was all that remained of the once lovely garden. He pushed though the thorny branches and fell to his knees by the mound that marked where her body lay. Sobbing uncontrollably, he stared at the simple cross at the head of the grave, and at the letters painstakingly carved into it. "I'm so sorry, Rosemarie..." He knelt there and he thought about the rest of that night. She had walked out on him; he had called after her, told her to go ahead, he didn't care. But he did care. She had stood there at the end of the drive, water streaming from the ends of her hair. And then she had turned and started across the street. She hadn't seen the cab coming, but he had. He cried out for her to stop, but she hadn't listened. The cabbie had been unable to stop in time to avoid her. Even now, he could hear the sickening thud her body had made as it landed on the ground. Damien had run back to the house and phoned the paramedics, but they couldn't save her. He blamed them, he blamed the cabbie, but most of all, he blamed himself. If he hadn't yelled at her, she would not have stopped to look at him and would have made it across the street in time. His mind back in the present, he turned his attention to the smaller cross that stood beside hers, the one that stood in memory of her unborn child. He found himself wondering what it would have looked like had Rosemarie lived. Would it have been a boy or a girl? Would it have looked like her or its father, that cursed man whose name Rosemarie had held at the time of her death? Lightning flashed above him. Reaching forward, he pried the smaller cross out of the ground and fingered its pointed end thoughtfully. He wanted to be with his Rosemarie again, and he knew what he had to do. He was found the next evening by his neighbors who had gone out looking for him when he didn't answer the door. They had heard the screaming and the shattering sounds and had been worried. The storm was still going strong, and lightning flashed, illuminating his face, contorted in a silent scream. His fingers were still curled around the top of the cross, which he had used as a dagger, plunging it into his heart. His body was buried quietly. There was no funeral, and Damien exited the world as he had lived most of his time in it. Alone. It Don't Mean s**t.by Jeff A. Van Booven, a.k.a. JahoclaveWhy are we here? A question that has been debated throughout the centuries by philosophers and learned men. You'd think, that given the insanely long amount of time they had to figure it out they would have gotten a clue. But when you consider that their most convincing argument of existence is "I think therefore I am," it doesn't leave a lot to be expected from them. After all, many people think, but it doesn't do them a whole lot of good. Another fun one is our purpose in life. Not that we have one, but it's apparently something people will pay for. Countless, books, movies, and other such T.V. shows -- like the sob stories you see on Oprah -- have been sold for this very purpose So, if you're one of the people lucky enough to know a massive amount of idiots, you can live a pretty wealthy life. Plus, if you're missing a leg, all the better. Mass Media loves a sob story. Through all this debate and discussion, the human race has achieved virtually little success in defining ourselves in the abstract. We're left with little to show and nothing to go on. As far as the abstract goes, to quote a not-so-great NASCAR driver, "It don't mean s**t." It doesn't leave us with much, just what we want out of life. But let's be honest about it, even then, most of that is pointless. Legacies aren't going to be meaningful to you after you're dead. Money isn't going to do you any good six feet under. Don't get me wrong, if you can get some green, good, but you shouldn't waste your life away if you can't. There's one thing that's worth more than either of them, and that's happiness. In your lifetime, happiness is what's going to matter. If you led a happy life, then you led a good life. Too many people, especially in today's society are focused solely on the negatives of the culture, zeroing in on things they don't like. Extremist-vegans and eco-terrorists, especially groups like PETA are good examples of this. They can't be happy because they can't agree with the rights of others. Thus, they have to terrorize others and make the place even more unhappy. Then you have the job market, people working their lives away just to buy some junk they don't really need. It isn't a fluke that you find many more happy people in unindustrialized nations. They don't have to deal with the constant grind of our high-paced, rush society that places so much emphasis on material goods. Do yourself a favor, when you go out in the world, do what makes you happy, not what makes you rich. Or, just make a sandwich.
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:08 pm
FIRST RUNNER-UPThe Place Where I Come Fromby Bane is on Fire!Breathless, boring, simple story
to raise my hair and view my glory.
Biography cleansed by songful means
or dirtied up by poetic machines.
Sink into my sinful rut
alarms aren't ringing, doors are shut.
Closed all by a memory deep
in which my phantoms dare to creep.
I come from here, and there, and see
what my vision's done to blind me.
Couple this with ending trust
imposed before the primal lust.
Earth is seething, its temporal machination
contributes to a high elation.
God's prayer in full force
begins my week without remorse.
Die a little tonight
it's what's right.BEST OF ISSUEBlinkby Krause...........................................Blink.
.......................................Too Late.
..............................................................Out of the corner
................Of your eye
..............................................You saw it,
...........................................But then,
............Like
..................A
....................Shooting
................................Star,
............A
................Supernova,
..............It vanishes.
...............................................rushingatshutterspeed,
....................................A perfect sunset
.........A gleaming gem
.............................................................ninety-nine percent
..................covered
..................................................................by sand.
...........................................Blink,
.........................................It's Gone.Zacharra's Brilliant Publishing Adviceby ZacharraHoly s**t! Who'd have thought I knew something important? Follow these simple, step-by-step instructions to get a guaranteed publishing deal, hit it big, and be a successful millionaire author. Well, probably not, but this will at least help, and one day who knows? (Just remember where you learned it!) Section 1: Why do you write? Section 2: Know what you write! Section 3: What does the market need? Section 4: The bookstore is your friend! Section 5: What's selling? Section 6: Submitting a query letter. Section 7: Edit thyself! Section 8: Convincing book proposals. Section 9: Want an agent? Section 1: Why do you write? It sounds like a stupid question, but it's surprising how many aspiring authors don't even know the answer. Is it because you feel like spreading your wisdom? Do you feel like everyone should know about how easy it is to build a computer, or to lose weight? Do you just want to make some cash? Maybe you just enjoy writing, and figure it'd be nice to get paid for doing what you love. Everyone has a reason for doing what they do, make sure you know what yours is. Make sure you know what motivates you, so you have a good idea where it will lead. Section 2: Know what you write!"Well, it's kind of a mix, really. It has a romantic theme in there, but I guess you could call it non-fiction, because I based it off of someone I know. Then again, it's really mysterious?" WRONG! Sorry, but if you don't even know what you're writing, your credibility goes down the drain. Find a genre that suits what you're writing and stick with it! Section 3: What does the market need?Scouring the internet, businesses, newspapers, magazines, or anything else you can get your hands on is a good way to learn what could be missing in the market. If you're looking to sell, you'd better know what appeals to a wide market, what's making the news, and the success of similar products as your own. Just pretend you're doing so exciting reconnaissance work as you slink around in bookstores, checking the shelves for product gaps which leads us to our next section. Section 4: The bookstore is your friend!Before you write a word, know that the bookstore is you number one source of information. If you're writing a book on how to grow beautiful gardens, you're going to want to slip into that local bookstore, and browse around the gardening section for a while, peeking at sizes, prices, publishers, and the copyright dates of potential competition. The book-business is a business after all, so it is imperative to closely scrutinize all aspects of your book. If you see a dozen large, hard-cover books on how to grow gardens, perhaps a small soft-cover book is needed? The publication copyright date is also crucial information. If you see book similar to the one you have planned is still on its first printing of 3,000 books from 1995, it's obviously not doing very well. Section 5: What's selling?Well, romance, computer-building 'how-to' books, and children's books certainly are. Perhaps your not wanting to fabricate these bodice-rippers can be swayed by the fact that some 37.9 million women read romance fiction each year (not to mention the 3.5 million men!). However, regardless of what you're writing, you need to do your homework. As Mel Odom, prolific author of 70-some fiction and nonfiction books in the past 12 years says, "You have to study the type of book you want to write, as well as the market for that type of book. Take it apart and know it." The ability to analyze markets, genres, and trends can lead to a very prodigious output! Section 6: Submitting a query letter.The query letter is the first step of the total submission process. It's a very simple, one-page letter, describing the purpose of your book, and why you think the world needs it. It's that simple! Don't make this more complicated than it has to be, a query letter should never be more than a page, and you should really summarize what you're trying to say in a very brief stroke of genius. This doesn't have to be long, but it should be the product of your greatest potential. Do not: - Misspell any names! - Send a package or letter with postage due. - Use a goddamn typewriter! - Drag out your point. - Criticize other books. - Write a comedy routine. Do try to sound professional. - Say, "My friends think this is great." - Send anything messy or unprofessional. No food stains! - Demand a minimum advance. Section 7: Edit thyself!That's it; I'm not even going to bother working on a section so obvious. That's what Writer's Aide is for! Section 8: Convincing book proposals.The secret to writing nonfiction, and not wasting a ton of time, is to think of an idea for a book, and then write a 20 or so page long proposal. Send it off to an editor, and if it doesn't get any takers, move on to the next topic. It's a tragedy when you write a six-hundred page novel and nobody wants it. Once you sell an idea, then you actually sit down and write the book. So what does it take to write a 'convincing nonfiction book proposal?' - A cover page with the title, your name, address, and phone number. - A 3-5 page pitch - A DETAILED table of contents - A sample chapter of your book - Attachments from recent articles, be it magazines or newspapers about recent events that could make your book popular. What's a 'pitch?' A pitch is simply a proposal. You are trying to pitch your book idea. In 'A Complete Idiot's Guide to Publishing,' it's broken down in these five basic parts: - The idea - The market - The competition - The publicity and promotion potential - The author Fiction, however, is different. You need to write the book first! Hoorah! Want to know where to learn the hottest novel-writing techniques? Why, your friend of course: The bookstore. Read, study, and analyze other books before you sit down and try to write your own. Once you've actually written a story, you need to 'decorate' it. This is the second draft! Writing good fiction isn't easy, so don't panic if your story needs revisiting several times. Fiction proposals, like the books themselves, are different. Say you come home one day, and check your answering machine, to find that the editor you sent your query letter to is interested, and wants to see more. What do you need this time? - A synopsis of the novel (a brief summary) - The first 50 or so pages of your novel - Information about the author (what impressive information you have about yourself. Section 9: Want an agent?For those of you who don't have ultra-savvy marketing skills, or any diplomatic charm whatsoever, there's always the option of having the agent. You may have written a brilliant query letter, and you've just finished constructing your bullet-proof proposal. That doesn't mean you'll start selling books faster than can be printed, and that's where the agents come in. These guys do the works, too: Everything from going to lunch with editors and publishers, circulating at parties, attending conferences, and sharing cabs. Their job is to find out what kinds of books editors are interested in, and what these editors never want to see again. Not only does the agent help plug your book, but it looks more official when it's happening. The editor knows that this agent wouldn't be wasting his or her time and money on a project that isn't worth it. If the editor decides to give you a call, and loves the book, you can pop open those bottles of champagne and start celebrating. If you're lucky, you'll get somewhere around the typical $10,000 a year income, depending on the source, plus book royalties. It's not uncommon for a first-time book advance to receive a whopping 5 grand, but on the same token, they can climb all the way as high as $100,000. All of this rotates around the source of income, how incredible your book-idea was, whether or not you have a solid background or any sort of platform (newspaper column, high-profile name, etc.). Well, that about wraps it up for Zacharra's brilliant publishing advice. I know there are quite a few gaps in the information, but I had to cram it into a small section, so suck it up! For more information on how to publish, be sure to visit your best friend, or PM me! Preferably the former! Ah, yes. Welcome to this month's Beyond the Box feature presentation: Some useless trivia factoids to rot your brain, a.k.a. we're-still-recovering-from-last-month's-writing-project! Hehe, anyway. Come grab your slice of of this lovely trivia pie, courtesy of the underpaid and overworked staffies at TGP. (Feed us!) Animals are Our Friends- A duck's quack doesn't echo. No one knows why.
- Donald Duck comics were banned from Finland because he doesn't wear pants.
- 72% of Americans sign their pets' names on greeting cards they send out.
- All polar bears are left handed.
- Turtles can breath through their butts.Historical Gems- King Louis XVI of France once tried to flee Paris with his family. They were dressed as peasants in a golden carriage with armed guards protecting them. The King rode up front as the coach, thinking no one would recognize him when his face was engraved on every coin in the country.
- General Patton...predicted Pearl Harbor and in his memo he laid out the future Japanese attack almost to the letter, predicted the Battle of the Buldge, predicted the Cold War, and...predicted the donut I ate this morning. (Not really, but wouldn't it be awesome if he did?)
- The first object that the United States launched into space was a ball of tin foil. (But in defense of Uncle Tom attempting to upstage the Soviets, I'd say it was a very mean-looking piece of tin foil.)Fun Ways to Die- You're actually conscious of what's going on around you eight or so seconds after your head is chopped off.
- On average, one hundred people choke to death on ball-point pens every year.
- Every year more than 2,500 left-handed people are killed from using right-handed products.Famous Faces- George W. Bush and John Kerry are 16th cousins, three times removed.
- Barbie's full name is Barbara Millicent Roberts.Public Service Announcements- Did you know there's a mushroom out there that's worth more than gold? It's called a Black Truffle, and it's found in certain parts of France and Italy. They're very rare and hard to come by, and they train pigs to find them. In France, they cost about $750 US dollars, and coming here it goes over a $1,000. Would you pay that much for a mushroom?
- It's impossible to sneeze with your eyes open.
- The dot over the letter 'i' is called a tittle. (Ehehe, tittle!)
- There are no words in the dictionary that rhyme with orange, purple, or silver.
- On average, twelve newborns will be given to the wrong parents daily!
.....There's a new discovery about miniscule fungi growing in the dust between book pages, causing hallucinations when inhaled. So if your heart races and you feel light headed -- unless the book is uber awesome -- go open a window and take a break already.More Public Service Announcements- Percentage of American men who say they would marry the same woman if they had it to do all over again: 80.
- Percentage of American women who say they would marry the same man: 50.
- Percentage of men who say they are happier after their divorce or separation: 58.
- Percentage of women who say they are happier: 85.
- 53% of women in America would dump their boyfriend if they did not get them anything for Valentine's Day.Moral of the story, guys? Better start marking those calendars and treating your girl like a princess. According to statistics, odds are you'll be sorry when they're gone. crying Do you care to meet the family at the Press? Read on, reader, you're in luck! The peanut gallery awaits to make your acquaintance, so don't be scared now; we don't bite. (We're much too refined.) Nibbles are our specialty, hee. CAST CREDITSListed in alphabetical order. This isn't a complete list of all the wonderful Gaians that have supported the 'zine. Only the most active members of our staff have been listed this time. Thanks to Kraeela for all of the hilarious staffie portraits!16807 Remorseful Whim ... Columnist a.k.a. The Newest Guy 
alicemae ... Chief Editor a.k.a. Chief Apple-Eater
Dev Kimiko ... Graphics Designer a.k.a. Pixel Guru
Dragon Lilly ... One-Girl Support Team a.k.a. The-Little-One-That-Could
Gypsy_Hart ... Editor a.k.a. Le Grammar Nazi
Jahoclave ... Columnist a.k.a. Resident Badass
Kraeela ... Editor's Left Hand a.k.a. Teh Tech Monkey
Maru-Kitae ... The Newer Guy a.k.a. The Historian
peiormentis ... Critic + Scout a.k.a. The Ultimate Scoutic
Serieve ... Editor's Right Hand a.k.a. The Asian Wonder
Zacharra ... The New Guy a.k.a. Jack-Of-All-Trades1. When did you start working at The Gaian Press?Jahoclave Um, pretty much since the beginning I've been giving advice and such. Dragon Lilly Since the beginning, pretty much. Kraeela Wait...I work at the Press? Wow, that's gotta be pretty good pay! *riffles through wallet* ...wait a minute...I'm working for free?!?!?! Dev Kimiko Day one. Yays, I be teh oldbieness~ ...or something. I think it was day one anyway. It could have been two or three, I suppose. Gypsy_Hart Actually, about two days ago. April 9, 2005. Zacharra Recently. One could say I'm a 'n00b' at the 'zine. peiormentis I've been here since the oh-so-very beginning, thank you. 16807 Remorseful Whim Just before the third issue's release. Jahoclave Meh, I had columns to write, opinions to share, and it gave me yet another outlet for the funny. And it wasn't being run by an illiterate dumbass. Dragon Lilly No n00bs, or as Jahoclave so eloquently puts it, it wasn't being run by an illiterate dumbass. Serieve 1) Experience, 2) The people, and 3) I have no life. Dev Kimiko Because it was summer before-uni-starts break and I had nothing to do. I thought I'd contribute something. Gypsy_Hart I love to read and to write. I am a**l about grammar and punctuation. I love being a part of something that I enjoy and believe in. Zacharra Hm...interesting question. I enjoy throwing myself into pain-filled battlegrounds, leaping out of trees, and joining stress-filled hard-working guilds. You figure it out. peiormentis It seemed like a good cause and alicemae's delightfully good typing skills excited me. 16807 Remorseful Whim The Press is well-organized, filled with good people (some of which I consider acquaintances, at the very least), and covers a great deal of subject matter which I find to be very interesting. So, the real question is-- why wouldn't I want to work here? Jahoclave I refuse to answer yes on the grounds that I am a more violent person. Also, I'm not part of the PLA and I fear that they might come after me for copyright violations if I used fruit as a weapon. Dragon Lilly Nope! Not apples, they're too light. *thinks* Perhaps a watermelon? Kraeela Ah, if I told you that, it wouldn't be secret, now would it? Serieve Yes, because throwing apples at Chinapenesillinothai people is a must-do. Dev Kimiko You're not worthy of the apples, I'm sorry. The apples are mine; they keep my crazy doctor away. Gypsy_Hart Not at all. Alice has been the nicest person I have met on Gaia so far. Zacharra Apples? Please. Pinapples? Now we're talking! peiormentis No, no, no. Alice hasn't done anything amazing enough for that honor. 16807 Remorseful Whim Yes! Because little does she know, the Apple Empire has united with the Holy Church of Senhor El Roboto, and even now they plot her downfall! Who am I to stand in their way? Jahoclave It isn't critically acclaimed, and I'm not getting paid. stare Dragon Lilly The difficulty of getting everyone on at the same time. Kraeela All the lost minds gathering dust under the couches. wink Serieve The asians. They're taking over the world, I swear! domokun Dev Kimiko The fact that it makes me do stuff on-time. Curse those deadlines. Curse them all. *hiss* Gypsy_Hart I am still too new to have any gripes. Zacharra It's hard to gripe when perhaps three people know your name. I just kind of work in the shadows. peiormentis It's not as big as I thought it would be, but we aren't that many issues into it. 16807 Remorseful Whim The stories. I think it'd be nice to give them their own separate page, but then I suppose that'd defeat the purpose of the Press... neutral Jahoclave I get to write stuff and interact with people. Mostly I just get to be me and make other people read it by sneaky tricks. Dragon Lilly Being able to read other people's writings -- and not having to worry about it being bad. Kraeela Last minute story changes, fruitlessly searching for writer replacements, herding in latent columnists, getting everyone to vote in time...wait, I think I misplaced this answer. *copy pastes it into the question above* Serieve The asians. They're so loser-ish, I don't feel so bad when I watch 'em hanging out, trying to put together a Godzilla-less 'zine. Dev Kimiko Its overwhelming uberness. Gypsy_Hart The concept of the 'zine is my favorite part. People with a common interest working together (in a somewhat organized fashion) to creat a publically accessible literary magazine. Zacharra Looking at Dev's pretty banners. whee peiormentis Why the Critic's Corner, of course! And the lovely community we've seemed to have created in this guild is nice too. 16807 Remorseful Whim The snark. The attitude. The ZING! Jahoclave I would have it so that I was paid large sums of money. Dragon Lilly Inserting subliminal mind control messages to make more people read. xd Serieve I'd ban all the asian people. scream Dev Kimiko I wish it had a stupidity converter installed, so that all who read it would become un-n00bified. Not that n00bs would probably read it anyway. They're too busy not concentrating on how to spell 'writers.' Gypsy_Hart Again, I am too new to has such opinions yet. Zacharra The name of the 'zine. I still say we need to 'spruce' it up a bit. "Ultra, Mega Gaian Press of Death." Or something else, whatever. peiormentis Ohh! More submissions. Lots more. 16807 Remorseful Whim There would be more robots, androids and freaky cyborgs. whee Dragon Lilly I'm a kid who loves to fight and licks up blood, both her own and everyone elses. Kraeela Now why would I want you to know? Serieve ninja Depends on what you freaky asian stalker people already know about me. (Just don't tell anyone I'm asian! gonk ) Dev Kimiko I got my head stuck in a revolving door once. That and I'm related to a British PM... Gypsy_Hart Well, there is a lot you don't know about me. I have a not-so-secret obsession with Laurell K. Hamilton novels. Zacharra I can sword-fight better than Leonardo. (The Ninja Turtle). 16807 Remorseful Whim I am in posession of, and somewhat well-versed with, a Ninja-to-- a straight-edged Japanese sword known for its usefulness and versatility when trying to move with stealth (ex: a scabbard made to block opposing swords, which also has a removable bottom to aid with underwater breathing, etc.). Rael Islington Jahoclave As for computer names, I call mine Bartleby, as it refuses to ever do anything in accordance with my wishes. *Laughs* I love you, Jaho. My computer isn't as considerate. Instead of "I would prefer not to" It just gives me the finger... Draogn Lilly][quote="Douglas Adams I just love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by. Kraeela You can fool some of the people all the time, and all the people some of the time...but you only need fool a majority of the people once every couple of years and you've got yourself a democracy. -- No idea who said that. Serieve "Able was I ere I saw Elba." Quoted from a totally non-asian guy named Napoleon. Oh! Oh! And there's one I saw on this shirt that said "I have kidnapped myself. Give me $1,000,000,000 or you'll never see me again." Dev Kimiko "Curse you, Ed. May your combos never be timed right." Found it on a fansub board. It made my inner gamer giggle hysterically. Also, at work I saw a guy wearing a shirt that said "And on the 8th day, God created me!" xd Gypsy_Hart "I have never tried to make myself like everyone else. I have simply tried to make myself someone everyone can like." ~Myself "My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies..." ~Queen "Celebrate we will, for life is short but sweet for certain." ~Dave Mathews Band Zacharra As the great Mark Twain once said, "The distance between the right word and almost the right word, is like the difference between lightning, and a lightning-bug." peiormentis Everything is so small where I live. Straight ahead of oneself, one cannot go very far. 16807 Remorseful Whim "Bitches love me 'cause they know that I can ROCK! Bitches love me 'cause they know that I can rhyme! Bitches love me 'cause they know that I can F*CK! Bitches love me 'cause they know that I'm on time! ... Throughout the Projects!" ~Bitches, Mindless Self Indulgence Jahoclave In singular measurable amounts, or unitarial constant progressive efforts? Dragon Lilly You even had to ask? First we'll overthow those in charge of education and then... twisted Kraeela No, it's meant to be utterly and completely destroyed...preferable through a mass of nuclear bombs placed right at the core...that just might blast it into nice little smitherins. Serieve Well, I did raise an army in another forum called the Chaotic Kittens. A totally non-serious feminist army, where we tortured any of the male species that entered our lair. We had our base on Japan and I was the empress of Thailand, Ireland, and some other not-to-be-recalled nations. Good memories, good, gory, bloody, memories. biggrin Yep, I could rule the world with my army. Send all the males under ground and make the asian people chase their tails until they fell into the ocean. heart Dev Kimiko Only when no-one's looking... peiormentis No. I'm pure and innocent and most definitely don't have enough self-control for something like that. 16807 Remorseful Whim Nah-- I'd rather destroy the world than take it over. That, or be one of the dirty-work guys for the one who is taking over. Round One was judged by Jahoclave, Kraeela, Zacharra, Gypsy_Hart, and alicemae, so you if you have a problem with any of our wise selections...it's too late to argue! We're already halfway across the border by now, hehehe. (Rocky Point, anyone?) Anyway! These are listed in alphabetical order. Congratulations to all the winners! Your 100g should be on its merry way in no time flat! Asphyxiateby Juliet IngaThe Lightbearerby S. K. HamiltonMorningby AstairePocketbook of Loose Changeby KoukrisPoint At the Poserby Fawkes FlamesThe Realm Gemsby Eruden KiSquirrels are Evilby CauliWith Meby AtreasEditor's Note: This issue was definitely a breeze compared to last month, and I owe it all to my lovely staffies back at HQ. In fact, I think the most difficult part of this issue was simply voting for Best of Issue since there were so many great entries! We're definitely going to post again at the writing forum for submissions since it worked out so well this time. Anyway, I'll be gone for the summer taking care of family affairs, so Serieve and Kraeela have kindly agreed to step up and take the reigns for a while. We look forward to your continued support!
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:10 pm
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:27 pm
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 4.0We find the best so you don't have to. Announcement:- Alicemae, our valiant editor, will be on leave for the summer. In her stead she has appointed Serieve and myself as Right and Left-Hand editors (respectively.) Hello, and welcome to the fourth edition of The Gaia Press. - Due to complications, the 2nd stage of our contest, which was originally planned to run in this issue, is being delayed to the month of July [Issue 5.0] Thank you for your patience and consideration. IN THIS ISSUE:1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted and scouted by the best.3. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.4. Story, Dammit! - 16807 Remorseful Whim's expositions.5. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.6. Writer's Aide - Featuring some helpful advice from our very own Gypsy_Hart!7. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.Kraeela reports:- Cliffhangers that leave you clinging to the edge of your seat? Cliches that go by so fast you don't know what hit you? Herald those tired out and cheesy platitudes here. - Do you know your poems, punk? Test it out here for gold! - Give those brain cells a good jogging with this Science/Religion Debate. PART I. PoetryListed in alphbetical order.- Pitter Patter by Krause - Untitled by Triste Morningstar Pitter Patterby Krausepitter patter) on the window, raindrops (footsteps) on the floor car[pets], clothes and puppy piddle sitting by my [bedroom] door agape, a[jar] of cookies on the kitchen counter late night snack [a]t[tack] in a growling stom[ache] back to bed bed on my back (sleep until tomorrow [mourn]ing?s Untitledby Triste MorningstarShe's got a nice mouth. Really. lips too rough from everything she's touched cauterized from pretty porridge that burns her goldilocks kiss And cherry-juice, i think has been rubbing off from all the stems she's tied So little ash on her ivories(!) less than a pack-a-day, or so it would seem? I know all of these things in our noisey hall (where gin and piano are lukewarm) as she speaks her belladonna voice blooming and the root's snaked in her chest I said to her: this cannot be ignored when are you going to finish that damn drink anyway? But it seems that the glass is half full so we move on to more tangible things the state of our country and our religions and Musically Televised! these secrets learned from appliances untill the last bit slips I said to her: this cannot be -- Another! i beseech thee, good sir another, my most merciful Lord He laughs, hearing our silly brilliance and her literacy, so-called enlightenment ("I prefer to be called 'sexually liberated.'") and for her it spills over the top I had something to say but she kissed me and she tasted like cold corpse carrion and other carnal things i fear that it's contagious it is not the last (this drink/kiss) so soon, (we don't have to go home but) we can't stay here She is so wretched, barren, as the roots tighten their grip and i can barely hold her hair back She whispers things through the smoke: let's get the hell out of here, lets leave this ******** hick town. let's fall on our knees and let it kill us. let's scream and get drunk and pretend that maybe we know something anything Wishin' i could apologize that night. i was going to say, i'm sorry. i wish it was ok It wont be ok. but it'll all be over soon. But she won't hear it. she kissed me left the taste of her cheap wine and an unsweet burden on the tip of my tongue. PART II. FictionListed in alphbetical order.- Jane and Michael Smith by foryourfaults - The Badger Brigade: Chapter Four by Hemp Fandango Jane and Michael Smith.by foryourfaultsInternational tensions had lately been getting very strained. The very real possibility of the War loomed above of America, like a huge tidal wave preparing to devastate the country. Some people worried. Some people screamed. Some people prayed. Some people cried. And some people ignored it entirely. It was morning in Connecticut, and Jane and Michael Smith were arising for their daily routine. At precisely 6 o'clock AM, Michael carefully folded back his half of the blanket and slipped out of bed. He put on his immaculately pressed shirt and straightened his tie. He turned on the tap and washed his face with lukewarm water. At 6:15 AM, Jane Smith awoke, as she did every morning, to the sound of Michael's electric shaver. She lay in bed until he went downstairs to make his coffee. Then, she got up, put on the outfit she had laid neatly across a chair the previous night, and smoothed down her hair. Meanwhile, Michael was sipping from a thermos of steaming coffee. His toast popped out of his toaster. He buttered it evenly, then cut the toast into 4 pieces and ate the pieces one by one. Michael always tried to eat a lot for breakfast. He thought it might fill the emptiness that seemed to pervade throughout his body. Jane had completed her morning toilette. Michael could hear her coming down the steps, and hurriedly brushed crumbs off his suit. His plate clattered into the sink and his slim, dark, figure swept out the front door just as Jane entered the kitchen. She, too, prepared a large breakfast. Jane and Michael Smith had not married for love. Jane and Michael Smith had married because their rich, powerful parents had thought it convenient. It was lucky that Jane and Michael Smith were very resourceful people. They managed to live tolerable lives. They bought a double bed and slept as straight as soldiers on their respective sides. There were two bathroom sinks, two televisions, two couches, and two dishwashers. Why, if they arranged schedules just right, Jane and Michael could get through the entire day without seeing a hair of each other. And that is exactly what they did. It was morning in Connecticut again, and Jane and Michael Smith were arising for their daily routine. As Michael drove to work with his radio on, Jane settled down in their clean, bright house with a cup of coffee and the morning news on the television. "Hello, America," blared the twin speakers. "I'm afraid we have some grim news." Jane and Michael Smith listened, staring straight ahead with glazed eyes. They already knew what it was. "World War III has been declared," pronounced the too-cheery newsperson. Jane turned off her TV. Michael switched off the car radio. There was nothing more to hear. It was evening in Connecticut, and Jane and Michael Smith were doing something very rare -- a family dinner. Jane and Michael sat at a long, handsome dining table, with their backs straight, cutting their food with perfect poise. Jane picked up her napkin and folded it on her lap. "Please pass the salt, Michael," she said politely. Michael picked up the half-full bottle and put it in her hand. Jane's head snapped up as she felt Michael's hand inadvertently touch hers through the passing. She saw that his eyes, however weary, were wide and scared. His face was gaunt and gray shadows marked his cheeks. Michael, in turn, studied Jane's pale features. Her cheeks were hollow and her makeup could not hide the darkness under her eyes. "We can't keep pretending that nothing's happening," said Michael quietly. "Everyone knows that we'll be dead by midnight." Jane, very measuredly, took the salt and shook 3 perfect shakes over her soup. "Thank you for the salt," she said evenly. The dinner resumed. The only sounds were the occasional tink of silverware on plates. Michael picked up his knife and fork and put a piece of roast beef into his mouth. When he looked up, Jane was looking at him again. "It was -- it was a mistake, wasn't it?" she asked quietly, her gaze flickering around the room. "Living this way?" "It might have been," said Michael, just as softly. Jane dropped her napkin. They looked at each other for a long time, letting the steam rise off of their meals, their unspeaking faces communicating much more than words ever could. They drank in, for perhaps the first time, what their spouses really looked like, who they had married. Finally, Jane broke the silence. "Your soup's getting cold," she said. Jane and Michael Smith sat next to each other on the couch with the television glowing in front of them. Michael turned the channel to 14. Jane turned slightly on the floral cushion to see the TV better. For 40 minutes, the two of them watched meaningless news and meaningless images. Neither of them blinked when the newscaster showed images of cities being annihilated by atomic bombs. Neither of them flinched at the mushroom clouds or gasped at the flames. They both sat quietly, watching the glowing images flicker from horror to inconcievable horror; their hands folded, trembling, in their laps. Sounds continually blared out of the television to accompany the images. Explosions, death screams like lambs led to slaughter, bombs, and the ever-droning voice of the newscaster monotonously speaking behind all the noises of pain and fear. Neither Jane nor Michael turned a hair. Finally, the noise stopped a moment for a white-haired man to look at the screen and say, "Americans, we have one hour before the bombs make contact. We have one hour left." Jane picked up the remote control and, slowly and deliberately, pressed the power button. The noise was silenced, the flickering images were dark. She turned to Michael. He was already looking at her. "I love you," they whispered, under their breath, their lips barely moving. They said it quietly, so quietly that neither of them should have been able to hear the other, but they did. Their eyes glittered in the minimal light and their profiles threw soft shadows against the walls. Michael reached his hand out, and Jane caught it. One touch was all it took. They were suddenly together, experiencing closeness as they had never felt in years, holding onto each other with inhuman strength. Their hot tears burned into each others' skin, and their mouths frantically searched each other out, trying to make up for all the years of separation, trying to make up for all the years of coldness. They were together when the bomb struck. They would stay together as the dust and dirt settled over them, and they would be found together in 5 years when the survivors of the War returned to Connecticut and sifted through the layer of silt and grime. It was enough. The Badger Brigade: Chapter Fourby Hemp FandangoThe Badger Brigade Chapter Four: A World of Dumb Hermione who? Night had fallen on Hogwarts. Most people had given up on finishing their homework at the last minute and had finally gone to bed. Everything had become silent. Except in the Hufflepuff house, which was never silent these days. Sleeping had become difficult for most, perhaps because they were afraid of falling asleep and never waking up. The common room was alive with activity. While they were upset at being shunted aside - again - the Hufflepuff's seemed determined to make the best of it. Lack of classes had risen many peoples' spirits and people celebrated with games of Exploding Snap, playing with Weasley Wizard Wheezies, and buying food from Conrad at outrageous prices. In a quieter corner of the room, separated from the hubbub was a small group of elder Hufflepuffs. They huddled in close and spoke quietly to Zacharias, reporting what they had seen through the day. "I swear, Zach," Katherine said. "She said she was an elf and she carried around a big stick." "Did she speak softly?" Alex muttered, pretending she was clever. Katherine ignored her. "Then when McGonagall told her to put the silly stick away she ran outside and turned into a dragon. I mean, what the hell? It made no sense." There was a moment of silence. Then... "What kind of dragon?" Elizabeth asked innocently. Katherine ignored her as well. "I feel your pain, Katie." Hannah Abbot said, placing a sympathetic hand on Katherine's shoulder. "Herbology was a nightmare. There was the girl with blood red hair who kept talking about how much of a cold-hearted person she is. All the time! And she flirted with Harry and Malfoy." Zacharias sneered. "No taste then." "None of them have any taste," Susan said, while she frowned over her Herbolody homework. "They all listen to these muggle thingies called "See dee players" and sing muggle songs." She sighed and threw down her quill angrily. "They keep singing too!" "That's true." Elizabeth commented. She paused thoughtfully. "Does anybody know what "Evanescence" is?"[1] "I don't know," Alex growled. "But if I have to hear that stupid song from those black clad whiners one more time I'm going to hex their lips off." Sara, who had been staring thoughtfully into the fire the whole time, spoke up. "Has anybody else noticed that while there are countless of these new... things, there's only have three or four personalities between them?" There were some murmurs of agreement. "Actually, now that you mention it, I have noticed these new girls are either angry, sad, happy, or stupid." Hannah said reflectively. "Or all of the above." Alex muttered. "Well, at least we know they aren't immortal." Ernie said, turning to face the three fifth year girls "I mean, you three killed one... and then ate her." He added, shifting uncomfortably. "Oh, I wish you guys would stop," Alex snapped. "I mean, it's not like I cut her heart out with a spoon." "Indeed," Sara said. "You just devoured her innards." "Which were made of taffy! Taffy!" "Moving along," Elizabeth said hurriedly. "We kind of know what we're facing, right? So... what are we going to do about it?" There was another long silence, partly disturbed by Alex's mutterings about cannibalism and how she certainly never ate anyone thankyewverymuch. "Well, we could... you know, make a... group." Hannah said nervously, glancing at Zacharias. "Yeah," said Susan, catching on. "Like... you know, last year?" She stared anxiously at Zacharias. "You know," she went on, "the DA?" "The "dah"? What's a dah?" Elizabeth asked. Sara frowned. "A syllable?" Alex looked irritably from Zacharias to the sixth years. "What in sam hell are you people talking about?" "Nothing concerning you, cannibal." Justin snapped. Alex bristled. "Hey! For the last bloody time, I am not-" "Something like the DA," Ernie interrupted hurriedly before another scuffle could break out. "We could even use the room of requirement." Zacharias glowered and said nothing. "The what?" asked Elizabeth. "We wouldn't have to this time," Hannah remarked thoughtfully. "We could just use our common room. It's not like we have any of them in our house, thank Merlin." "It could be like the DA," Susan said as she watched Zacharias carefully. "Only much better, because this time it would be Hufflepuffs." Zacharias' eyes lit up. "Yes," he said. "It will be better because we won't be as damn foolhardy as Potter," he spat the name like a curse. "We'll plan. We'll be much more careful and more secretive. And we'll have a better name." "Shouldn't be hard. Anything's better than "dah"." Alex remarked bitterly, still stinging from the cannibal remarks. Hannah sighed. "It's DA, not dah and it was an acronym for Dumbledore's Army. We were a group of people who wanted to learn real defense against the dark arts, and not just the garbage that Umbridge taught." Sara frowned. "I didn't know Dumbledore had an army." "It's a long story. Anyway, what will we do? Just have a group of Hufflepuff's fight these thingies?" Justin asked. Katherine shrugged. "Why not? It sounds good enough to me." Beth stood up suddenly. "Yes, it's perfect! And we shall call ourselves..." she glanced at the house coat of arms. "The Badger Army!" There was another few moments of silence. "I think," Sara said carefully, "we could try something else. What's a good word for army?" Susan frowned thoughtfully. "Battalion?" "Badger Battalion? Well... it's not bad." Sara conceded. "How about Badger Brigade?" Hannah suggested. "You know? Like fire brigade? But with, you know... badgers." "Badger Brigade," Alex repeated. "I like it. It's got a ring to it." "Okay," Beth rallied herself. "Watch out you... thingies! The Badger Brigade is coming to get you!" she announced, punching her fist dramatically into the air. *** A new day had come and the Badger Brigade rose to meet it. In a sense. "What, you don't actually expect us to go to classes do you?" Alex said glancing from Elizabeth to Sara. "I mean, I'm all for killing those girl creatures, but I think actually attending the classes they do is inviting yourself to a world of pain." "Tough," Sara snapped. "We're going. Smith wants everyone to go to classes today. He says if we observe them closely we might be able to tell their weaknesses." "We know their weakness," Alex snapped back. "I killed one, remember?" "And ate it," Elizabeth added helpfully. "Come on, Alex," Sara wheedled. "It's not going to kill you. Besides, don't you want to see how these things are affecting the teachers?" She relented slightly. "Well, it might be nice to see Snape suffer." Sara and Elizabeth grinned. "Exactly. Now get up," Sara commanded. "We have Transfiguration first with the Slytherins." She paused awkwardly. "And the, uh, Slythindors." Alex, who had been pulling on her robe over her school uniform stopped dead. "The what?" Sara glanced nervously at Elizabeth. "The, um, Slythindors." She coughed. "It's a new house. A few students were sorted into it, apparently." Alex gave a large sigh. "Things are certainly getting stupid around here, aren't they?" Sara rolled her eyes and grinned. "No kidding." *** As Sara and company trouped off to Transfiguration with Slythindor and Slytherin, the sixth year Hufflepuffs were arriving at Herbology with the Gryffindors. This class had become true torture for the Hufflepuffs. It was painful to watch their head of house turn into a mindless zombie - just like the rest of the staff. She could barely open her mouth without having another hand shoot into the air and a soft, musical voice correcting her. It was because of this that Ernie and his friends' dread increased with each step they took toward green house number four. The sunlight reflected against the glass panes and a cool crisp in the air. "It's a nice day, at least." Susan said, shielding her eyes against the bright light as she stared at the sky. "Yeah," Justin said vaguely, staring at his shoes as he walked. Susan watched him anxiously. He had been distracted since they left the common room that morning. She had simply dismissed his distraction, figuring he was upset about the treatment Hufflepuff was receiving around school, and their head of house's odd behavior, but now she wasn't so sure. A sharp intake of breath and a "What in God's name is that?" tore Susan from her thoughts. She looked around in alarm. "What is what?" she asked urgently. Hannah, gaping in disbelief, didn't respond but pointed straight ahead to a group of assembled Gryffindors. Susan was disgusted to see the usual amount of... thingies with them, but couldn't see what was upsetting Hannah and the others so much until her eyes rested on- "HERMIONE?!" Her startled shriek carried across the peaceful grounds and set a few birds flying. A girl in the assembled Gryffindors turned around suddenly and sneered at the Hufflepuffs. "Yeah?" she said. "What do you want?" She had changed drastically - probably over the summer. Her hair was black and sleek, and her short fringe had been dyed an electric blue. Her eyes were no longer brown, but red with cat-like slits instead of pupils. She wore what looked like a mangled version of the Hogwarts uniform; the skirt had been shortened considerably and the shirt had been unbuttoned and pulled taut, leaving little to the imagination. She - like many others these days - wore spiked wristbands and a pentacle dangled around her neck. Susan didn't respond. She was still trying to wrap her head around the idea that this- this- person was the brainy Hermione Granger. "Um, hi Hermione." Justin said slowly, as if he wasn't sure of what he was saying. Hermione snorted. "Yeah, you would say that, wouldn't you? That's just like you, isn't it? Are you getting a good look, Finch-Fletchley? Taking in the show? JUST BECAUSE I'M DIFFERENT DOESN'T MEAN I'M A FREAK!!" she shrieked the last words, which had sent more birds flying. Justin stared at her blankly, looking shell-shocked. "I see," he said at last. Hannah narrowed her eyes and stepped forward. "If you don't want people to stare at you, why do you dress provocatively?" Hermione faltered, just for a moment. "I can dress how I want," she sniffed. "Yes, that's true," Hannah conceded, "but you also have to realize that dressing in certain ways will get certain responses. I mean, you obviously destroyed the school uniform for a reason-" "I did it for a fashion statement," Hermione snapped. "Yes, but with such a statement you expected to get attention," Hannah explained patiently. Hermione glared at them for a few moments. "I can see you're confused," Susan said spitefully, "so why don't I break this down into itty bitty words for you, okay? If you dress like a tart, the boys are going to drool, okay? Understand now? Do you want me to make a presentation involving charts and hand puppets? Would that make things easier for you to digest?" Her friends stared at her in shock. Hermione looked absolutely enraged. "Why you little-" but whatever clever comeback she had lined up was cut off by the arrival of Professor Sprout. "Hello hello hello, what's all this then?" she said, with a vestige of her old cheer. She glanced at the students but they were all avoiding her gaze. "Nothing? Alright then," she shrugged. "Into the green house with you, no time to lose." As they filed into the house, Hermione threw a baleful glare over her shoulder at Susan. Seamus, who had been standing close by, gave her a shocked look. "You better watch your back, Susan," he said in a anxious whisper. "Mione's got in it for you." Susan glowered at "Mione's" back. "I don't care," she hissed. "What can that brainless tart do to me? Infect me with her idiot fashion sense? Smear her ugly lipstick on me?" Seamus was silent for a minute. "That would be kind of hot." "Get lost, Finnigan!" Hannah snapped, wrapping her arm around Susan's shoulder. "It'll be okay, Susan," she said as Seamus ambled away. "If Hermione tries anything I'll be there for you." "Don't you guys think it's odd that she's acting just like one of..." Ernie leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "them?" Justin looked thoughtful as they took their places in front of their plants for that day. "You know, now that you mention it, I can't help but Ginny Weasley had been acting funny too." There was a slight pause. "Does anybody know what "Good Charlotte" is?" Susan's hands trembled as she pulled the writhing plant from its pot. Adrenaline pumped through her veins and her eyes prickled with unshed, angry tears. She had never been so... so mean to anyone like that before. It was these things, she decided. They did something to people. Made them do things they would never normally do. She felt the guilt settling in her chest. She had been awfully cruel and uncalled for... The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Her head snapped up and her curious gaze met with an angry crimson gaze of Mione Granger. Her resolve hardened. These things did something to people. 'You think you push me around? You think you can yell at my sweet Justin? You think you can ignore my house, and warp my head of house?' Mione smirked, her eyes narrowing into malevolent red slits. Susan held her gaze for a few moments... before her own lips quirked into a smirk and eyes narrow very slightly. 'I'll show you, you stupid t**t.' **** Author's Note: 1 - let's all remember that Evanescence was not popular in 1996/97. Neither was Good Charlotte or Slipknot. Point! What s Your Point? #4 Your Idea s Great. Now Shut Up.Jeff A. Van BoovenAnybody who frequents writers forums, especially those with a large population of younger writers, will have noticed this phenomena. It seems that the younger ones have an exceedingly increasing need to have their ideas approved by others. Rarely do these ideas yield such approval either. The biggest problem faced by wanting such approval is that, most of the time, the ideas put out by younger writers are clich . Older, more experienced writers are quick to point this out as well. In this way, many of these younger writers end up discouraged from writing their stories. This leads to another problem. The younger writers aren t practicing their writing. This lack of practice makes the critiques they receive even harsher. More errors are pointed out, and all around there is less to compliment. Seeing that their stories aren t very good turns off even more of the younger writers because they feel that they should be good right off the bat. Which, is rarely ever the case. One of the greatest mistake a young writer can make is to assume that those talented authors started out that way. As I said earlier, older and more experienced writers. Experience counts for a lot. You learn to be a better writer by writing. If you consistently seek approval of your ideas before you write them then you miss out on very important practice. In the early going, it does not matter if an idea is original or clich . A new author usually lacks the talent an experience to make any idea well written. Stop worrying about whether your idea is good or not. Don t even bother typing up the idea and asking others to critique it. You aren t going to like the results. Your self-esteem will not get a boost. Self-esteem is a hindrance to early writers. They don t know how to deal with having it hurt. In fact, you ll hardly ever notice the future authors until they put out a decent piece of work. Those who truly want to work to become authors don t spend their time asking others to critique their ideas. They go out, write them, and ask people for advice on how they can improve. When they get that advice, they act upon it. They don t let self-esteem get in the way. For all you younger writers who want to become a good writer. You re idea s great. Now shut up and write it. Quality ideas do not mean quality stories unless you can produce quality writing.  Boredom and YouWhat's the difference between a banana and Michael Jackson? One is an elongated yellow fruit that grows in the tropics, while the other is a famous pop-star/celebrity facing charges of child molestation. Was that funny? I should think not. While it might have a certain amount of interest factor by being somewhat original, the above joke does not convey any realistic, relevant or reasonably obvious humour. Do you know why? Because it has no story. Every day, we are bombarded with thousands of little tidbits of information-- what happened to the neighbour's dog yesterday, the latest public transit strike, the daily news, your friend's bad jokes-- and our brain can't help but process the entire load. However, unless this information is conveyed unto us with at least a small measure of background, or an engaging method of delivery, we cannot be bothered to evoke any feelings of interest at all. Without some kind of a story-like element to supplement our lives, we would be bored stiff every day of our lives. Think back to the last time you read an article in a newspaper, or listened to the news. Do you remember which ones were interesting, and which ones weren't? Because I can guarantee you that the ones that at least kept you reading beyond the first sentence had either some kind of build-up to the main point, or gave a look at the full story of what was happening. So what does this mean for you? Well, most certainly, you should consider just how important story is in your daily life. By understanding how everyone is affected by the machinations of plot and theme, you can begin to shape how your own life's path winds, and perhaps even help you to write something of your own which will capture the interest of many readers. However, do not make the mistake of thinking you know all you need-- Because you ain't seen nothing yet.  Lucid Dreamby LockeTaelos (AKA Lost Tacos)There was a dead body lying down on the lineoleum floor at about 2am on a Friday. I'll never forget that Friday, because it was the one two weeks before my nephew's birthday. I was a little s**t faced--make it a lot. It didn't really matter though because the body lying on the floor next to my feet was in much worse shape. He or she didn't even look human. I mean, it's not to say that it looked like someone's dog or cat that someone accidentally placed in the blender or anything, but it certainly looked like someone took out a lifetime's worth of vengence on the poor sod. I bent down onto my knees and felt its pulse. That's what they always do on the telly. They bend down, they check the pulse, and then they say something important sounding like, "Nurse! Get me the morphine, stat!" I didn't have a pretty nurse to shout this to. I didn't want to shout anyway. Shouting is far to important for how I felt. I was scared. I wanted to scream. I didn't have anyone to scream to either. Everyone was passed out at the party. It was Frank's party and even though the body was pretty battered I could tell that our host was the one whom I was bent over. Poor Frank, I thought. Who could do this to him? A few moments later and reality tapped me on my shoulder telling me that I probably shouldn't even think about it and just leave. But how could I be so heartless? Was this some sort of dream? Was I lying somewhere with my head rubbing up against the cool refreshing presence of a porcelain bowl? No...dreams weren't like this. Dreams never made me feel this guilty and this pathetic before. And then there was Frank. Frank was standing beside me and shaking his head. His arms crossed over themselves and he watched me with his gray eyes. "Who's that, George?" He asked. I don't think I even realized that there was an ethereal appearance next to me. "It's you, man, can't you tell?" "No, not really. Oh well. You wanna go outside? I've got something important to tell you." I shrugged my shoulders. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe I would go outside and watch as God's fury ravaged the Earth by having the heavens spit out deadly flaming meteors that scorched the land. But outside it was pretty peaceful. Peaceful and cool, like the porcelain bowl. There were myrids upon myriads of stars out that night and it wasn't completely dark. The moon was full and it looked as if it was the largest I had ever seen. It was beautiful and I remember wanting to touch it so badly. I even stretched out my hand, my eyes welling up into tears as I saw each and every crater that dotted its surface. "I'm glad you came," Frank said. I turned my head and shook the stars out of my eyes. "You asked me to." "That's not what I meant," he looked disappointed, "I mean...I'm glad you went to the party. There've been a lot of things that I wanted to say, you know?" Frank wasn't really much of a talker and even though this was out of character, somehow, all things considering, I guess a ghost would want to get a few things off his chest. I smiled and sat down on a rock and held my knees together. "What do you really know about me?" Frank asked. "I know that you're dead," I replied. I didn't really know what else to say that would matter. "I know that! But that's not what I mean. I mean...we've been together for a long time right?" "Yeah, since second grade, we've all been together since Elementary though. You, me, Cecil, Greg--" "Yeah, but who knows me best?" "Out of all of us?" "Out of all of you." "I dunno, uh..." Why do we always use uh whenever we are trying to buy out time to think during a conversation? "I guess I do? I don't know, Frank, this isn't making any sense. We were all best friends. That's why we're all here! So who cares about--" "Me. Who cares about me." "Look! Why don't you tell me what this is all about, man, alright? I mean, Christ, what do you want from us? I don't get it." "Nobody ever asked." "Asked what?" Frank turned his back on me. I didn't just think of it as him turning from me though, I saw it as he was turning his back on the rest of us. He had to have been ungrateful. This party was our senior year in high school. This party was important...it was important to all of us. And yet all I was thinking of was that he was a big dickhead who didn't give a damn about anything that that stood for. "George, I love you guys. You know that, but I dunno. Things are different now. Well I thought...but I think they always were." "Nothing has changed, man. You're still the kid that s**t his pants when we were little--" "Because I couldn't stand being in the dark? God damn it, man, that was like...eighty years ago. I have changed, so have you! We're not the same little kids that used to go over each others house and play Super Mario Kart all night! We're not the same kids that would sleep over in tents outside Cecil's house! Its different now!" "Why? Cause we're going to college? Is that what's got you all crazy?" "I don't give a s**t about college!" "Well what the hell is it then?" "Do you remember me telling about Rob?" "Who?" "Rob, the kid in kindergarten that would sit on the tunnel slide and kiss the girls. Everyone was so grossed out by it." I couldn't help but start to get a little scared as to where Frank was going with this conversation. "Well anyway...what did him in was when he kissed Donald Haney, I'll never forget it. He kissed Donald on the lips and Donald decked him in the face and all of his friends ganged up on Rob too. It was bad." "Well hey, man, it was kindergarten. Boys don't kiss boys in kindergarten--" "Why," Frank asked abruptly, "Why can't they? They're little kids, right? They don't know about the kind of love that we associate kissing with. He just saw him as a best friend. Maybe even like family, like a brother." "You mean like the Italians?" "Yeah, like the Italians, so you see it wasn't so bad. But there was so much rage associated with it. So much hate." "Yeah, but come on, Frank, why are you talking to me about this? What, were you one of those psycho kids that beat the poor guy up and you want me to apologize to let your soul rest or some s**t? What?" "No, man, it's just, well look, I love you guys too, you know? But I love you. You know?" But I didn't. I loved him too. We were friends and that is what friends do. "Yeah, I love you too, man. Don't worry about it, alright?" I guess he didn't really have to. I started wondering if maybe I was seeing things, if maybe there was something more that I was supposed to pick up from this. Ghosts weren't real. There wasn't a bogeyman, and no one could talk to the dead, except for maybe some crazy gypsy woman that played with some phoney wooden board. "I haven't said anything that I've told you before, you know, you don't even remember. It's just like you," Frank said. There had been a long pause and I was relieved that he broke it. "Right, well, I've had a lot on my mind." "Do you think of me? I'm always thinking of you. There isn't a single moment when you're not on my mind." "Geez, Frank, I didn't know you were my mom," I retorted. The guy was shady most of the time. He never really spoke about his feelings and never told us anything bothered him. He was always the attractive one. He was always the guy that was popular with the girls and they all adored him and wanted him to be theirs. And now? Now he was opening up and I just wanted him to shut up. It was frightening. I didn't want to hear it. "Do you love me?" It was simple for Frank. When did he get so brave? Sometimes you can just say everything with your eyes. I didn't want to look into his. The devil was in his eyes. I kept picturing Donald Haney whom I had never known and all of his friends with their little firsts piling up on top of me. I picked their parents with knives and baseball bats and Holy Bibles. I pictured Hell. I pictured Heaven. "Yes," I said finally. He wouldn't go away, but he was dead, wasn't he? So what if I told him. So what? The world was dead, the night was young, and everyone else was drunk and unconscious. No one would know. Frank smiled for what seemed like the first time in a long time. It was a genuine smile, but then his face started to turn pale again and his eyes, his eyes just seemed to sink into the sockets and empty into two deep pits. He rushed towards me, his hands crushing my shoulders and his mouth, exhaling deaths stink, drew closer to me. "Then why did you kill me?" he whispered. "Why did you push me away? Why didn't you tell me? Why did you hate me?" Everything was a why and I didn't have any answers. I found myself standing beside Frank's corpse again, I was still bent over him. Tears welled up inside my eyes and I pounded his chest. Why did he leave me? Did I really do this? What was I going to do now? And I woke up. I remember at times I used to cry myself to sleep when I was younger. Before Cecil and the others, especially before Frank, I didn't have any friends. I didn't have anyone who cared about me. But I didn't have to cry anymore, at least nothing beyond tears of joy. The sheets felt cool and smooth as they enveloped the shape of my body and I turned my head to see Frank beside me. He was snoring. My father's snores were always the sort of loud bear snores that made you think he was going to suffocate and die right there in front of you. Frank's snores were more like little whispers. They were soothing. I smiled at him, watching him as he slept, and lulled by the sounds of his sleep, I drifted back into my own.  STUDIES IN WRITING #1Understanding the Writing ProcessThe basic steps of the writing process are listed and discussed below. Prewritng help you select and shape a subject for writng. Writing the First Draft helps you connect all of your thoughts about your subject. It is your first complete look at a developing piece of writing. Revising helps you make changes in your writing until it says exactly what you want it to say. Editing and Proofreading help you check your revised writing for correctness and prepares it for publication. Publishing helps you evaluate the effectiveness of your work. Sharing a finished piece with your friends or classmates is one form of publishing; submitting your work to a school newspaper or magazine is another.The Process in ActionPrewiting...1. Find an interesting idea to write about.
2. Begin your subject search with free writing, clustering, or another selecting activity.
3. Learn as much as you can about your potential subject.
4. Take a close look at your prewriting progress to see whether or not you have a solid interest in your subject. If one subject leads to a dead end, drop it and search for a new one.
5. Once you have a topic, find an intersting way (a focus) to write about it.
6. Think about the overall plan or design for organizing your writing. This list can be anything from a brief list to a detailed outline.Writing the First Draft...1. Write the first draft while the pewriting is still fresh in your mind. 2. Give your opening line or paragraph special attention to set the right tone for your writing. 3. Refer to your plan or outline for the main part of your writing, but be flexible. A more interesting route may unflod as you write. 4. Keep writing until you come to a natural stopping point. Don't worry about corrections at this point. Concentrate on developing your ideas. 5. Remember that your first draft is your first look at s developing writing idea. (You may find it necessary to write more than one draft of an emerging writing idea.) Revising...1. Review your first draft to make sure you understand which parts work and which parts need to be changed.
2. Add, cut, reword, or rearrange the ideas in your writing.
3. Check your writing for opportunities you may have missed to make it as meaningful and lively as possible.
4. Review (or rewrite) the opening and closing lines or paragraphs. They should help tie everything together in your piece.
5. Refine the style of your writing. Your ideas should sound interesting, colorful, and natural.
6. Ask family or friends to react to your writing.Editing and Proofreading...1. Reread your final draft aloud to test it for sense and sound. Replace any words, phrases, or sentences that are awkward or confusing.
2. The check for errors in usage, punctuation, capitalization, spelling, and grammar.
3. Have a dictionary, thesaurus, and a writing handbook close at hand while you work.
4. Ask a reliable editor -a friend, classmate, teacher, or parent - to check your writing for errors you may have missed.
5. Prepare a neat final copy of your writing.
6. Proofread the final draft for errors before submitting it for publication.Publishing...1. Share your finished product with a writing group.
2. Listen carefully to their reactions to your work. Take brief notes so you can refer to their comments the next time you write.
3. Decide if you are going to include this in your writing portfolio. (a collection of your best works)
4. Consider submitting your work to a school, local, or national publication. Make sure to know and follow the necessary requirements for submissions. (Ruke for submitting are unique to the publication you are submitting to.)The idea for this 'study in writing' came from Writers Inc. A Student Handbook for WRITING & LEARNING - Calling all writers! Did you like what you read? Think you can do better? Don't delay, submit today! Guidelines can be found under the first post of the Press Headquarters. - Like to critique? Love to write? Is Gaia like your second home? Get a job at the Press! Applications can be found in the first post of the Press Headquarters. - Looking for a place to advertise the thread showcasing all your written work? Or maybe you just want to announce a contest of sorts? Yet are you afraid that your post will be pushed into the forgotten pages within minutes? Have no fear, the Press is here! Advertise with us and ensure more exposure for your thread! We'll provide a link to your thread in our next issue, and it'll be 30g per line to post in The Watch, and 10g per line to post in The Afterthought. All profits will go to thepress mule and be used as prize money for future Press endeavors! So support a good cause and let your voice be heard at the same time! How spiffy is that? PM Kraeela if you're interested. - Next month look forward to Political Ramblings spearheaded by our resident badass, Jahoclave! - Stand-in Editor's Note: Wow....another month another issue. As usual, the expected headless chicken run and hair-pulling stress of putting this together almost last minute happened. The difference was the absence of our stalwart editor alicemae. We truly appreciate her and all she does now that she's not here to do it. sweatdrop My greatest thanks to all the staff -- especially Scarlet Jile, Remorseful Whim and Pieormentis -- who are part of this and have stuck it out till now. Till next time, Farewell and well met. -- Kraeela
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:28 pm
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:30 pm
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 5.0/June '05We find the best so you don't have to. IN THIS ISSUE:1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted and scouted by the best.3. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.4. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.5. Writer's Aide - Featuring some helpful advice from our very own Gypsy_Hart!6. Critic's Corner - A critique of one of our lovely pieces.7. Contest Finalists - Woot, it's the finalists from Round Two!8. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.Serieve reports:.....-"On Saturday, July 2nd at 8:00PM PST, Gaia will hold a two hour panel at Anime Expo where we will show the latest in Gaia development, features, and answer questions." -Announcement by Lanzer.....-The Gaia Casino-n. (guy-UH Kuh-see-no) A chancy place to spend all your gaia gold. Click link for details......-Obsessed with Gaia? Get the downloads to further your craze......-I don't know about you, but I sure as heck didn't know there was an Item Suggestion Thread!.....-A glimpse into the far future- Gaia Schools!.....-Like to keep your font original, but hate to constantly type and/or copy the codes? Now we have AutoText!.....-Mozilla Foxfire users! A new extension just for you! The Gaiabar, a quick and easy toolbar for your convenience.PART I. PoetryListed in alphbetical order. Matricideby Sephira JoI have never liked the color white,
but if you say so I'll wear it at my wedding.
Like a shroud that hides your death.
You feel so happy for the others,
yet you only cry and scream at me.
All through my youth I followed blindly,
foolishly believing I was free. Free, floating like
a leaf on your whims. Stray an inch, and be cut down.
You will never see the me inside
but you claim to know it's secret face.
Every day I live, I kill you a little bit more.
Tell me that you love me,
but that is not enough.
I want you to mean it too,
when nothing else is good enough for you.
Stained are my hands,
with a fancy and a whim.
Take this, don't take that.
Do this, don't do that.
You'll be a bad girl, when every thing you do is good.
Every day I live, I drag you far behind
like I've committed matricide.
Let me fly now, free
from this bloody cocoon, once called life.
Break from this body fired out of clay.
No longer I, the struggling caterpillar, I.
I have never seen your day.
To tell you what I am,
Is to prove you shall never know.
I could be as an angel down from heaven,
but to you, a devil still.
Shatter this, my dried, used husk!
Look beneath the battered rug
because every day you live like this
I kill you a little more.
I'll dig a grave for you in my back yard
and carry you all my life.
Plodding silently
your heavy weight.
Each day I'll bury you anew
(Killing you a little more)
Each day you'll resurrect anew
(Killing me a little more).
Each day I count on you
(Killing me a little more)
Each day I escape form you
(Killing you a little more)
Until you rise to trouble me no more
I, the Restless Spirt,
You, the Undead Beast.
I, the Lovely Angel,
You, the Breast of God.
Until you rise no more and leave me be.
I kill me a little more.
Let me be.
Then I'll be free, free.
No longer to kill you,
No longer to kill me.Neck Tie by ToastNeck tie
Don't let me die
The ice is so slippery
Under my feet
There's a flood in my mouth
Of liquidy heat
frantic tapdance
on a missing floor
I can finally taste
what I failed to before
Oh hell, hello
The sensation of life
puts blush on the snow
Neck tie
Don't let me goRainy Daysby KraeelaI.
Take my hand
We'll traipse the new world
No one will know
Save for my spotted glasses
And your wet socks
II.
By the fire
Snow-boots lined by twos
Hot cocoa
Your mouth tasted like
Marshmallows and love on a fur rug.
III.
Grandkids' toys
Weathered, splintered cane
Comb strangled
By strands of angelic white
Your wrinkled skin is beautiful to me. Untitledby alicemaeloving constrictions
born from the mind
free flow into your life
as it did mine.
bitter pieces of this heart
spread across the crimson sky
Devil's eyes gleam so sweet
when destiny isn't meant to be.
borderline kisses
fallen from the sky
land upon these lips;
I close my eyes.
girlish dreams and empty things
spinning through my ********, when did we decide
to leave it all behind?
once upon a midnight dreary
your fingers twined with mine
we caught a shooting star
and charred our hands for life.
now this door shuts as another opens
the sunlight's too damn bright
but I guess this is fate telling us
to take a look outside. Untitledby KrauseNo noose is good news
is the convicts conviction,
but a nice knotted wrap will wrap things up
better than a rap on the wrists.
However, I hear that adhering
to such principles here is outdated.
The inmates' inn is comfortable in ways
So they please their peers
with pleas meant to appease
But still deaf ears hear
the anti-death penalty apology
And so outdated at the source but not outsourced,
The chainsawer's sour face reveals that veal,
his last meal, isn't a treat before the seat.
Kin can tell convicts to recant
but can't force the farce to reality.
And appeals are just the lure to reel in
the real big fish for the Friday fish fry.
And so the chair can char charimen
and convicts alike. Convictions or not.PART II. FictionListed in alphbetical order.The Badger Brigadeby Hemp FandangoChapter Five: Intense Meeting Action More Sues and more OCs. Fools. News of the Badger Brigade had spread like wild fire all over the Hufflepuff house. Very soon Zacharias found himself the head of a giant army. Sure, most of the members of said army were under 13 but it was still impressive. The large group of Hufflepuffs chatted animatedly amongst themselves as they awaited the first official Badger Brigade meeting to be called to order. "It was terrifying." a third year said in a hushed voice to the assembled listeners. "His hair was all sleek and the word "obsidian" kept coming into my head when I wanted to describe it. His skin is still pale, but now it's like-like-" His face contorted as he struggled with the words "ivory." He spat in confusion and disgust. "He looks handsome now and that is just so wrong." The others shuddered collectively. Elizabeth sighed and detached herself from the worried group to locate her friends. Her eyes scanned the room carefully, before landing on the familiar tall, imposing figure of Alex, who was scowling at something Hannah Abbot was saying. "It's all over the school," Elizabeth said as she came up to the two. "Everyone's heard about Snape's... change." "That was an unpleasant surprise," Alex said, looking as though she had swallowed a lemon. "I go expecting to see him being pulled about like a puppet and what do I get? Some whiny pretty boy making googly eyes at that new Japanese Defense teacher, whatshername. Horirashiuiramalamadingdong." "Actually, her name is Professor Kotori Hikarino." Elizabeth corrected. "You were way off." "I don't care." Alex huffed. "Her name is stupid in any form. And what the hell is with her eyes? I get a headache just looking at them." "As I understand it," Hannah explained, sighing. "They're supposed to be silvery greeny blue with a refreshing hint of lime." Alex snorted. "They sound like a soft drink." "If her eyes bother you so much, why don't you eat them?" Elizabeth asked innocently. Alex growled and opened her mouth for a response, but whatever she was going to say was drowned out by the sudden uproar of mutterings as Zacharias, the other seventh years, Sara and Ernie finally descended the stairs and into the common room. They strode over to a makeshift podium near the fireplace and waited patiently until the noise died down. "You should all know why you're here," Zacharias began, his voice carrying easily over the silent room. "Odd things have been happening. Ridiculous amounts of exchange students have come crawling out of the wood work-" "Actually, most of them come from America." Beth interrupted. He shot her an impatient look, which quickly silenced her, cleared his throat and started again. "These new students have been causing a lot of problems, most notably; ignoring the existence of our fine and noble house. This is most disturbing. What's more disturbing, however, is the strange effect these people have on the other attendees of Hogwarts. Students we all know and... know are acting strangely, adapting to "gothic" or "punk" life styles and listening to bands called "Lincoln Park"[1] and "Avriel Lavinne"[1] and dying their hair baffling colours. What's even more baffling is how they claim these changes occurred over the summer, despite obvious evidence to the contrary." He paused for a moment, examining the rapt crowd. "Something has to be done. Not just for our sakes, but for the sake of the other houses, for the sake of Hogwarts!" A rancorous cheer rose from the Hufflepuffs. "It won't be easy," he said when they had quieted down. "Many of these things bend the laws of common sense and logic around their little fingers, making reasoning difficult, almost impossible. But we are Hufflepuffs. We don't shy away from hard tasks-" "Despite the abhorrent shape of our Quidditch team," Alex muttered to Elizabeth, who grinned back. "Oh, you two are just bitter because they turned you down last year." Hannah whispered. "He really goes on, doesn't he?" Alex observed, ignoring Hannah. Elizabeth nodded while fidgeting with her dangling earrings, her eyes glazing over. Her mind drifted back to that day's Charms class, remembering how the girl who sat in front of her, Luna Lovegood, was behaving strangely. Well, more strange than usual. She kept twitching and once or twice Elizabeth heard her muttering things like "abusive" and "cutting" but every time she caught Luna's eye, the girl shook herself and returned to her more or less normal self... and then degenerate into muttering and twitching again. Finally, Luna excused herself from class. Elizabeth could have sworn Luna's hair caught the brilliant sunlight and shone like a river of spun gold as she rushed from the room. Odd, that. The sound of excited applause shook Elizabeth from her thoughts and nearly caused her to tug her earring off. Zacharias had finally stopped speaking and now Ernie and Sara approached the make shift podium. "Er," Sara began, paling slightly as her eyes fell on the crowd. "Um, we -that is to say, Zacharias and the rest of us - have decided on a few ground rules. Um." She waved her wand and a white square appeared suspended in the air. She tapped it once and words sprouted from her wand tip. "Rule number one: Do not approach the creatures alone. They are armed and d-dangerous. Uh, rule two: Because we have not identified the nature of the people we know acting strangely, we are not to challenge them or hurt them in any way unless they are Harry Potter- Zach!" Her head snapped around to glare at Zacharias, who stared at the ceiling. She tapped her wand again and some words vanished and turned back to the crowd. "Do not attack the real students or teachers of Hogwarts, no matter how strangely they may be acting." "You mean we can't attack any of them?" a voice asked from the crowd. A few people moved aside to reveal Susan looking slightly disappointed. "No, Susan. We don't know what's wrong with them yet." Ernie explained. "Not even Snape?" Alex asked loudly. A few people tittered. "No," Sara said firmly. "Not even Snape." "Rule three," Ernie continued. "When confronting these things, be wary of ridiculous Animagi forms, such as unicorns, dragons, oddly coloured phoenixes. Similarly, be wary of animal friends or pets the creature may have, such as, uh, unicorns, dragons, oddly coloured phoenixes, etc." A hand shot into the air. "What if they're part cat?" "Yeah," another voice piped up. "Or part unicorn?" "That is a world of wrong, and we will not discuss it here." Sara cleared her throat and continued, more confidently. "A note: the only thing we've seen work against these creatures is a spell, known as the Purity spell, or "Purus Morbus". It's similar to the Patronus charm in that it wards off evils, but this is far simpler and - as such - weaker. If this spell fails when you attempt it, run. Run like the dickens back to the Hufflepuff common room." She paused. "Any questions?" *** In another part of the castle, a figure in a silver and green school uniform strode confidently along the moonlit halls. Her short black hair was streaked with red and her eyes were the colour of the finest sapphires. Her various flesh mutilating metal appendages caught the light of the moon as she strode past the many windows. Another figure sidled carefully down the hall. This one, too, was wearing silver and green Slytherin colours, but unlike the first girl, her uniform was not altered in any way. She tip toed her way quietly, flattening herself against the wall any time she thought the first girl was going to look back. After a while, the first girl came to a statue of a beautiful woman with wings and a vacant smile, even for a statue. She spoke, her voice as clear as a bell: "Sparklypoo." The statue sprung to life and stepped aside, allowing the ebon haired girl to enter and the second girl to slither past, unnoticed. They had entered into a vast hall, full of all kinds of reflective surfaces and rich violet tapestries. The floor was the finest white marble and the domed ceiling was charmed to show the gibbous moon outside. It was absolutely packed with all manner of woman, their hair catching the light of the moon and, in turn, was reflected against the various mirrors and other such shiny objects, almost eliminating the need for light. Their rich, heavenly voices filled the room like a bad smell. The first girl strode to the center of the throng, where she murmured something into the delicate ear of Polaris Riddle. The other girl ducked behind a pillar, hiding in the shadows. Polaris cleared her throat, a small action that instantly ceased all noise in the room. The other women looked to Polaris with polite interest. "Alright, ladies," Polaris began, all business. "It's time for our nightly review. First of all, progress reports. Whysper Potter, would you like to start us off for the Collation of Potter Relatives?" A girl with sleek black hair, tied into a neat ponytail stepped forward and spoke in confident tones. "All has gone according to plan," she trilled. "Harry has accepted me as his twin sister, along with Danielle, Serena, Vespa, Alicia, Heather, Melody, Serena-" She continued to rattle off a long list of names for what seemed like a few years. The Slytherin girl sighed and quietly counted the floor tiles. "...and Zelda." she finished at last. "Very good," Polaris nodded at her and she stood down. "How are our teachers doing? Professor Saityr Marielle Nymph Evangeliski?" A woman with hair like moonlight floated forward, her crimson cat-like eyes showing no emotion. Two scythe-like fangs could be seen as she spoke. "Everything is happening on schedule, lady." she said in a soft, emotionless, yet sorrowful voice. Some might say it was an odd mixture for a voice - downright contradictory, even - but those people are all dead. "As you know, we had slight resistance from the potions master, but he has been... dealt with." A soft whisper ran across the room. The Slytherin girl's knuckles whitened as she gripped the pillar she was hidden behind. "I hope our replacement is working out for you?" Polaris asked politely. "Yes, the new one is much more compliant," she sounded amused. "The old one was ugly, anyway." The others voiced a murmur of agreement. "Hey, what's that noise?" the Slytherin girl with short hair and red streaks asked. "What noise?" a girl with shining royal blue hair to her ankles asked, her wine eyes showing confusion. "I hear it too," a girl with thick blood red hair that curled at the tips and cerulean blue eyes that glowed a faint red. "Sounds like someone is grinding their teeth." The Slytherin girl clamped a hand over her mouth and cursed her bad habits. She held her breath, her eyes squeezed closed. 'OhgodohgodohgodohgodtheyknowI'mhereIamsoscrewed.' She could just make out the sound of footsteps approaching over the blood pounding in her ears. "I wouldn't worry about it, Raven. The sound's gone now," the commanding voice of Polaris broke the silence. The footsteps stopped. "If you're sure, 'Laris." an uncertain voice said. The footsteps started again, but this time they hurried in the opposite direction. The girl could've laughed. She slumped against the pillar with relief and slid down to the floor. She didn't even bother to contemplate the inanity of the nickname "Laris". "Right, moving on then," Polaris continued. "Who shall we hear from next," she murmured thoughtfully. "Ah! Would the Psuedo Canonica Club care to tell us of their progress?" There was a soft shuffling sound and the Slytherin girl peeked around her pillar in time to see a tall, breasty girl with long, thick raven black hair with electric blue streaks. She wore the typical gothic wear of a red tartan schoolgirl skirt and a black leather corset. Most noticeable of all, however, was that she was Hermione Granger. "It's goin' pretty good, 'Ris," Hermione said, while adjusting her skirt. 'I wonder when they're going to start calling her "Pol".' The girl thought, smirking. "The host was resilient at first, but she eventually fell when we teamed up on her. We've done her a great favour. Now she knows what it's like to be a real powerful female figure," her voice held a hint of pride. "For example, she hates all men," she paused, looking thoughtful. "Because she was raped by her abusive father," she added decidedly. The other assembled girls nodded in approval. "We've also managed to change Malfoy, Potter, and Zabini for the better," Ginny Weasley said as she marched up next to Hermione. Her red locks cascading down her back and sad sea green eyes reflected the world around her like mirrors. "And Zabini. Did you know she thought she was really a boy? How silly. We set her straight pretty quickly." Polaris looked at Ginny with mild surprise. "I though you were goth today." Ginny shook her magnificent head. "No, that was yesterday. Today I'm returning to Hogwarts after spending a year in America where I became a pop singer under the handle of Blood Rose." "Oh. Okay." "Tomorrow I think I'll be a punk pot user who loves Jhohen Vasquez. Or maybe a Ghetto Fabulous street fighting queen." "Good for you," Polaris said. 'Ghetto fabulous? What the hell does that mean?' the girl thought. 'And who the blazes is Jhohen Whatever?' "And what is your progress on Luna's possession?" Polaris asked, looking down her nose on the two girls. They shifted uncomfortably. "You have to understand, Ris," Hermione began nervously. "While Ginny and Hermione had a giant force against them, Luna only has a handful of us trying to get her. She is, uh, putting up some resistance. But," she went on hurriedly as Polaris' eyes narrowed. "It won't last long. She's already showing signs of The Change." "She better," Polaris said dangerously. "I don't know if we have enough time to fabricate a replacement for her. Alright, you may step down. Next on our list;" her violet eyes turned an icy blue and her face hardened. "The untimely demise of one of our own at the hand of some Pufflehuff." More murmuring. "We don't know how they managed to do it, but rest assured it doesn't mean anything," she smirked. "We are, after all, at war. There will be casualties, but it will be worth it, in the end when Hogwarts is ours." She threw her head back and laughed manically. The other girls followed suit, filling the hall with ringing evil laughter. "Oh, my rib," Polaris said, whipping away a tear. "Now onto more important matters; angst. Has everyone filled their quota today? By show of hands, how many of you have thrown temper tantrums? Oooh, very good. What about breaking into song? I walked down the hallway today and I didn't hear a single mournful Linkin Park or Evanescence song. We need to work on that. And now a Persephone Snape would like to lead us in a sing along. Persephone?" "Okay ladies, today's song is "Vindicated" by Dashboard Confessional. Be sure to make your voice extra whiny for the chorus. On three: one, two, three!" Feeling vaguely nauseous the girl sighed quietly and picked herself off the floor. She left the room, while trying to drown out the sound of emo music and each of the girls trying to sing louder than the other. When she reached the exit, she glanced back briefly to see Polaris singing loudly and confidently, her impressive bosom heaving. Fighting the urge to run over and strangle the stupid tart with her own waist length hair, she turned on her heel and stalked dramatically out into the moonlit hall. 'Damn them, anyway,' she stormed. 'How dare they do this to our house! What self respecting Slytherin would be caught singing muggle music? The lyrics make no sense! "Hope dangles on a string/Like slow spinning redemption"? What the hell? Damn their stupid metaphors. Mozart never added lyrics to his music-' It was then her internal rant had to be cut short when she walked into another person, stumbling a few steps backwards. "Hey!" she snapped. "Watch where you're going, you big... guy." She glared at the other person, who, she noted, was a Hufflepuff. A rather greasy looking Hufflepuff. 'Probably around 7th year, if I'm any judge. Which I am.' "Sorry about that," he said, and she noted that even his voice was oily. "I was out for a moonlight stroll. I was anticipating running into a beautiful young woman." She sniffed. "I'll forgive you because I appreciate honesty in a man." The Hufflepuff grinned in the darkness. People were easy. "My name is Conrad Coates and perhaps you would be interested in buying a few cosmetic items? Finest quality, straight from Paris," he pulled a small compact from seemingly nowhere. He held it out to her, but he pulled it away suddenly, looking hesitant. "I guess someone so pretty wouldn't need make up, would she? How stupid of me. I'm so sorry for bothering you." He turned, as if to leave but the girl rushed forward after him. "No, it's okay," she said hastily. "I mean," she recovered. "I have a friend's birthday coming up and she could really use some lippy. She's an autumn." "Well, then, I think we can work something out. What did you say your name was?" "I didn't. It's Persiapicacia Edwina Dorian," she drew herself up. Conrad privately admired her for not being crushed under the weight of the syllables. "You can call me Persia if you must. Or Edwina." "Edwina is a lovely name," he said smoothly. "Now, is your friend interested in lippy?" *** Several minutes later, Edwina returned to the Slytherin common room, her purse much lighter than when she left. She was about to ascend the stairs to her rooms when she heard a muffled sob from the corner of the room. She winced. There was a possibility, she knew, that the sobbing could be coming from one of those girls crying about being all alone or because their dogs have died or whatever it was they whined about. But, then again, the girls were supposed to be singing bad muggle songs in their hall. She approached the trembling heap in the corner with some trepidation. "Um," she said. "Hallo?" The trembling stopped. "...Persia? Is that you?" a muffled voice asked. "Pansy?" Edwina said, shocked. Pansy looked up, her face streaked with tears and mascara. "Oh... oh Persia!" She flung herself into Edwina's arms. "Aw, Pansy." Edwina said awkwardly. "There, there." "It was terrible! Draco called me a slut! He said I was hideous! As if he's one to talk," her voice suddenly became a harsh snarl. "Him with his stupid died hair and blue lipstick! He looks like a clown! Oh, my poor Draco." she simpered, the storm having passed. "It's all those stupid girls' fault, Pansy. I followed one of them today; you know, the one with the short hair and the red streaks? Well, they're planning on taking over Hogwarts! It's like they're in a cult!" She paused. "And Ginny Weasly smokes pots for some reason." Pansy crinkled her nose. "Pots? Why? What does she have against them?" "I'm not sure. Maybe they called her black." She paused again. "Get it?" "I dislike you, sometimes." She pulled herself from Edwina and sat against the wall. "I can live with that." Edwina reached into her robes and pulled out a hanky. "Here, your mascara's running." "Bloody hell," she muttered, taking the offered hanky and rubbing off the streaks and smudges of black. "What are we going to do now?" Edwina considered this. "Weeeell," she said slowly. "I got us some lippy." "I meant about Draco and those weird cult girls." She paused to blow her nose. "What colour?" "The Hufflepuff boy I spoke to said something about forming an army against them. Polished bronze and dusky rose." "Really?" Pansy looked thoughtful. "They're crazy... crazy like a fox." she said looking devious. "Perhaps we should inquire about joining them? After all, saving Hogwarts will look very good in the eyes of the Ministry, I'm sure. Ew, I hate bronze. I'll take the dusky rose." Edwina handed the small tube to Pansy. "We could be heroes. Admired and loved." Her eyes sparkled as she stared into space. "And Draco will be fine again." Pansy said softly. "Sure. Back to his old, muggle hating self." "Let's do it!" Pansy stood up, clenching her fist, her heart pounding with excitement. "But we don't know where their common room is," Edwina pointed out. Pansy slumped, the excitement draining from her. "Damn, you're right. Well, we could always find the Hufflepuff again and ask him." Edwina nodded and stood up. "Then it's agreed. We will defeat those stupid cult girls!" Train Stopby PukioIt had been a long time since he'd seen her. Fleetingly, he wondered if it would be awkward between them. The thought latched on to something on his insides as he slid through the throng of people at the station, one hand on his head to keep his hat from getting carried away in the bustle, the other clutching nervously at the hem of his coat. As he emerged at the front of the crowd, the coal black locomotive chugged up alongside the platform. Quickly, he pushed away the thought. It had been a long time but certainly not too long. Certainly not too long to forget that smile. The one with the little twists at the corners and the slight indentation beneath her lower lip. The way her right cheek dimpled with expression but not the left because her mouth always had a way of quirking just slightly in that direction. Certainly not too long to forget her laugh: a lilting tone he couldn't exactly copy in his mind without feeling a dull ache somewhere in the back of his chest. However, perhaps it had been too long that misunderstandings and stagnant letters had collected dust between them. Perhaps the only thing she remembered was him forgetting. Edging out farther on the platform, he searched the train car windows anxiously, lips twisted in a nervous rickety line. Hastily, he snatched his hat from his head, ginger hair poking out in strange directions. Pressing the piece to his chest without thinking, he continued to search the dismal black and scarlet train, eyes crinkling as they narrowed in speculation. The train slid to a slow halt with a hiss of the brakes, a plume of steam rising from the head of the locomotive. For a moment, the clamor of the awaiting parties was the only noise and then a shout of a conductor sounded somewhere throughout the train cars and, just as abruptly, the noise of compartment doors being thrown open and bags being brought down from their racks clunked and shuddered through the air. Insignificantly, he shrunk back, hands wrinkling the outside of his hat as he clutched at the fabric unconsciously. Nervously, he found himself glancing along the length of the train. She would be coming soon. Would she recognize him? Would he recognize her? The steps of the nearest car were flooded with passengers. Young men hauling cases and peering about with narrowed, ambitious eyes. Women and children clutching hands and smiling: calling out to husbands. A teenaged boy with a knapsack that left him wondering how on earth he had afforded the train ticket in the first place. Then, directly after a business man in a suit slightly shiny with age and a dulled pocket watch stepped off and adjusted his bowler hat, she came. Her hair was longer than he remembered, pulled back into a loose bun and caught in netting. A blue cap with no veil obscured much of those sharp orange-brunette curls. Her cheeks had rouge on them and her lips were painted. For a fleeting moment he wasn't sure it was her. Those eyes were the same shape but they seemed so different at the same time as they flickered across the crowd. Her lips were pursed into a severe line and her attractive face was creased with concentration. Then she caught sight of him: half standing behind a shorter balding man, clutching his hat so tightly it was ready to come apart at the seams. For a brief moment, she simply watched. He caught her eyes with his own and for a handful of seconds he thought she didn't know who he was. Why a stranger would be staring at her so. And then she smiled that smile with the twisted corners and the dimple on her right cheek. Without thinking, his grip on the hat loosened and he found himself smiling back. Awkwardly, he raised a hand in a half wave, ducking forward to retrieve the suitcase from beside her. Stooping, his fingers closed around the handle of the piece and he straightened, casting her a nervous sidelong glance. Swallowing, he carefully replaced the hat on his head and opened his mouth to say something. Lightly, she rested her hand on his arm, her smile widening just a touch. As if it was some sort of cue, he closed his mouth and released a heavy sigh from his nose he hadn't realized he'd been holding. A sigh he might have been holding for the past ten years. Perhaps he could find forgiveness for such a forgetful fool like himself in that smile. Epiphanyby Kyt Dotson"Epiphany," said the stranger. Her eyes were lost in thought, hidden behind broad sunglasses. "What?" Tiffany hadn't even heard the woman sit down next to her, but there she was: a pale phantom dressed like an opera connoisseur. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were there. I can move to a different bench." The stranger dismissed Tiffany's offer with an eloquent gesture. "The sunrise, yes?" Tiffany nodded. She had come here many mornings now. It was the best place on the boardwalk to watch the sun rise over the bay. Even now the waters were turning from a black into a deep navy. Soon the stars would flee from the sky. "It's like an epiphany, isn't it?" the stranger asked as if she had never seen a sunrise before. "A sudden brilliant realization; true and pure and beautiful." The woman turned to look at Tiffany. "Tell me, how many have you watched?' Tiffany started to feel concerned for her safety now. She swallowed, trying not to wither in the chilly gaze of the strange woman. "I've been coming here a year now." The woman smiled an inward smile, a secret smile. "I have not seen a sunrise in as long as I can recall." "Do you live underground or something?" Tiffany asked and a moment later regretted it. The woman could have worked when the sun rose as far as she knew, and never was able to sit and enjoy one. "Something to that effect, yes," the stranger didn't sound offended. "I'm breaking the rules by being here. I just wanted to see it. Just once. I hope you don't mind." "No," Tiffany said. "I don't mind." She sat back. The stranger didn't seem to mean her any harm; she just had a foreboding in her attitude. There was something unsettling in the woman's voice, something that put Tiffany on edge that she just couldn't put a finger on. "Can you tell me what it's like?" Tiffany assumed she meant the sunrise. "Well," she said. "First the sky will lighten and the stars vanish." She could see the entire thing unfold in her mind. "A breeze will come from the ocean and the water will turn from dark to deep blue. The sky will blush red, and then when the sun crests the horizon it will be like a golden crown being lifted above a sapphire cloth." "It sounds beautiful," the woman said. "Just like your poetry described." "You have to experience it yourself, to really know--" Tiffany said but caught herself. "What? My poetry? I don't show my poetry to anyone." How could the woman know about that? "It's really good, you know," the stranger said. "I knew that you were the one when I heard your work." "How did you read my work? I keep it in a--" "Diary with a keyed lock. I have been pleased to be an audience to the private night-time performances of your work, however clandestine my appearances in your gallery." The brightening sky reflected in the woman's glasses as she watched Tiffany's expression pale. "I will miss your readings." Tiffany stood suddenly, her back to the ocean, staring at the strange woman. "Who are you?" "I'm just someone who wanted to experience a sunrise," said the woman, removing her sunglasses and revealing empty sockets where her eyes should have been. Terrified, Tiffany ran. She did not look back. As sun rose the stranger was heard to have said, "I see now; it is beautiful," before the morning blush gave way and the golden light breathed the flesh from her bones. Point! What's Your Point? #5 Responsibility, a New Low Price of Free.Jeff A. Van BoovenOk quick, you're three hundred pounds overweight, who do you sue? You got drunk and ran your car off a bridge? You were going too fast, turned the corner too sharp and rolled over your SUV? You accidentally killed your best friend while playing with a gun? You went and murdered your next door neighbor because you did it in a video game? If you answered anything but "yourself" to any of these questions, you need to stop and take a long hard look at your values and morals. Some of you may not believe me, but who ate the food to make themselves three hundred pounds overweight? Who drank the alcohol to get drunk? Who was pressing on the accelerated and cranked the steering wheel too hard? Who fired the gun? Who decided to murder their next-door neighbor? It certainly wasn't some corporation. It was one person, you. Now you may not have done any of these things here, but you most likely have shifted responsibility for your actions to somebody else somewhere in your life. We all do it. It's naturally, but to take it to the extremes to sue somebody else for it, then it becomes almost criminal. And now the burden of guilt has to rest on the consumers. Companies have to pay lawyers, even when cases are thrown out of court. Are the companies going to take a hit to their profits over this? Certainly not, they're going to pass it on to their consumers. Want to know why health insurance is through the roof? Try asking your doctor how much his liability insurance is a month. I'm sure he'll be glad to tell you that he has to take your arm and leg to cover it. People today can not accept that things are their fault, that others can't fix every problem. Which is why here today I'm offering my brand new device I call responsibility. With this revolutionary concept, you can take the blame for the things that you have done, knowing that you were wrong to do them. What joys you will discover in finally accepting that you are not perfect and that your actions do indeed have consequences. And if you call now, we're offering this great, revolutionary product for the new low price of free. So call now, operators are standing by. REVISING AND EDITING #1A Checklist for CritiquingUse the checklist that follows to help you evaluate compositions during editing or groups revising sessions.Purpose: Does the writer have a clear purpose in mind? That is, is it clear that the writer is trying to entertain, to inform, to persuade, etc?Audience: Does the writer address a specific audience? And will the readers understand and appreciate this subject?Form: Is the subject presented in an effective or appropriate form?
(Mechanics are included in form, and the correctness of the writer's grammar and punctuation)Content: Does the writer consider the subject from a number of angles? For example, does he or she try and compare, classify, define and/or analyze the writing idea?Writing Devices: Does the writer include any figures of speech, anecdotes, dialogue, specific examples, etc.? Which ones are most effective?Voice: Does the writer sound sincere and honest? That is, do you "hear" the writer when you read his or her piece.Personal Thoughts and Comments: Does the writer include any personal thoughts or comments in the writing? Are they needed or desireable? Does the writer overpower the piece with personal thoughts and comments?Purpose (Again) : Does the writer succeed in making a person smile, nod, or react in some way? What is especially good about the writing? Untitledby alicemaeloving constrictions born from the mind free flow into your life as it did mine. Serieve First of all, lower case letters give the poem an amateuristic feel. I don't know if I like the phrase "free flow." It's somewhat un-poetic in this specific usage. bitter pieces of this heart spread across the crimson sky Devil's eyes gleam so sweet when destiny isn't meant to be. Serieve This reads like a rock I've stubbed my toe on. It just doesn't fit. In every other stanza, you use assonance (same vowel sounds) in the second and fourth lines. Here, you use it in the third and fourth lines. This stanza read alone sounds okay, but combined with the rest of the poem, it just doesn't work. There was also a flow change between stanzas. borderline kisses fallen from the sky land upon these lips; I close my eyes. Serieve The semicolon in line three helps with the sudden change, but it's still like stumbling while reading. girlish dreams and empty things spinning through my mind <********, when did we decide to leave it all behind? Serieve Another flow change here. once upon a midnight dreary your fingers twined with mine we caught a shooting star and charred our hands for life. Serieve The phrase "midnight dreary" has probably been over used in poetry. now this door shuts as another opens the sunlight's too damn bright but I guess this is fate telling us to take a look outside. Serieve Here is really where the poem lacks. There are too many syllables in the first lines. The ending also is a bad culmination of the poem. It's not that the line is bad, but it's what leads up to it that makes it fall flat. Altogether, you have several overly used words in the poem. Words like "heart" "bittter" "sweet" "destiny" "fall" "empty" "star" "fate" etc. You were also a bit repetative with the words "mine" and "sky," both of which you used twice. My suggestion would be to extend your vocabulary while still keeping the poetic feel. Another problem is your flow, which varies throughout the poem. You change the pace of things too many times between stanzas. Maybe, just maybe, trying a different form instead of the four-lined stanzas would help. Doing this would require that you change several things, like the breaks and words to pass on the flow from line to line, but it may also allow a little more freedom of flow altogether. What I really liked about the poem was the meaning behind it and the feeling you gave with the meaning. It's the form and the words that aren't so great. Sort of like putting a beautiful gift into a plastic bag. You can still see the beauty and the charm, but the plastic bag just smudges the whole effect in general. So the main things are to work on the flow and the vocabulary, while still maintaining the entire meaning and the feeling put into it. Round Two ends here! Our judges this go around were Kraeela, Dragon Lilly, and myself. Next will be the ever important Round Three, located at our guild in a thread titled "TGP Round Three- The Finale." Here, our readers will vote for the winners. All finalists from rounds One and Two will be posted here, and then our readers will look through and decide which they like best. Then the votes will be tallied. 1st place: 6500 2nd place: 1500 3rd place: 1000 Thanks to all the finalists and supporters for reading. And now, the finalists of Round Two: Dream Awayby SymphonieFallen by EllyriannaMy Angel by SaoriSummerby DoeThe World is An Ugly Place by R. Cade Norton Notes from Serieve: Yeah, this was a little bit chaotic. Can you believe I actually deleted the first rough draft by accident, right after I'd completed it? I had to go and put it all together again. That's okay, no harm done, really. So now I have some people to thank. Eruden Ki, for donating to the contest. And of course, the biggest thanks goes to all our supporters!
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:34 pm
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 6.1 + 6.2/July '05We find the best so you don't have to. IN THIS ISSUE:1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted and scouted by the best.3. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.4. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.5. Writer's Aide - Featuring some helpful advice from our very own Gypsy_Hart!6. Beyond the Box - Featuring Jahoclave's Political Writing Project!7. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.Kraeela reports:.....-In case you don't read stickies, here's the Writer's Workshop and Contest Charity Foundation......-Short story conteston topic. Win Nitemare/Angel Scarf, Devil Tail or Baby Seals!.....-H.A.R.S.H's Monthly Prose Contest. On topic. Fee: 250g. Prize: 500-5000g......-A place to list descriptions and discuss your main characters. Click here!.....-Don't even know what WriMo is? Check out the official NaNoWriMo!.....-Do you use sex to round out your characters' personalities? Or is it just smut to you? Discussion.Serieve reports:.....-Here's a helpful website that gives the latest updates for Gaia with full item lists, what shops they're in, and even an avatar simulator to help you find the look you want!.....-Can't stand the dirty words? Get a Word Filter!PART I. PoetryListed in alphbetical order.The High Shrine at Delphiby Gypsy HartThere is a beuaty
of gray and green,
in the hills and the rocks.
A circle stands tall;
and an unexplained charisma
surrounds it.
It calls to one
and all,
to come
to where Delphi stood.
The innards of mens' minds
and answered mystries,
are fallen now
in ruins.Hopeless Love (Confronting the Villain)by S. HouserA Villain and a Heroine.
A story old as rhyme.
A star-crossed love between them, cursed
by Destiny's design.
And shattered crystals, brightly gleaming,
hold to Fae enchantment's seeming.
A maiden lies among them, Dreaming
deeply in her mind...
There's someone that she searches for,
yet whom, she does not know.
And all around she sees within
the hazy candle glow
fine Dancers dressed in bright array.
Seductively they spin and sway,
like glittering rubies on display
with naught but glass below.
Then through the swirl of colors
she discerns the one she seeks.
His alluring gaze beguiles her
and leaves her feeling weak.
Across the hazy, crowded room,
his eyes filled with despondent gloom,
he drifts to her, as though to Doom;
She finds she cannot speak...
The adoration in his gaze,
it rends her very soul.
The kiss bestowed upon her hand,
it leaves her feeling whole.
His spell begins to mesmerize,
from silver tongue slips honeyed lies.
She stands enraptured by his eyes;
Enchantment takes its toll.
Into his arms he takes her then
as into dance they're spun,
and something magic fills his eyes,
for Something has begun...
With velvet voice, he croons his song
and leads her through the milling throng.
She understands where she belongs;
From him she'll never run.
Yet something lingers in her mind.
Uncertainty remains
that alluring words cannot suppress.
His spell cannot restrain
the knowledge that there's much amiss.
And as he offers her his kiss
her doubt dispels the flawless bliss,
her reason now regained.
Now Dancers start to press her in
and masked eyes glitter coldly.
Their lips are twisted sneers of hate
as rough hands clutch her boldly.
Their laughter mocking, vile rasps
upon her ears, she cuts their grasps
and stumbles through the sea of masks
amid their howling glee.
Yet sorrow haunts her memory;
His eyes she can't escape.
Her soul is held in jeopardy,
and yet her will is great.
She fights against his strong Command,
his plea for her to understand
the gift he holds in outstretched hand
as through glass walls she breaks.
Then screams of horror fill the air
to end the mocking laughter,
and everything begins to fall
as all ends in disaster.
Yet Dancers still mechanically
sway to discordant melody,
for even now they are not free;
they'll Dance forever after.
Amid this broken spell she stands.
Her enemy she faces.
Her Dream is coming to an end
as to an end Time paces.
From 'midst the shadows he appears.
His face has aged a hundred years.
His ancient eyes hold all the fears
of a hundred ancient races.
Now pale mist gathers like a wraith
about his weary form,
and garbs him in a cloak of gray,
a piece of darkness shorn.
His haunted eyes are begging, pleading,
and his soul is bleeding, bleeding...
Why must true love be so fleeting?
Why must his heart be torn?
An echo of a tolling bell;
the hour is at hand.
Before him comes this Heroine
to make her final stand.
Determination conquers fear,
and mercy has no holding here,
yet in her eye there shines a tear.
She gives him her Command.
And even as she speaks
the world's foundations start to quake.
The very air surrounding them
begins to heave and shake.
Then comes the chiming of the bell
obliterating faerie spell.
Her Dream, a fragile, shining shell,
is shattered in its wake.
She knows her choice was justified.
He was not meant to stay,
but his eyes still haunt her memory;
his love won't fade away.
The Story comes into its end,
and even True Love cannot bend
the rules of iron. In the end
the Story has its way.
Upon Awakening she knows
she's lost her greatest chance.
Her dreams had been within her reach;
within his lonely glance.
And in her mind she stands before
the threshold of Enchantment's door.
With him she's bound forever more...
Forever shall they Dance.The Sender's Blessingby AtreasWith parting time
Upon us now,
Go we our separate ways,
And with you goes
The blessing that I
Speak and breathe and say.
The world around us
Changes, friend, throughout
The night and day,
And where you go,
And where you step,
Find you hope, I pray.
May the mundane
Still inspire
Your unrelenting muse
And weave upon
You wisdom wise to
Trust and ever use.
Shore to shore within
Your grasp, I pray you
See each treasure,
From golden skies
To forests green,
Plunderous the pleasure.
Dream ever deep
And wink alive
With every sunlit dawn,
And live each day
Without regret, lest
Tomorrow you be gone.
Heed well this blessing,
Dearest friend, that I
Grant unto you.
Wary may you
Always be, and
May your heart guide true.PART II. FictionListed in alphbetical order.The Badger Brigadeby Hemp FandangoNote: To read more of "The Badger Brigade," visit Hemp Fandango's thread or visit our guild to read past issues.Chapter 6: How To Teach A Class Lesson #34: Beat the crap out of the students. It helps them learn. "Aaah," Alex said as she stretched out her arms behind her head. "Another day, another donor." Sara sighed. "First of all, it's "another day, another dollar and second of all, that's what you say at the end of the day. It's breakfast." she said flatly. Alex scowled. "Oh, whatever. It feels like the end of the day, given what I've had to put up with." She gestured vaguely at her surroundings with her butter knife. The great hall was packed as usual, although certain tables were more packed than others. Alex glanced over to the Gryffindor table, which had to get an extension recently and yet some people were still forced to sit on the floor. She shook her head sadly. "Poor dopes," she mumbled. "It's kind of fun watching the Slytherins." Elizabeth said jabbing her fork in the direction of their table. "I wonder what would happen if I took a big magnet and held it near all of them." She took a bite out of her toast. "Like the kind Wile E. Coyote had." "You'd rip their faces off," Alex smirked. "That's not the kind of thing you generally see on Loony Toons." "Not true. Daffy got his beak blown off on many occasions." Elizabeth pointed out. Sara stared at her friends blankly. "Daffy...?" They both turned to her with looks of pity. "Oh, Sara," Elizabeth said mournfully. "The things you miss by being a pure blood." Sara frowned. "This is all fascinating, really," she said in annoyance, "but shouldn't you two be more concerned with our new lessons?" Elizabeth and Alex sighed. Yes, Sara was right. They had many new classes to attend, including Martial Arts, Glamouries, Advanced Elven Magicks, The Art of Mages, Faith Healing, Meditation, Advanced Charms, Ancient Languages, and Interior Design. Of course, all of which were being taught by charming, lovely young girls who seemed to crawl out of the woodwork these days. Some of them barely looked old enough apparate, much less teach a class. As if that wasn't insulting enough, many of the old teachers had mysteriously vanished and had been replaced by new, pretty young ladies, often fresh out of school. Alex glared up at the teachers' table. She had noticed that as the days went by more and more of her old teachers vanished and were replaced. Last week, Flitwick had vanished and was replaced with an elven maiden, Professor Iluthuwen Tinuviel or something unpronounceable like that. She made Alex truly appreciate Flitwick, her with her deep blue medieval style dresses and deep chestnut coloured hair and the deepest ocean blue eyes which reflected the innermost sorrows- Alex blinked. "Hey, guys," she said slowly, not taking her eyes off of Tinuviwhatever. "Why is it that whenever we start to think about those..." she trailed off, struggling to find the appropriate vitriolic term. "Things we start to think about how they look?" Sara sighed and put down her fork. "I noticed that too. I think it's part of their magic." "Magick," Alex corrected, bitterly swallowing the "k". "Damn things are everywhere now. They're like rats." "I wish I could understand where this all started," Sara complained, pushing her plate away. "I wish I knew why some people became like them and others were just replaced entirely. I wish I understood this- this- this utter nonsense!" She ran her hands through her mousy hair in frustration. Elizabeth nervously glanced over to the Ravenclaw table. Luna's seat was empty. "I wish I knew why too," she said quietly. "I miss Flitwick." The girls sighed and sunk into a gloom. Alex's eyes narrowed as she swung her gaze back to the teachers' table. They were replacing the teachers, that was certain. There was even a new Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Hagrid had suddenly and mysteriously decided to retire, shocking most of the people of functioning brain cells. Alex had thought he had adored his subject. He had been replaced with some Japanese twit. Sakura something. She sat at the teachers' table, chatting animatedly with another new professor. She had the most beautiful- 'She had brown hair and green eyes, dammit.' Alex thought as she packed up her things. 'Quit trying to dress it up. Brown hair. Green eyes.' She stood up. "I've lost my appetite," she announced flatly. Elizabeth stood up with her. "Yeah, me too." "Then why are you buttering another piece of toast, Liz?" Sara asked. "This is my last piece," she said defiantly as Alex rolled her eyes. "I'm just that upset." Sara glanced at her watch. "We have class soon anyway." She grabbed her bag and pulled herself up. "What do we have first?" Elizabeth asked as they sped from the great hall. Sara rooted around in her bag until she pulled out her schedule. "Um. Says here we have Glamouries first." Alex sighed and ran her hand through her short hair. "What is Glamouries anyway?" "The study of changing your appearance through magic... I think." Alex sneered. "What a waste of magic. Who the hell made this class mandatory, anyway?" "I think it's going to be a neat class," Elizabeth said meekly as she fiddled with her earrings. Alex didn't comment further and they continued to walk in silence. *** "It's getting harder and harder to eat," Pansy moaned as she and Edwina marched from the hall, following behind a group of Hufflepuffs. "How can you eat with all those girls in the ugly make up?" "It takes a strong constitution, I admit," Edwina sniffed. "I just try to think of happy things, like kittens or money. Besides," she continued. "It's much harder to keep a straight face than to keep the food down." Pansy grinned. "I noticed you were snorting in your pumpkin juice," she sniffed and stuck her nose in the air. "How very unladylike," she said in a simper resembling her mother's. "Oh, Pansy dahling," Edwina pulled herself up straight and spoke in a haughty tone. "You absolutely must forgive me. I think I may have caught a cold whilst I was dining in le bon Paree. Oh!" Edwina's hand fluttered to her chest in mock surprise. "Did I forget to mention my trip? I'm fabulously wealthy, you see." She laughed airily. Pansy joined in the airy laugh before speaking. "Le bon Paree, you say? Oh, yes, I've been to that little town. It's definitely a good place to go for people like you," she touched Edwina's shoulder briefly, taking care to patronize to her fullest extent. "The French are welcoming of neveux money, like yours." She laughed airily again. "I think we'll make great matriarchs one day," Edwina said, shaking her head with amusement. "I'll be the best Malfoy matriarch there ever was, once Narcissa is out of the way." she added, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from her shoulder. "What do we have first?" "Martial Arts, I think." Pansy snorted. "I'll never understand why that class has become mandatory." "I think I can guess," Edwina said quietly as they rounded the corner and stepped into the classroom. Inside was an Asian looking girl with short onyx hair, which shone like silk, and dark amethyst eyes, like jewels on a porcelain face. She couldn't have been much older than the two Slytherin girls She looked over the two Slytherins swiftly. "You're late," she announced. Edwina and Pansy exchanged confused glances. Edwina spoke first. "No, we're not. We're the opposite of late, actually." She said slowly, as if speaking to the very dense. "That's "early," by the way," she added helpfully. The petite girl frowned. "No, you're late. I decide when the class starts. 50 points from Slytherin." "What!? You can't do that!" Edwina exclaimed, looking outraged. "Hm, that's another 10 points." She said disinterestedly while examining her nails. "Now take your seats." Edwina stared open mouthed at the girl in silent outrage. Pansy glanced at her scandalized friend and spoke quickly. "Oh, you'll have to excuse my friend, professor," she simpered. "She's not well in the head." "I could tell," The girl said, leveling Pansy with a sharp stare. "Now sit down." Pansy glanced around the sparse room. The light wooden walls and minimalist decorating suggested to Pansy a Japanese dojo. There were no chairs or desks in sight. "Um, sit where?" The girl rolled her brilliant eyes, and pointed to the floor. "There," she said, gesturing to various small white cushions on the floor. "Kneel on those." Edwina gave the cushions a thoroughly disgusted look. "You can't be- argh!" Pansy gave a sweet smile to the teacher before dragging Edwina to the cushions. "Hey, that was uncalled for. Why did you kick-" Edwina began in a furious whisper. "Shh!" Pansy hissed. "With Snape gone insane we have to watch our step, okay? We need house points and you snapping at the teachers won't help us." "I suppose," she relented grudgingly. They waited in silence as the Japanese girl paced around the room, pausing now and then to adjust the cushions. 'I wonder what she's so nervous about?' Edwina narrowed her eyes. Pansy leaned in close to her. "We have this class with the Hufflepuffs," she muttered from the corner of her mouth, keeping her eyes on the teacher. "We'll ask them then, all right?" Edwina sighed and nodded slightly, privately thinking how undignified and un-Slytherin it was to join a group of Hufflepuffs, for God's sakes. 'Oh well,' she thought as she picked at a small hole in the cushion. 'It could be worse,' she paused, trying to think of possible ways it could be worse. 'Well, it could probably be worse. I mean, they could be bears.' Finally, the bell rang signaling the start of the class. Edwina noticed, with growing bitterness, that the teacher didn't deduct any points from the teens streaming in. She glanced furiously at Pansy, raising her eyebrows. Pansy rolled her eyes and gave a weak attempt at a reassuring smile... ...which froze solid as Draco walked in, following the raven-haired Polaris with a blank look on his face. Many other students dressed similarly as Polaris followed in after, some of them shooting Pansy dark looks. Edwina looked away in embarrassment. "Welcome, class, to Martial Arts. I am your Sensei, Ayame Suzaku, but you will refer to me as Sensei Suzaku at all times. In this class you will learn all the finer details of the noble arts of martial, also known as the martial arts. Some of you may have noticed that I am barely older than you, and you would be correct. However, I am more than capable of teaching this class; I have a black belt in almost every kind of martial arts known to man and some that aren't," she threw her impressive chest out proudly. "Of course," she continued. "I don't expect the likes of you to achieve the same things I have, because I am a special chosen warrior of destiny who will rise up and defeat the Dark Lord and the vampire lord and what is so funny, Ms. Parkinson?" "Er," said Pansy, looking briefly like a deer caught in the headlights. She recovered quickly. "Nothing. Nothing at all. I had something caught in my throat and I was merely coughing, you see," she explained smoothly. Suzaku gave her a deeply skeptical look. "I know it sounded a lot like laughter, but it wasn't. Not in the slightest. Why would I ever want to laugh at you?" She asked, radiating innocence. Edwina, who had been struggling for several minutes, had buried her face in her hands. Her body shook with silent laughter. Suzaku gave Edwina a curious glance. "Is your friend alright?" Pansy shot her a quick look and very subtly elbowed her in the ribs. "She's fine," she said innocently as Edwina gave her a sharp look and rubbed her chest dramatically. "Anyway," Suzaku continued, still eyeing the girls suspiciously. "As I was saying, martial arts is very, very tricky. It requires peace of mind and body and," she hesitated. "the ability to grasp pebbles from old men's hands. Yeah," she paused again to examine her students. Most watched her with quiet reverence, but one - no, two faces looked at her with barely disguised amusement mingled with disbelief. Sensei Suzaku bristled. They were mocking her. "But first," she said loudly, staring hard at the one that looked like a pug. "I'll do a demonstration. You," she jabbed her slender, well manicured finger at the pug girl. "Get up here." Pansy hesitated. There was something about the way Suzaku was looking at her. She began to wonder if perhaps the girl really did know martial arts. Suzaku must have seen the slight flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She smirked. "What's wrong, pug face? Afraid?" Pansy stiffened. She gave her the coolest look she could manage, and stood up in a single graceful movement. She took a moment to smooth out her robes, before sauntering over to Suzaku. Suzaku gave her a brief once over and assumed a fighting stance. "Right," Suzaku said, as Pansy uncertainly imitated the stance she had adopted. "Get ready." "Get ready for wh-" Was all Pansy managed before being struck by a series of sharp punches. She stumbled backwards, clutching her stomach. Suzaku moved in a blur, sweeping her leg under Pansy, and knocking her to the floor. Suzaku pulled away from the whimpering Pansy and turned to face her students. Most students - that is, the new students who had arrived at the beginning of the year - looked at Suzaku with admiration. Polaris and a few other girls even began to clap. Edwina, who had gone white with rage, stood up and hurried over to her fallen friend. "That is what you'll be able to accomplish with martial arts," Suzaku said after the applause died down. "And what's that?" A girl in black and yellow robes Suzaku had not noticed earlier asked in a harsh voice. "Beating up defenseless girls? You're supposed to be a teacher!" Susan yelled in outrage. Suzaku stared at her carefully, as if she wasn't sure Susan was really there. "Dumbledore will sack you for this," Edwina said in a quiet, trembling hiss. Her eyes had become dark, malevolent slits on her pale face. She helped Pansy to her feet. "Come on, Pansy," she murmured. Pansy hissed in pain, and Edwina noticed for the first time that her foot was twisted at an odd angle. "Where do you think you're going?" Suzaku asked in a level voice. "Class is not finished, yet." "I'm taking her to the hospital wing," Edwina snapped much louder than she expected. "No." "Excuse me?" "I think I was perfectly clear the first time, Dorian-san." Suzaku said smoothly. Edwina stared at her in bald disbelief. "You... can't be serious." Suzaku gave her a cool look. "Sit down, Dorian-san." Edwina clenched her jaw and glared as hard as she possibly could at Suzaku who met her gaze impassively. They stood like that for some time, Edwina with murder in her eyes, her head buzzing with obscenities, while Suzaku simply looked amused. The class went dead quiet, no one daring to move. Polaris watched them both, a small smile on her lovely visage. Edwina broke the silence first, speaking through clenched teeth: "We're going. Take points off us if you want, I don't care!" She said shrilly. "Our house has gone to the dogs anyway," she spat, while looks of anger blossomed on the faces of many of the transfer students. Then, feeling light headed with rage, Edwina began to lead Pansy from the room- "No," Pansy whispered, pulling back. Edwina momentarily forgot her anger, staring baldly at Pansy. "What? Pansy, your foot-" "Slytherin's don't run," She cut in, raising her head to level her gaze on the "sensei". Her face was blotched and tear streaked. Edwina looked confused. "Yeah, we do. We do it all the time." "It stops here, then," she said firmly. She pulled herself gently from Edwina's grasp and pointed her wand levelly at Suzaku. The Japanese girl smirked. "Awww," she cooed. "Is the widdle Slytherin girlie sad that I twisted her ankle?" "Yes. Furnunculus!" Suzaku gasped in surprise and stumbled backwards, clutching her face and hissing in pain. Pansy smiled in triumph, but before she could react, Suzaku was charging towards her, her face devoid of any boils, drawing her fist back... "Petrificus Totalus!" Suzaku fell to the ground, immobile and furious. Hannah stood over her, a dark look on her face. "That's what you get for beating up students, bint." She paused. "Even if they are Slytherins." Suddenly, a girl with ruby red hair and flashing sterling eyes stood up, a fierce look on her face. "How dare you attack a teacher!" She yelled shrilly. Others began to stand up as well, all of them in green and silver Slytherin robes, looking determined. "You stupid pug-faced b***h!" Pansy raised her wand again, her mouth forming around the words for the bat-bogey curse, when the fallen Suzaku rose in front of her like an avenging angel. Her face was terrifying to look at. "b***h," she hissed, her flame-like crimson aura flickering around her. She raised her hand, red energy collecting in her palm and pointed it straight at Pansy. Pansy stepped back, her face paling, eyes fixed on the sphere of red. Fear clenched her stomach and took her voice. She distantly thought she heard Edwina yelling something... "Deletrius!" The red energy vanished as the spell struck it. Suzaku froze, her eyes wide. "B-but... no..." she stuttered. The other girls looked equally horrified. All eyes were fixed on Suzaku's now empty hand. Hannah recovered first. "Purus Morbis," she whispered. The spell burst from her wand and struck the horrified teacher. Suzaku fell to her knees clutching where the spell struck her, giving an ear piercing scream. Blinding red light enveloped her prostate form and her scream wavered- -and was suddenly cut off, due to her exploding. Silence filled the room like the late Ayame Suzaku. The sticky, red taffy clung to the walls, the cushions, and the students. Most of the students, anyway. "Heeey," Justin said. "Where'd all the Slytherins go?" "Who cares," Ernie muttered, picking taffy from his hair with little success. "I care," came the shaking voice of Edwina, who was huddled on the ground with Pansy. "What in the world was that? And what is this red stuff?" "Well, to answer your first question: um... We don't know," Susan admitted. "And to answer your second question: taffy." "Taffy," Edwina said flatly. "Yeah." "Of course it's taffy. Why wouldn't it be?" Pansy said faintly. "I'd like to go to the infirmary now, Persia." Edwina hesitated. "Um, Susan, was it? After I take Pansy to the hospital wing, I'd like to speak with you," she said with as much haughtiness as she could muster. Susan shrugged. "Okay. I'd kind of like to ask you some questions too." "Yeah," Hannah butted in. "Like, how can you guys resist those..." she gestured vaguely, struggling for the right word. "Thingies." "I don't know if I can answer that," Edwina said as she guided a dazed Pansy from the room. "I'm not completely sure, but it may have something to do with how wonderful I am..." Their voices faded away, leaving the dojo in dead silence. A bit of the former Suzaku fell from the ceiling with a "plop." After a few minutes, the red taffy was nosed by a curious Mrs. Norris. "Strange things have been happening lately," A cross looking Filch commented quietly. He glared at the red mess. "How am I supposed to clean this up?" He asked the world in general. "I don't know, uncle," a soft feminine voice said from behind him. Filch turned, revealing a girl of average build and shining chocolate locks, holding a mop and bucket in her hands. A scrawny-looking obsidian cat curled itself around her ankles, leering at Mrs. Norris. "Clean it up," Filch grunted. "Yes, uncle," the girl said tiredly. Filch gave the look another disgusted look before marching out, his dusty grey cat in tow. Megan Filch sighed, placed the bucket on the floor and began scrubbing, muttering angrily as went. "Stupid twits, with their stupid hair, and stupid eyes. Why did I get stuck with the janitorial work? I can be just as sparkly," she paused, mid-rant to wring out her cloth. "You could be helping you know," she said loudly to her cat, seated on one of the cushions. The cat sneered and began cleaning itself. "Stupid cat. I hate cats. Nasty little buggers," her muttering continued long into the night, while she cleaned up what was left of Ayame Suzaku. Gerber Kerosene Firesby FleurDuSangShe arranged bleached baby-food jars along the window sill and along the side of the door. Hot with life and Gerber kerosene fires, the small back bathroom seemed twice as large. Her son giggled as his momma peeled the bloated cheeks of advertising from the jars and discarded them into the sink, where the child sat cradled in porcelain. The woman lifted the pink, buoyant bundle of pliant, chubby limbs into her arms and carried it with her to a copse of flaming tongues positioned by the tub. The makeshift candles warmed the child's wan cheeks as he recoiled from his momma to study the amber jewels suspended in the air. Cupping a single, sallow palm to the base of the baby's skull, the woman's other hand maneuvered precariously to a spool of yarn, unraveled, and gathered into a heap of copper in the basin of the tub. Tugging the thread over the eggshell-white rim, she soon acquired enough yarn to wrap gently around the thumb of both her child's hands. After tying knots around each of her own lithe fingertips, she stretched her newly adorned digits into the air, the glow of the candles catching each minute fiber of the yarn. The child giggled and lifted his own arms; he pawed and probed at his momm's webbed fingers till she lowered her hands over his, brushing the pad of her thumbs across his skin. Then, the yarn began to twist and churn over junior's hands, creating portraits banked by the plumes of smoke from the flames: a London Bridge, not falling, but wilting into a palette of red and orange seas; a hill from which Jack and Jill can tumble down, clutching at each other's throat; three bold men faring an open, turbulent sea. The child clapped his hands and ripped the copper ties just as Mary plummeted to the ground, and deeper into the Gerber kerosene fires. Twisted Innocenceby FayesThe branches of the wrinkled tree bent, as if in greeting to the girl in the green silk dress. Her eyes were a misty blue, her hair strewn all over her face. She was so pale she almost seemed to glow; her fingers so thin they appeared fragile. The girl leaned against the welcoming tree, trying to catch her breath after the steep climb up the cliff. As she rested, her gaze sweeping over the endless pane of glimmering water, she felt the light swish of the freshly bloomed daffodils against her ankles. They tickled her skin, almost teasing. She shifted her gaze up to the branches of the old tree and stroked the trunk serenely. How long had she been gone? How long had she abandoned her old friend? Her eyes twinkled in delight as the vacant branches rustled against each other in reply. The first time she had known of this place was when her best friend, one day after school, had told her about it. They had both giggled excitedly and sworn to keep the place a secret. The girl smiled slightly at the memory. It had been so long. She remembered the first time they had finished the climb up the cliff, both of them flopping down atop the bed of soft daffodils and panting loudly, disturbing the calm silence of the atmosphere. They had greeted the lone tree as it had to her just moments before, then had stayed for hours, just talking and laughing. At that moment, the girl leaned to her left and peered around the thick trunk of the tree. Spotting the familiar mark on the earth, she smiled, almost smirking. She walked forth and bent down to touch the hardened dirt with her fingers, tainting them brown. "Hello again, my friend," the girl whispered. With the sound of lapping waves on the beach nearby and the shade of the old tree accompanying her wild thoughts, she smirked, then settled back on her haunches, satisfied. Closing her eyes, she called to her mind the precise memories of that fateful day. Her best friend and she had come running up the cliff, both years older than when they had first arrived. This time, they no longer panted as loudly as they had then, only hesitating a few moments before playing. When they were about to leave her best friend had suddenly broken down in tears. Shocked, the girl had rushed to her friend's aid, thinking she had cut her ankle on one of the many rocks on the ground. Instead, her best friend had confided in her that she was about to move, and that it was her last visit to the place they had kept secret for so long. The girl had frozen, suddenly silent. The leaves of the tree had rustled, as if urging her to comfort her still sobbing friend. But she had not moved. Rage had built up inside her, jealousy and possessiveness. She could not let her friend go, it was not right. Her friend was to stay with her forever, she had had promised. Her face had turned pale, her eyes emotionless. With her small fists clenched, she had spoken in an inhuman voice. "I won't let you go. You can't go, you promised. Forever, remember?" She had laughed, not in a boisterous way, but in a soft, tinkling manner, almost like a mischievous little elf. Her lips had curled up slightly to form a smile and with one fist unclenched, had placed it on her friend's shuddering shoulder. Her friend had gazed up at her, eyes red and teary. Then, the girl remembered, with shocking accuracy, the move she had made. She had pushed her friend down to the ground, then climbed atop her. Then, she had gripped her by the shoulders and slammed her head on the hard earth. Her friend had screamed at her to stop, but she had ignored her. A rock lay near. She had grasped it and brought it down on her friend's shocked expression, ignoring the crack of bones and the withered cry. "You can't leave. You can't leave," she had muttered as she repeatedly brought the rock to her friend's face. She had watched as the blood flowed from her friend's nostrils and mouth, had watched as her friend's face grew out of shape and had watched as her friend's eyes lolled back into her head. But, through it all, she was smiling and repeating the same phrase. "You can't leave." Then, satisfied with her doing, she had stopped and sat back on her friend's legs, admiring her work. The leaves of the tree rustled fiercely in the wind, as if screaming at her for what she had done, but she had not cared. It was done. Her friend would not leave forever. She had gotten up, brushing off the leaves from her dress and carefully rolled her friend to the edge of the cliff. "No one will find you here. I'll make sure no one takes you away. I know how much you want to stay. I know you're thanking me too, although you don't seem to want to talk. I know, I know. It's alright, I'll be here," she had whispered to her friend, before planting a light kiss on her friend's bloodied forehead and pushing her off the cliff into the murky waters below. She had lain on her stomach, peering over the edge, and had watched as her friend shattered the glass of water with a splash. Finally, she had gone back to the tree and buried her friend's hair ribbon which she had taken earlier, making a makeshift cross as well when she was done. "Forever." The girl blinked, returning to the present, then laughed softly as she touched the weathered cross once more. "I'm back." Headlinesby AlicemaeIn a world much too wise to humor unseeing eyes such Pretty Perfect Words, flow from parted lips that barely even, kissed two decades of this life. "Unity!" Cry the voices. "Peace!" Shout the masses. ...While the sweet lull of a hungry boy's violin is drowned within those sounds. Funny that only, This, echoes through my thoughts when That Space Between My Ears ought to be filled with More Important Things, such as Saving The World, and Speaking My Mind, and not the melodies of skeletal boys plastered across the covers of National Geographics, aimed to tug on simple heartstrings Not So Different From Mine. Watch; As these glossy pages carry our minds, and Capture Our Hearts like a ******** Hallmark card. Tomorrow: Another bomb Goes Off In Tokyo They say it may become: The Second Shot Heard Around The World? But I don't know, I don't know. Mushroom clouds fill my dreams, churning visions of World War Three, but why should I believe? They're calling for the troops again; Marching off to war again, Vietnam or The Middle East -- It's Really All The Same To Me. Tempers rise and nostrils flare tension builds and arrogance ferments The Brilliant Air, the walls expand, and -- Then, explode. Leaving puddles of brain matter Splattered Across The Floor. Point! What's Your Point? #3 It This Land is OUR LandJeff A. Van BoovenThis land is our land. That's right, "our" land. I'll say it again least you forget that the key word is "our." So don't forget, it's our land. Now that we've established this is our land and not just your land lets continue on with the actual point of why I've repeated this sentence five times. There are more people than just you. They don't all agree with you and they don't like everything that you do. They don't act, think, or talk like you either. Though, just like you, they have rights. Rights, which shouldn't be denied to them simply because you have a problem with them. Such rights as abortions, guns, gas powered cars, large houses, fur coats, hamburgers, electricity, video games, pornography, drinking, gambling, and the right to give themselves cancer are prime examples of rights that shouldn't be denied. Just because this country -or any other country for that matter- is a democracy, does not mean that the majority has the right to oppress the minority. This is something that is very hard-pressed to be understood in today's society. Censorship is everywhere, anti-everything advocates can be found on nearly every street corner, and you can thank the nice Sierra Club for being so helpful in making gas so expensive. Gas prices are a prime example of what happens when a group of people neglect the fact that they don't have the right to deny rights to others. Simply because of protests, distortion, and other such activism by environmentalist groups oil refineries can't be built in the United States. Which, if you don't understand what an oil refinery does, this may not make much sense. But, those refineries are the key to turning oil into gas for your car, and without more of them, it won't matter how much oil is taken out of the ground. To put it bluntly, you do not have the right to deny others an activity that does not direct or indirectly cause harm to you or others through proper use of the product. This being said, many of the things mentioned above don't have any effect on people. Abortions have absolutely no effect on anybody outside of the medical staff, patient, and those in link with that patient. That number is surprisingly smaller than the amount of people who go marching on Washington every year. These people simply believe that because their religion says something is wrong that they have the right to deny it to everybody. As much as they would claim to be tolerant, this blatant ignorance of the people's rights is surprising. Sure, there is the first amendment, but they are wasting their time. The first amendment does not give you the right to deny rights to others. Abortions do not pose any effect on the church, ergo, the church should respect the right of other Americans to have abortions. This doesn't go to say that our more liberal friends are without blame either. I've already mentioned problems environmentalists have caused. This doesn't excuse conservatives either. Now I'm not against gay marriage -another right which the Christian theocracarists have been apt to deny. But honestly, I want to know how homosexuals getting married destroys the sanctity of marriage? I've never understood what the sanctity of marriage actually is. However, in light of fifty percent of marriages ending in divorce I'm pretty sure the sanctity has already been destroyed. I still don't enjoy being around gay people. I don't like to see them kiss. It's the same with ugly people. It is just my preference not to be around them. I have no ill will towards them. I tolerate them. However, I would prefer that more people could take an interest in making themselves look decent when they go out in public or that they would have heterosexual relationships. I don't demand they have to. Unfortunately, our liberal brethren have a tendency to overreact any time somebody objects based on preference. Like in this case, being around gays, or seeing pictures directly affects me. Thus, I have the right to object to being exposed to that. It doesn't make me anti-gay. It just makes me a person who doesn't like to see these displays of affection, even heterosexual, when I am in a public setting. Many cities these days are considering, if they haven't already, instating smoking bans. This bans smoking in all public places. Now last time I checked, private businesses were supposed to be allowed to make these decisions themselves. Why should the government tell a bar that they can't have smoking simply because it's harmful to people and that the majority of people don't like it. Well guess what? The majority of people don't have to patronize locations that allow smoking. We don't need big brother government to clean up places. Businesses have a right to allow smoking; you have the right not to visit that location. You don't have to visit smoky environments, thus you are safe from the smoke. Now, I've given many examples of situations where you don't have the right to complain or to demand that the government step in; but you need to understand why I make it such a big deal. These sorts of things bring massive groups of people into conflicts each day. Especially in the political arena. Entire elections can be won or lost on social issues that shouldn't be issues at all. And part of the problem is that if the majority doesn't realize that they are trying to infringe on other's rights, then the majority effectively becomes a dictatorship. Even right now, such groups can be seen, The Christian Coalition, Liberals, the Sierra Club, PETA, etc. You can see, many of these groups are a threat to America and its way of life. So, you need to realize that you have to make your own decisions, not what these groups pay millions of dollars to politicians to achieve. These groups don't elect politicians, the people do. The next time you decide to take a stand step aside and think for a moment, "How does this actually affect me? How does this affect the general public? Do I have the right to deny others their rights? Is it really a problem, or is it just against my morals and ethics?" Once you are done with these questions, there is a good chance that you'll have discovered that you really shouldn't have a problem and that your stand would only negatively impact those who actually enjoy what they are doing already. So be smart, respect others and save us all some grief. CREATIVE THINKING #2Becoming a Logical Thinker
Quick GuideThe steps below cover the logical thinking process from start to finish. Look each step over carefully and try to get the big picture. Then apply what you have learned the next time you need to use logic in an argument, a debate, or in your writing. 1. Decide on your purpose.2. Gather information on the topic.3. Focus on a central point that you feel you can support.4. Add "qualifiers" as necessary.5. Define any terms that may be unclear.6. Support your points with evidence that is both interesting and reliable.7. Explain your evidence and why your audience should accpet it.8. Consider any objections your audience could have.9. Make concessions; admit that some of your arguments may be week.10. Point out weaknesses in the other side of the issue, the arguments you don't accept.11. Restate your point or central claim.12. Urge your audience to accept your viewpoint.NOTE: You will probably not use every one of these steps, or stages, each time you set out to prove a point. Each situation is different and, in addition to logic, requires some creative thinking and common sense.
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:36 pm
The Political Writing ProjectDirected by Jahoclave A few months ago we'd been sitting around trying to figure out what our next major project should be. Eventually the only good idea we had come up was a political writing project. Today many people have become rather active, shouting this and that without much gain. So, we thought to introduce them to the age old ways of doing political activism; writing. Everybody remembers the writings of Marx, Orwell, Rand, Jefferson, etc... You remember them, and their ideas, not because they were vocal, but because they wrote them. 1984 probably stands as one of the greatest examples of political writing ever to exist. While we may not have gotten the turnout we were expecting for this project, we did indeed get some lovely entries. However, due to issues outside of our control, it has taken us much longer than expected to bring this project to light. And so, because of that we weren't able to edit them sufficiently, so you may find that there would be more grammatical and spelling errors than we would normally have. However, these pieces are all very solid in their own right, and convey a good variety of political thought. Also, since we should probably do this. All opinions expressed within these stories do not reflect those of the Gaian Press, its editors, or anything else for that matter. Aniese TateJahoclaveOur first is "Aniese Tate" a short story by Jahoclave. In the future the president has taken the country over through the "will" of the people, and only a few people are able to withstand the economic hardship to rise up to fight for the very basic freedoms that have been taken from them. "Aniese," John said as he reached down to grab her arm. "That's high treason." "Treason?" Aniese said questioningly as she shrugged off his hand and put the last of the bullets into the clip. Pausing for a second to turn and look John in the eyes, she grabbed the gun and inserted the clip. "Treason was when I voted for Hill. This-" She turned and brought the gun up to point at an old, tattered, political campaign poster from a decade earlier. "This is atonement." A small blast of chalky red dust poured out of the hole in President Hill's head as the bullet lodged itself in the old brick of the once thriving club's basement. It was as if the poster was real and the blood had turned to smoke, spewing forth like dry ice. Again, Aniese turned towards John, her eyes glaring at him with a fire, passion, brooding hatred. "Hey, don't blame me. I voted for Tom Jones." "And a lot of good that did my father," Aniese said as she tucked the gun into her holster and stormed towards the door. "Aniese," John said, trying to block her path, "don't go." "And why shouldn't I John?" Aniese nearly yelled, barely managing not to explode as she shoved him out of the way into the old brick wall. "They killed my father because he claimed his rights. They got him, they'll get you, and they'll get me. I might as well give the rest of them some hope." "Hope! You think you're offering them hope!" Aniese stopped short of the stairs, spinning round to face John, opening her mouth in the process to yell only to find her violent expression covered by her dull bloody colored hair, which was nearly matching the color of her face. "Yes, damn it. Hope!" "Hope," John yelled, standing at the bottom of the wooden mockery of stairs as Aniese ascended them in a passionate fury. "Hope that the government will come crashing down on the underground! You call that hope?" "I'll call it whatever I want to call it," Aniese said, slamming the door behind her hard enough to knock a small picture frame off the wall. John stooped to pick up the fallen photo. It was obvious she couldn't be reasoned with anymore. The pain, the loss, had driven itself too deep within her now. He was careful not to p***k himself on the broken glass shards. The photo was of Aniese, a little younger, no worry. She figured to be about seventeen in the picture; halfway through Hill's first term. Now it was ten years later and Hill's fourth term was guaranteed, unless through some miracle Aniese fulfilled her revenge. Aniese just didn't understand that another power hungry despot would take control and use the assassination to validate the revoking of what civil liberties they still had. The underground would be crushed. He had failed to make her see that. Silently he put the picture back on the wall, the glass shattered. The sounds of Aniese's motorcycle filled the room, albeit much too loud, till John realized that the door had been opened. There in the doorway stood David, clad in a new suit as always and the Cuban grasped firmly between his lips. "You haven't changed a bit," John said as he took in the sight of an old friend. "I bet you still have the Jag." "You guessed it," David said. "Say, what's up with Aniese? She looks a lot worse for the wear." "Oh," John said as he pulled up two chairs, "She's off to kill the president." "Again?" David chuckled sarcastically. "I guess neither of us has changed that much." "Speaking of that, find anything?" "I wish I had," David said in remorse. They had been right. It was a pipe dream. He had left shortly after they had recruited Aniese, who was nineteen then. Hill had just taken her second term and was already showing her totalitarianism. And, Aniese's father had been killed for his opposition to it, or so she believed. It couldn't be proved either way. Eight years he had spent in the southwest chasing a ghost. It wasn't as bad there. They at least had their cars to live in, rather than the shanty towns that took over the cities. David's goal was to find Tom Jones, the opposition candidate to Hill in the last election. Jones had, according to reputable sources, escaped into the southwest and disappeared from sight, some believing he had traveled into Mexico or gone farther south to Central America. David didn't buy the notion that Jones had abandoned his country, though, eight years and he hadn't caught hold of a single trail. The man simply had turned into a ghost. "But you know how it is these days. You can hide, and you have to hide." *** Rain struck her face, a violent downpour, a remnant of her emotions. A motorcycle rumbling between her legs as she sped down the road. No traffic to be had, nobody could afford a car. Her very presence on the bike, an emblem of ages past, marked her as a rebel, a patriot, a human. She had a mission, or had one when she started. Now, she knew he was right. He was more than right. He was right in what he didn't even say. She would have cursed him, but damn it! She had to go to somebody, and that somebody she wasn't looking forward to. The turn was there, before the bridge. She always regretted that turn. She regretted what had happened there so many years ago. But the end is always found in the beginning, and there she was, there he was. Below the ridge, the tepee, the smoke rising softly into the violent storm. Inside, the old man, wise, but to her, he didn't speak clear. She was always at a loss. His advice, she knew it profound, the meaning, it was great. But, she, she failed to grasp it. Though, as the years passed, she understood more her first visit, marred though it was. "The past is a figment that can not be amended. Haunt it will, forgive it will not. Seek not comfort from it, nor go to the future through it. Keep your eyes ahead and your mind wide." More or LessAlicemae"More or Less" is a poem from Alicemae. "More or Less" is more or less a poem about all the things you really don't think about, but they happen everyday. Even though we don't think about it, they have a great impact on who we are, as a people, and as a nation. Behind the darkened skies of these drifting city lights the heavens above seem to cry as raindrops hit the passerby, And more or less a day goes by. Behind the darkened schoolyards of these drifting city lights the students sit like stone as teachers drone in monotone, And more or less a day goes by. Behind the darkened towers of these drifting city lights the factories spill another tanker as shadows spread across the water, And more or less a day goes by. Behind the darkened homes of these drifting city lights the family sits around the table while staring blankly at the cable, And more or less a day goes by. Behind the darkened monitors of these drifting city lights the anchor reports another suicide while smiling a bit too wide, And more or less a day goes by. Behind the darkened lives of these drifting city lights the holy Sister kneels to pray while all her candles melt away, And more or less a day goes by. Absolute AbolitionLittleMissRocketShip"Absolute Abolition" by LittleMissRocketShip is about a non-union trucker and his encounters with some not so civil union workers. Dennis Michaelov toyed with his radio. He squinted his tiny, button eyes, as if willing the damn thing to pick up a frequency, any frequency. Man, the trucking industry's equipment had sure gone to s**t. Well, they couldn't blame him for his inability to communicate, right? He sure as hell wouldn't have them taking any of this out of his paycheck for, what was it, negligence on the job. This wasn't even his normal job. Not that he wasn't grateful. He had been up and out of his chair every time the phone rang and, finally, his unconscious reflexes had paid off. One or another of the trucker unions (he didn't know which) had finally come upon his name in whatever listing they kept and, Golly Moses, he could kick unemployment in its sweet a** and kiss his sofa goodbye. He was in debt, and the regular drivers were on strike, so he and the Man had managed to come across a compromise. With an irritated curse, Michaelov tossed his radio aside and began fumbling for his cigarettes. He had been driving for eight hours straight, he needed a little wake up right about now, something to numb his already feverish caffeine headache. With his other hand, he wiped the cold sweat collecting at his brow. He wondered if he was addicted. Well, it wouldn't be the first substance to strike his insatiable fancy. The doctors said it was his personality. The massive, hulking steel vehicle jolted. Michaelov swore as the cigarettes, those little mean cylinders, spilled onto the floor in a shower of nicotine flakes. He ducked his head recklessly and, while his left hand drove blindly, he groped around for one, anyone. He pulled back with a throaty noise of triumph, the bent cigarette pinched between his fingers. He took a moment to congratulate himself. The truck jolted again. "The ********?" he almost screamed. The impact caused his head to snap forward as he almost brained himself on the dashboard. He strained his thick neck from side to side, dumbly, before turning to his mirrors. An SUV. What the bloody hell did they think they were doing? Michaelov stuck his head out the window, bracing himself on one meaty elbow, and swore. He quickly retracted, eyes switching back and forth, sweeping the road nervously. Two more. Where had they come from? Now there was another SUV to his left, herding him toward the all-too-thin guardrail, and the other was trying to cut him off. Angry now, blood boiling in a rage that his tiny brain had conjured to hide his growing anxiety, the man sped up. The car in front of him swerved. Michaelov braked violently and wrenched the wheel right, right GODDAMN YOU! throwing his massive bulk into the aversion. The propane truck skidded and there was a horrible rasping noise, as if the steel titan had just released a great deal of flatulence, and Michaelov felt his stomach drop. His eyes bulged. The railing caved like tin foil beneath the monstrous, spinning front wheels. Despite his best efforts the truck did not slow, but fell off the road with horrifying ease, as if it had long awaited this moment and had been pacing itself. Dread. Dread like a great, black tear in his stomach as the compartment lost all sense of time, all aversion to gravity, and with his massive body it did what it pleased. The polyester seatbelt strained as he was pressed against it, the weight of the truck bed at his back, branding the steering wheel into his abdomen as he felt his eternal organs coagulate in a rush unlike any he had experience since he'd gained that fifty pounds. I'll take it off, I swear. His seatbelt, his seat, this ******** job, was now his prison, and as Michaelov plunged headlong into the ravine he thought. Actually thought. There was no longer that constant nag the chemicals in his brain incurred when he craved nicotine. Quite the opposite, he was overcome by an overwhelming clarity. They had done it. The workers. They had killed him. They had planned this to the last detail. Would their union protect them from this? Did they hold such loathing for men such as he, men that were willing to step over them and their petty bids for attention to make personal ends meet? They were all too alike, couldn't they see? He was human, they were human, he had needed this job to make ends meet. It had never been anything personal. Silya ElektrikaKraeela"Silya Elektrika" by Kraeela takes a look at our criminal justice system, the courts, and the death penalty in general. Are innocent people dying while the guilty go free? Walking down the corridor The walls on either side of me Are bare. Peeling whitewash Rust stains on the ceiling Dripping foul-smelling water Moths fly around the lightbulb Burnt They drop to the floor, Dead I brush them aside with a foot A heavy foot. A foot with a metal cuff I shuffle. Down the long hallway Clang! Clang! Steel bracelets around my wrists Weigh down my arms Clang! Clang! I come closer With each step A dull light A sterile formaldehyde-yellow bathes the room A man meets me at the door Dressed in gray Devil? Angel? It's too dark to tell Or is it too late to care I walk across the floor Passing bench upon bench of people A judge, the jury A woman stands. Crying, cursing at me Her husband takes her by the arm. Sits her down. The family stares at me. Chilling eyes Cold. Hurt. Angry eyes. The Gray Man makes me walk faster He seats me upon a chair A throne He sets a crown upon my head A perfect fit A crown of black sackcloth that shuts out the world I smile For so long I've waited to go home Soon, I will "We have gathered here today, to witness..." He murmurs on and on And I await patiently "Any last words?" he asks I shake my head, "No" I have no more words for this earth "Ready..." My body shakes As the jolt sears through my flesh Yet, I have left it behind I feel no pain The weight of the cuffs no longer drag me down And as a Man in White greets me I know for sure whose side he stands. Yet before I leave The Earth which was my prison For once, it is not too late I say my Last Words to the family that weeps Before the charred body: "I am sorry for the crime I did not commit." Breeding GroundsFawkes"Breeding Grounds" by Fawkes is a story of a girl as she deals with the people she knows and loves going off to war. At the ripe old age of seventeen you haven't got much experience with warfare or hatred. I hated that girl who wore the same dress as I did to homecoming but it was nothing compared to what would come to light in my life. Still, I remember the beginning, I had just had my seventeenth birthday and as all young kids think, I was invincible. At least I was, until I got the call that changed my life. My old red mustang banged down the city streets as I made my way to visit him. He had just returned form a place so far from home that it seemed as though it didn't even exist. The war there was fierce and my few friends that had come back from it didn't like to talk on the subject much. Being a girl was a relief when the draft started; I always knew breasts would come in handy some day. I had a heap of older friends and I was always more comfortable with the males of the species anyway. He was sitting cross legged in front of the television when I got to his apartment. His mom and dad had just left, leaving a couple bags of groceries and a carton of cigarettes in their wake. He was watching The Simpsons and laughing hysterically. He said he'd missed that show a great deal. I sat next to him and pretended to find it as funny as he did, it was a repeat. When the evening news came on he turned the television off abruptly and sighed heavily with a grimace on his face. "No one has asked me about the war," he said in a soft whisper. I stood there, not knowing what to say. It was an awkward moment and I wasn't sure I wanted to hear any stories he had but a macabre piece of me was curious. "I suppose they think that talking about it will upset me." He sat on the couch and beckoned me to join him. I sat and looked over at him, one of my closest friends, and he seemed so far away from me at the moment. "It doesn't seem real you know," I said in response. "It's all in a different country, far from home. Like it isn't even real." I felt rather abashed and pretended to be very interested in the chipping nail polish on my fingers. "Oh it's real," he said brandishing his bare shoulder to me. "I think this would prove just how real it is." I looked at a circular scar, no bigger than my thumb. It was his bullet wound, the reason he was allowed to go home so early, and the one thing that brought him back. I nodded; it was all I could do. He began to tell me about the gunfire and the children and the bullets flying around him. I couldn't handle it and I was forced to throw up a hand in desperation. It became real as he spoke, I could imagine the children wielding the guns and the adults running around commanding them to shoot. My heart ached as I saw his face contort from story to story. He would laugh at a comment one of his buddies had made and then frown as he told me of that same mans death. Once my hand had lifted he stopped, nodding in understanding. "I don't want to hear anymore, I'm sorry but it's..." I couldn't finish my sentence. He just nodded. After laughing about the old days for a few hours I left. My heart still sunk into the depths of sadness as I left his apartment. He was sent back a year later and this time he didn't return. I didn't even find out until three months after his funeral. My first taste of war, something I wouldn't have considered a few years prior, had been a sour and fruitless experience and I wasn't even there. I had heard it second hand and it still affected me so horribly. It wouldn't get any better. Years past and the war went on. There were protests and there were many different stances on the situation. I tended to stay somewhere in the middle instead of choosing a side. I shared the ideals of the peace makers at times but I was fearful of what would happen if we didn't finish and win. So I didn't speak of it, I didn't consider it; it was happening far away and didn't affect my daily life. Not until everyone I knew was over there fighting or would be soon enough. The day my father left was the day I cried the most, I had just turned twenty. Mother and I pretended he was on holiday, like he'd be returning soon. Four months later my boyfriend Jason was sent off as well, I was petrified. Suddenly it was close to home; suddenly we were in the middle of something we couldn't handle. It was getting too far; it was too much when it affected my daily life and not just the evening news. It wouldn't be until nearly a year later when I started receiving the phone calls. A friend here, an ex there, all dead due to someone else's war. I tried to stay calm, tried to remember that Daddy and Jason were much smarter and they'd come home. We received the letter from the Department of Defense on a dreary September day. Daddy had lost his life for the glory of his country. Jason's letter came to his mother two months later. My second taste of war was just as sour in my mouth but it breeds something worse than just heartache. I cried for days and those tears became hatred and that hatred turned into something so disgusting I could barely breathe through it. I hated them, everyone single one of their kind. In my mind, the enemy was all around me, he was a different color and there was an accent in his voice and he smelled funny and he wore odd clothes. If I'd had a gun I would have shot him for his sins, he'd killed my father and he'd ruined my mothers life and he'd killed my Jason. He should die. Hatred took me and I folded myself within it. "This," I said to my mother, "Is what makes prejudice." She looked at me oddly, her face cocked to the side. "I have lost my father and my boyfriend to a man with no face yet I know his color and his creed and even his culture. I hate him and all of his kind, even the ones that fight for our side and live on our land." She came toward me and went to embrace me, nodding her head in an understanding way. "This mother, this is what makes a man hate." SpinCA.ged"Spin" by CA.ged is a very interesting poem. It takes at the heart, just how trivial our political spectrum has become. The media, the parties, are we really getting anything done?Sit speed-surfing channels on mode one-twenty-eight Blur of colours never fading always too late Present's inconstant and the future is too far Got to run away from the past in a brand-new fancy car. 100 years from now, will it really matter? Let democracy disintegrate as the parties chatter Let the hungry wither, let AIDS and cancer kill Defer to your President as he passes bill after useless bill Follow in your father's footsteps, wage guerrilla wars Silence the protestors before they get too far It's voting day tomorrow, it's too hard to think Succumb to glitz and glitter, McDonald's, dreams and drink Cut taxes for the capitalists; throw a millionaires ball Cry death to all the faggots who dare defy the law Scorn the poor and homeless, let them starve in the streets Sell your pets to slaughter, they're better off as meat Invade Brazil and Africa for your exotic treasures Then declare endangered species and demand dramatic measures Dump your tons of plastic and your nuclear wastes Earth deserves to be looted, trashed, raped, defaced Slow down the world! The police demand The air is too unhealthy, society already damned Shut up your politicians and turn off your TVs Keep the garbage out of airwaves; let the people see: What a deceived state of mind they live in How easy the illusions break Not a thought to hypocrite's morals; Stop! for earth's sake. Let go of preconceptions And take a lesson from the past Don your flowers and your peace signs Let's start this over from scratch. We are the generation that will think for ourselves We're the generation that leaves history on the shelf Words can go on into the emptiness of space; We are the generation where our actions will earn. Our. Place. Broken ToyScarlet Jile"Broken Toy" by Scarlet Jile is most likely the highlight of this entire project. Not only does it make the point, but it does it in such a way that you have to think to even get it. Using symbolism and a very culpable analogy he gets his point across. A rubber wheel; Firestone. It's poor quality, they say. It broke that ******** skateboard. It's stressful reading the newspaper nowadays, considering the current proceedings. Every once in a while, some action comes your way, and it feels so good to just break something instead of imagining yourself marching with a picket sign, while demeaning those who actually do it. It couldn't have been lined up better. How perfect, how convenient. The tire bowed the wood inwards, towards that imperfect ground, and the little toy with wheels shattered, splinters skittering harmlessly about. The kid yelled and screamed, kicked and groaned. "You broke it," he cried. "You broke my skateboard!" It was nice to feel the car sink back to the earth after destroying that which impeded it. It was nice to feel the skateboard shatter under my three-ton truck with little difficulty. Yeah. I broke it. He watched in disgust as I climbed down from my giant truck, a perfect frown purposely fixated, turning my typically peaceful countenance into one of frustration and anger. Of hatred. He said some things I didn't hear, or rather, didn't listen to. Chips of his toy were still imbedded into my tire, my Firestone. Poor quality, they say. "I'm sorry," I blurted, hardly aware I was doing it. A plane flew overhead, a bomber, and it drowned the child's weak words with its mighty roar. I'll read the paper tomorrow. Why was I sorry, I wondered? I didn't care about his stupid skateboard. In fact, I was thrilled when his meager toy exploded under the automobile, splintering apart like a ramshackle hut, caught in a tornado. He merely shook his head, the post-traumatic exasperation long from worn away. "It's just a toy," I started. "It can be replaced." "It's my toy." "I'll get you a new one. Just pretend this never happened, okay?" "Why? You broke my skateboard." His eyes were wet with tears, his voice beginning to crack. "Look, I told you I'm sorry. I can replace your toy, get you a better one, huh?" I didn't want him to cry. I hate it when kids cry. "Don't cry, buddy. It's no big deal." "You broke my skateboard!" He stormed towards me, his sadness turned into fury, and when he broke into a run, all reason was lost, and my words were hollow. He wanted revenge. The fool. How can he expect to beat someone so much better than him? It's not possible... it's utterly futile to attempt. His little feet pounded across the cracked tar, each miniature step bringing him that much closer to his destination. I didn't care to wait for him to jump on me, regardless of how feeble his efforts may be. When he got close enough, his fists raised in anger, I jabbed forward quickly, eliminating the threat before any damage could be done. A crimson spray erupted from his nose, and he toppled forward, tears racing the flow of blood, and losing. He hit the ground, still conscious, and bleeding. At first I was aghast; I'd struck so small a child! For what? Self-defense? I reaffirmed my conscious; proclaiming what I'd done as the only plausible course of action. If I hadn't attacked, my own life may have been in danger. Never mind the small, piteous child, weeping in the desolate streets, lying on the tar. I scooped the kid up and laid him in the grass on the side of the road, giving him fifty-six dollars, more than enough to pay for his skateboard. He can just rebuild it, make it better. It's not a perfect skateboard, so I've fixed it. I've given him what he needs to make it perfect. The perfect toy. The bomber was long gone now, gone over-seas. I'll read the paper tomorrow. Notes from Serieve: A day late, but at least it's all in tact. Couldn't get on, so I tried to post it as soon as I could. I'm sure none of you mind the wait, however. I know one of our readers offered to look over this issue for us, but I was unable to respond, so if they would still like to do so, they can pm me with things they saw and I'll be sure to go back and have a look. In the way of announcements, our contest has been held off yet again due to the fact that absolutly no one has voted for our third round winners. In the post following will be some links to an outer contest thread with details and to our upcoming submissions thread. Hopefully, the turn out will be better than it has been!
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Posted: Sun Jul 23, 2006 7:38 pm
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