We find the best so you don't have to.
IN THIS ISSUE:
1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.
2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted by the best.
3. Geek Chic - A Girl's Guide to Geekdom.
4. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.
5. Best of Issue - As voted by you!
6. La Revue - Reviews on a variety of entertainment products.
7. Beyond the Box - An English Extravaganza, directed by Serieve.
8. The Afterthought - A preview of the next issue and then some.
PART I. Next Door Neighbors
Working to improve Gaia's writing environment, The Gaian Press and Deus ex Machina are teaming up. Deus ex Machina is a private (yet active) guild of about 170 members with an expansive moderation team that dedicates its time to attracting and entertaining fellow guild members. Their forums include casual and in-depth discussions, writing resources, role playing, and poetry. Just click the banner to visit them!Gaia's Beta Guild Like peanut butter and jelly, Marge and Homer, The Gaian Press and Gaia's Beta Guild have come together at last. See their guild here! It's a small, public little corner of Gaia with about 70 members and a simple, straightforward layout. Beta Lists are posted for those who want a beta or wish to be a beta, and discussions on editing tactics can be found in the Library subforum. So look no further, fellow writers–a good editor is just a click away!
PART II. Bulletin Board
The Writer's Pub is a private guild with only 114 members and no entry fee. Several subforums divide the discussion into comfortable niches while leaving room for general discussion. Contest lovers can scurry off to the Contest Cave while literature fans stroll down Literature Lane, and NaNoWriMo fanatics can visit the Nano Nest. The main forum is active with daily updates in their discussion threads. For writers who wish to improve their skills, there are Links For Writing Help, and if you can't find the perfect name, you can try their Name Bank. They even keep track of member birthdays. cool Chateau Erotique is an elaborate, awesomely designed thread in the Commerce forum with gorgeous graphics and constant activity. (And yes, literacy is highly encouraged.) March 18th was their one year anniversary, which they celebrated with a Raffle. Page Prizes are a regular treat, and they have thousands of gold in prizes. Their creative layout sports a night club called Area 69, a restaurant named Teh Talking Teacup, a Spa de Reves, and L'Hotel du Chateau Erotique. There's even streamed radio with music and a DJ who posts while he plays.Hey You! (Yes you.) If you have a writing-related site/guild/thread that you would like to advertise (or affiliate!) please PM Serieve or post in one of our public threads. Be warned though, we investigate first to see if it's suitable to be advertised and offer rejections if we find that they are not. No fee will be included, but donations are very much appreciated. Donators will be listed and thanked publicly in the Afterthought. Thank you!
PART I. Poetry
Listed in alphabetical order by title.
hot rod, by Scary Write-Bot 1500
Jawbreaker, by Lebki
sweeter, by Laverne
Trail Mix for Dummies, by Jamestown
hot rod
By Scary Write-Bot 1500
God watched us from his eighteen
wheeler, we
compact cars trembling
in the facesw of bumper-to-bumper
shopping sprees and 'drive-thru'
sex.
Oblivious, you'd say. Cliched children
watched pick-ups roll
trailers with inky humanity
on the wheels. Minivans held
no longer children or mothers -- just
lonely men with their wives
bickering over glitter
in their make-up.
The devil would glance to her
SUV to his convertible, then to her
crashed heap.
She lured men with her car-jargon,
and snuck those metal bodies out for a drive.
God would wander his male
anatomy back to a partnerless
Mars. The purgatory audience watched
from Earth like
anxious bluebirds flying by
the windshield of a Corvette.
Jawbreaker
By Lebki
lick
my sour candy coating
and forget the often cavity
as you make me thinner, less.
You can never be with
another, you say,
and you pop me into place,
slowly wearing me down
to nothing.
one day you bite down
and I attack. You scream
and clutch your jaw,
your bloody teeth,
which are soaked with me.
before I can wonder if
you deserved it,
I escape, drop to the floor,
and take all my things with me
as I go
sweeter
By Laverne
Last night's intentions were to bathe in rosy scandals,
to interrupt the twinkling surface by means of
bold white toenails and cowering pink toes.
I wanted to sweat under simple froth, watching
the tiniest of droplets snake down,
around my knees in hopes of my hips.
I thought to push through what steam was lingering there,
like crawling out of bed on the warmest of spring days,
when they smell like rain
and cherry trees from far away.
And when I sat, done up in a towel cocoon
and watching water swirl into
a waterfall, then the bell
would hover up the stairs and dance across my eyes.
And who could it be this late at night?
I suppose, though, hadn't the doorbell caught me
when I reached the very first step,
I could have melted down the drain without caring.
Trail Mix for Dummies
By Jamestown
I know you'll miss it
When I'm gone
The way I eat the M&Ms
Out of your trail mix
One day, when I'm gone
One day, when you're hungry
You'll go to eat
From the zip-lock of trail mix
Bite and chew
and ******** are there so many ******** M&Ms
In this ******** trail mix?"
Or at least you would
Say
If you dropped the f-bomb hella lot.
PART II. Prose
Listed in alphabetical order by title.
On The Cold Frontier, by Potter
S'not my problem, by Buldozer
A Time to Remember, by Eli
On The Cold Frontier
By Potter
“Up, Sanchez.” It was my assigned task to relieve Robby Sanchez of watch duty at oh-two-hundred. I decided to give the poor guy a break and let him off the hook half an hour early. I wasn’t sleeping, but it seemed to be all Sanchez was capable of. Regardless, he roused from his slumber, abashed at having dozed on duty.
“Sorry, Rush. Can’t help fallin’ asleep sometimes. We haven’t been fightin’ off nothin’ but boredom an’ frostbite out here.”
I shrugged. “I know what you mean. Two months on duty guarding this little base and not so much as a radar blip. Excitement isn’t exactly at an all-time high, but the powers that be say to hold, so by God we’re going to hold. Go get some proper sleep.” I patted the man on the shoulder and he left quickly. I would probably care more if our squad were ambushed while a watch was sleeping on duty, but as no such thing had happened yet, I wasn’t overly concerned. A surprise that nothing had come of our slacking, really.
I sat down in the icy box, weapon on my lap ready to scatter a hail of projectiles at any enemy that may choose to rear up out of the godforsaken tundra surrounding our base. We didn’t question it, we didn’t join the army to complain or make our opinions especially known. I joined up for the guts and the glory. I have, in my two whole years of soldiering around my home galaxy, seen neither. The closest I’ve seen to “guts” was an unfortunate transport craft accident, and glory has never even been in my sights.
I was starting to let my thoughts get away from me, lost in the endless expanse of darkened white plains stretching ahead of me. The small heater in the lookout tower didn’t do much to drive out the cold that I felt even through my insulated armor. This planet was always cold. So I sat, and I shivered, and I watched the snow. I must have been colder than I thought, because I thought I saw something moving in the dark snow below the watchtower. I looked, flipping down the infra-red scope over my goggles. Nothing. I walked the watchtower three-sixty, settling back where I had started. It was just as empty as it had been for months. Almost a disappointment.
It was oh-three-fifty when I saw something move again. I was sure this time. I wasn’t crazy; the base’s shrink could verify that. I wasn’t sleeping well, but I wasn’t deprived enough to be having hallucinations. Something was out there, something was moving. Clutching my gun to my chest I slid down the tower’s ladder and tapped one of the men at the base for a temporary trade off.
“Where’re you off to, Rush?”
“Scouting.” I took off, crouching low and moving by infrared. My vision was filled with blues, nothing even close to the warmer side of the spectrum. I saw something, I was sure. I just wasn’t seeing it then. I circled the watchtower, and then moved out, gradually increasing the circumference of my covered ground. I circled around and around, and found nothing. Disappointed I returned to the tower to finish off my shift. I still didn’t sleep that night.
I had guard again the next night, after Robby as usual. For once, he was awake. Abnormally so, jittery, over alert to the point of paranoia. I got a gun shoved in my face when I popped the hatch and started to climb into the box. I nearly fell off the ladder.
“Chris’sake, Robby! At ease!” He quickly put his gun down and backed off, helping me in and then crouching against one wall, looking outside obsessively.
“There’s somethin’ out there, Rush. Somethin’s movin’ around.”
“What do you mean?” I knelt down next to him. It took a while, but something in the periphery of my vision eventually moved. Too far out to be one of our guys, too close in for it to be a trick of the eyes. Sanchez was on IR, I was on night vision, and we both saw it. Another thing I saw was that Robby was on the edge of nervous breakdown.
He repeated in a whisper, “There’s somethin’ out there. Should we raise th’ alarm?”
“No. Come on.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the box, down the ladder. He was spooked, wasn’t moving the way I wanted him to. I had to threaten him with an official reprimand to get him past the security gate. I was going to find out what was out there if it took all night. First contact had a big check mark next to it in the “glory” column. I’d seen aliens—non-humans—before, but this planet had something that no one had ever seen. It wasn’t your run of the mill Brunali or Phryexian, it was different, it was new, and I was hunting it.
I sent Sanchez in one direction (even if he was scared out of his mind), and I took the other. Twenty minutes must have passed before my goggles began picking up strange heat marks. Footprints. Some sort of secretion left on—on, not in—the snow. Fascinating. I followed them, switching up between night vision and infrared. The tracks were almost invisible without heat readings, only a clear smear in the snow. This didn’t worry me until I started to see a pattern when I switched off from IR. The secretion tracks were beginning to line up with other tracks. Robby’s.
“Rush to Sanchez, do you copy?” Hopefully the poor scared dolt had remembered to turn on his radio. I tried again. “Robby, come in.” The radio was on. I was hearing sounds. Clicking, like the sound made when a grasshopper rubs its legs together, only louder. The clicking was punctuated by high-pitched whines.
I switched into full IR and followed the tracks at a run. I was being drawn further and further from the base. At three-seventy yards out from the safety gates I started seeing other things join the heat prints. Blood. God, Robby, I thought. What did you find? I trudged on, breathing hard and pumped with adrenalin. I knew that I wouldn’t be finding Sanchez alive, but at least that God-awful clicking had stopped, had moved away. In all likelihood, moved towards me. I was absolutely terrified, don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t doing anything out of bravery. I was retrieving a fellow soldier, which was what had to be done anyway. God, I was scared. Finding Robby dead in the snow didn’t help. I couldn’t see it behind his mask and goggles, but I had a gut feeling that the poor guy looked just as terrified as I felt. I gagged, despite my training.
I wasn’t alone out there, and whatever was with me was hostile. I wanted to leave Robby, turn tail and run like a scared rabbit back to the base. At the least, I could raise the alarm. I could get backup, have everything in a fifty-mile radius lit up and under careful scrutiny in less than half an hour. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about the dark. There’s no shame in a grown man being scared of the dark when he knows there’s something he doesn’t know about lurking there.
“Rush to base.” Static. I knew people falling asleep on shift would bite us some day. “Come in, base, this is Rush. We have an emergency.” I don’t remember if I cried or threw up first after what I heard next, but I know that I did both.
That clicking.
That damned clicking. It was filling my headset over the base frequency.
I discarded my face mask and kept the goggles, throwing them into high night vision and letting off several bursts from my gun. I screamed into the night, sick of waiting, sick of not knowing. Gradually, the snows nearby shifted, and slender beings rose out of it on strangely bent legs. They clicked madly at me, the sound drowning out my gunfire. The sound was driving me insane, the same way it must have gotten to Robby. I would put money on the clicking being the cause of his unwillingness to leave the base. He knew what was out there, and he was scared.
I should have listened to him. I should have raised the alarm. I should have done a lot of things, but I didn’t. I was, however, determined to take as many of them out with me before I went. They were everywhere, white as the snow and fast as the wind, suited perfectly to their planet. They were made to live on that dark little ice ball that we had no right to be on, dangerous and yet strangely beautiful.
But God, that clicking.
S'not my problem
By Buldozer
As I rounded the corner, my feet hit the brakes and I skidded to a complete stop. I had expected a guardian in the room, and at this point, it should have been someone strong.
What I saw was not what I expected. Standing no more than thirty feet from me was what looked like a six foot tall, elongated lime. This man was covered head to toe in green; even his hair was a sick shade of the secondary color. He stood there on the other side of this large room, one hand in his pocket, the other tossing a small rock up and down idly. I wondered if he'd been standing there doing that for long, and what he would have done if it had taken me longer to get here.
"You're early," he called out into the room's silence. His fist closed around the rock, but he made no motion to move.
"I find that it's best to be prompt to a party of such grand elaborations," I retorted, walking a few paces into the room. "Y'know, I've seen you for maybe five seconds, and I don't get you. You almost seem like a color-coordinated, color-blind goth kid."
The kid's eyes widened a fraction, and his lip wavered. Was he gonna cry from just that? This would be like shooting frogs with a pellet rifle. He turned his hand over, and dropped the rock on the ground. "You're not very nice, you know that? You should learn to treat people equally."
"Maybe you should learn that neon colors don't look good without a blacklight."
The kid's fist tightened, and I could see his knuckles whiten. I was getting under his skin. Good. Then he did something I wouldn't have expected ever.
He reached his fist up, extended his index finger, and shoved the digit up his nose, the top part of the appendage moving around up in the cavity.
"What the hell is wrong wi-" My words were cut short as his finger was shoved up farther, until it was buried up to his second knuckle. My mouth dropped open. I wanted to speak my mind, but all I could do was stand there and watch this kid pick his nose.
It appeared that he wasn't stopping, either. The digit plowed forth, until he finally had the entire finger lodged in his nostril. Now I was curious as to what he was gonna do, until I saw him extend his middle finger.
He shoved that one in too.
I gagged. The two fingers dug around his nasal passage for a moment, until he withdrew his other hand, and stuck the tip of his other index finger in there. With two and a fraction fingers in his nose, he smiled, and then pulled the nostril in opposite directions. It simply opened, like the hole of a sack, and he reached his entire hand up into his head. I was really beginning to wonder what he was going for up there. Surely picking one's own brain can't be good?
He continued to slowly shove his arm further upwards, until I was positive that this was some kind of trick. There was simply no room in his skull for a foot and a half of forearm. His lips drew up from a smile into a sideways smirk, and he stopped his arm. "I found it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
I didn't say anything for almost five seconds. "You... found WHAT?!"
He giggled, much like a baby, and withdrew his arm quickly, long strands of green snot curled around it like spider's webbing. The nostril remained open long enough for him to withdraw his treasure, and promptly snapped shut after it's retrieval.
He brought his arm down and whipped his wrist out, the sword he was holding flinging the green, sticky mucus off of it in a line. "My weapon of choice, the Mucus Blade. Prepare yourself, mortal!"
A Time to Remember
By Eli
An old man reclined in the lounge chair, glad to be out of the wheelchair parked next to him on the beach. He was thousands of miles and decades from home. His left leg was gone, shot off at the knee in a battle long ago. A piece of gleaming medical equipment rested on the nylon straps where his calf should have been. A yellow-brown, wrinkled old hand reached down to scratch where some sand had worked under the band, then returned to the album in his lap. Already narrow eyes squinted against the glare of the setting sun reflecting from the plastic pages. Every fifth page or so was a datastick with a date and location written on the page behind it. The other pages were covered in pictures; he ran his hands over them and remembered.
An old man squatted on the beach. He was thousands of miles and decades from home. His legs were spindly hydraulic presses plated in once-gleaming ceramic-steel composite. A pair of tarnished silver wings was engraved in the thigh plates. His arm was gone, shot off above the elbow in a battle long ago. A bandage was wrapped carefully around the end and clamped on with an aluminum tourniquet. His right hand glowed a dark reddish color in the setting sun as he peered down his hooked nose at the half-dozen pictures he held fanned like cards. He set the pictures on his thigh and pushed the band back up his head, sweeping his long, greasy black hair out of his face.
“You served?” asked one.
“Confederate Marines,” was the reply.
“As did I.”
The two watched as the sun kissed the horizon, each alone in memory.
“Carnifex?” asked the Apache with metal legs.
“Aye. Recon?” countered the crippled Aleutian.
“Yes.”
The Apache tucked the pictures into his shirt pocket and activated his legs. They hummed and hissed to life as he turned to face the Aleutian and moved closer to him. They watched the sunset a bit longer. “Among the Apache, we tell of one of ours, a great officer of the Order of the Eye named Nantan the Speaker among our people. He is the pinnacle, the paragon of the Recon, a proud member of our fading race.”
The cripple stared into the sun. “Among the Aleutians we tell of an Officer Carnifex, the ideal of the Sugpiak, true people. We call him Taluk. He was hunter.” The Aleutian dropped into the clipped use of English often mistaken for stupidity. “Great hunter of the Islands when he enlist. They make him officer for it.”
The Apache nodded, “Nantan put his name as 'Richardson' when he signed. We have no need for a second name when we can recite our line ten generations.”
“Taluk called himself Richardson. He need no other than Taluk among his people.”
And the two sat and watched the sun disappear. Neither of them talked any more, for the two knew the story of Nantan the Speaker and Taluk the Hunter. Commander Richardson, the Marine, was hero to both peoples and each told themselves the story their own way. Perhaps if they told the story together they would know something closer to the 'real' story of the Commander. But would the truth be fact, or would it be the legend of Richardson, Speaker and Hunter, Recon-runner and Carnifex-killer? To each their own and all marines to the Confederacy.
#9 Linking BooksBy Rushifa
Anyone remember the original Myst game? In it, you were a wayward traveler trapped on a mysterious island, all alone. Your only hope for escape was through strange books which, when you opened them and placed your hand across their pages, transported you to equally mysterious and empty worlds, which you then worked your way through. It was a fun and rather short game, but its real appeal was in how natural its concept was. Books by their simple nature are already portals to other worlds. They show us new worlds--worlds we could never see except in our own heads. However, I have come across an even more powerful experience. Instead of showing me a different world, this book reflected my own.
My uncle is an author. Well, to be be frank, he's not actually my uncle, but he's more of an uncle to me than any of my own relatives. His wife, my almost-aunt, is the best friend of my mother. When my parents moved two states and about a million intellectual miles away from their parents and siblings, they did more than simply fulfill their own need for escape and freedom; unbeknownst to them, they also gave me a wonderful gift and a terrible curse. A cliché, perhaps, but it's the most concise way I can think to explain it.
I was an only child. It was more than simply the obvious lack of siblings; for all points and purposes, I had no cousins, no aunts and uncles, no grandparents, either. A yearly visit didn't make up for the distance between me and my family, but something else did. My parents' close friends, and my own close friends, became like family to me. They say you can't choose your family, but you can choose your friends. In a way, I was able to have both.
Back to my uncle. He's an author. He self-publishes, but is fairly successful. Mostly, he writes nature books, but he's recently ventured into the world of novels. I had the pleasure of reading his most recent novel during my vacation. There is something entirely eerie about reading a book written by someone you know. Any reference they make, you know why. Any speeches, you can almost hear in their voice. You can recognize cameo appearances from people you know. You can recognize themes from your own life.
Even stranger than the hearing my uncle's voice out of a female protagonist was the experience that came next. Done with one book, and hungry for related reading, a picked up a short, personal memoir written by my uncle's father. There were only about fifty of them printed, only intended for distribution within the family. It was written for his wife, as her health and memory began to wane, so she would not forget their life together. It was touching to say the least.
Memoir is a powerful tool. It is a way of imparting family history, family legend, in immortal print. Truths are revealed in the writing, emotions made clearer, which could perhaps never be communicated otherwise. It is a gift. I sat, reading a book written in love and memory, in a house being built within those very pages.
Point! What’s Your Point? #24 What We've Lost
Jeff A. Van Booven
It's amazing what a short hike through nature can make you realize. For example, how little we actually respect nature. Sure, people go to the zoo and look at all the fluffy and cute animals, but that's hardly getting close to nature. Have you ever just spent an hour just listening to the rain? Have you walked through the woods enjoying the calls of birds and frogs as a slight breeze blows between the trees? I'm not advocating some environmental agenda to save some animal or the trees, just going out and enjoying nature once in awhile. It's certainly better than listening to yet another news story about Anna Nicole Smith's death or one more story on some stupid s**t Britney Spears did; and some of those plants might just be smarter than Paris Hilton.
It'd do a lot for this country if people just got out of the house more often. We live in a world where outside is an evil and dangerous place unfit for humans to live. It's nice to get out away from the fear mongering news and to just live life, to just get away from all the hyped up hypersensitive bullshit pedaled at us like anybody honestly gives a s**t. Imagine what it would do for obesity if once a week people got out and took a walk through the woods.
Another thing that's been bugging me as of late is all these “true” beauty groups popping up on the Internet to give extremely overweight girls an excuse to claim that guys who don't like them because they're three hundred pounds overweight are assholes. You know, looks aren't everything, but when you look like you couldn't even walk the hundred meter dash, you're not exactly somebody I want to be around. It shows a lack of respect for yourself, and you're not exactly the kind of person I'd want around my children. Looks aren't everything, but at least you could look like you actually give a s**t about your body and aren't setting yourself up for a heart attack before you reach thirty.
It's about time our society learned to lay off the hypertension and stop thinking that we're going to get blown up, raped, shot, and attacked by a cold germ the moment we step outside. Hate to say it, but your children aren't going to get kidnapped by playing Cowboys and Indians in the front yard, or the nearby woods that no longer exist. Oh, and what a novel concept, once you've got them running around outside they'll be getting exercise, thus meaning that you don't have to worry about them becoming obese. Then because they'll be playing with the neighborhood kids they'll be getting their social skills in order. And they'll learn a thing or two about the outdoors. Look at all the positives if we just stop being a**l retentive!
[To Be Voted]
It's simple: read each piece in the Honorable Mentions section of this issue and vote in the poll for the one you like best!
Please, please, I beg you to use the honor system; do not vote because he/she is your friend, do not use multiple accounts to vote, and if you could care less, choose the "gold" option.
The poll will end May 25th, and we will announce the winner on May 26th. As is customary, he or she will receive a 500g prize. Listed below are the BoI candidates:
hot rod, by Scary Write-Bot 1500
Jawbreaker, by Lebki
sweeter, by Laverne
Trail Mix for Dummies, by Jamestown
On The Cold Frontier, by Potter
S'not my problem, by Buldozer
A Time to Remember, by Eli
Code of the Ninja
Courtesy of The One and Only Jahoclave
5 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - The ninja approves of this; failure to cohere with the ninja's decision is a grave mistake.
4 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - The ninja enjoys this, but he finds flaws.
3 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - The ninja would rather date your sister, but since you may not have one he will take this instead.
2 - :Ninja: :Ninja: - The ninja warns you that he was only marginally impressed.
1 - :Ninja: - If proper confession is made, the ninja will forgive you for taking part in this.
0 - xp - If you are looking for an invigorating experience I would suggest poking your eye out before this; the ninja does not approve.
Book Review: Into the Looking Glass
Written By John Ringo
Reviewed by PANIC! On The Enterprise
"If Tom Clancy were writing SF, it would read much like John Ringo." -Philadelphia Weekly PressA 60 kiloton explosion obliterates the University of Florida. Terrorists are suspected, but when there's no EMP and no radiation, it obviously can't be a nuke. William Weaver, PhD, is called in. He's smart--really smart--but he's not your typical scientist. He's your typical G.I. Joe, with brains, looks, and skill. He's handsome, intelligent, athletic. What more could someone what in a hero?
Now, this book wasn't really that bad. It didn't hold my attention well, but I suffered through. He wrote the military parts well (not exactly the next Heinlein, but not bad) and threw in a very realistic touch to a very sci-fi book. I mean, look at the cover art. No, that's not a Jabberwocky, don't be fooled by the title (I was). That's a bug. A really, really big bug from a different universe.
Perhaps realism is one of the reasons I didn't like it. It was too realistic. I like my science fiction to be a little on the unrealistic side. His style would be good if it weren't dry. It was good English wise, but it isn't a style that grabs your interest. I only got through it because I wanted to get through it. Don't read this if you're looking for an attention grabber all the way through.
Overall, it was an all right book. It was something different from an author I hadn't read before. I would have liked a little more depth in character, but that can't be helped. I also would have liked a fresher style. Not the worst book ever by far, but not the best either.
3 - ninja ninja ninja - for Characters
4 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - for Storyline
2 - :Ninja: :Ninja: - for Style
4 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - for Substance
3 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - Overall
Book Review: Peter Pan in Scarlet
Written By Geraldine McCaughrean
Reviewed By enchantedsleeper
In 2004, Great Ormon Street Hospital held a competition to find a suitable author or authoress to write the first ever official sequel to J.M. Barrie's much-loved Peter Pan. The winner of the competition was children's writer Geraldine McCaughrean, and in my opinion she has written the ideal sequel. Anyone who even vaguely knows the story of Peter Pan - they don't need to have read the book (I'm not even sure I have) - should read this book, as I'm sure they'll enjoy it.Peter Pan in Scarlet begins some time after the original Peter Pan, and Wendy and the Lost Boys have all now grown up, and all but Slightly are married with children. However, their Neverland days are by no means behind them. Lately, they have all been having very realistic dreams about Neverland which result in the materialisation of Neverland objects - a tomahawk here, an alarm clock there, a sword over there... Eventually a meeting is held, and it is decided that something must be very wrong, and therefore an excursion to Neverland is needed to set things right. However, when Wendy, John and the Lost Boys finally manage to get to Neverland, they find it a very different place to the one they left.
One of my favourite things about this book has to be the writing style. It's difficult to describe, but it's definitely very fitting to Peter Pan; it's likely that Geraldine McCaughrean modeled this style on J.M. Barrie's. If you want an idea of what this writing style is like, have a read through this fic, which is written in a very similar style. (It's also a great read wink )
The personalities of the characters in this novel are all spot on, and the return of a great deal of old faces from the previous book is bound to please all the fans. Unfortunately, there are next to no new characters, an aspect which some people might like and some might not; in total, I think there is only one major new character who isn't in the first book. However, during their quest to 'fix' Neverland, Peter Pan and company travel to the very edges of the map, and here some wonderful new material comes to life, with brilliant and imaginative descriptions of the furthest corners of this strange world. The reader learns to expect the unexpected - or better yet, to expect nothing at all, for a pleasant surprise is guaranteed.
As well as a wonderful writing style and a plot with plenty of twists to keep the reader guessing, Peter Pan in Scarlett has two big bonuses that are sure to make you buy the book. The first is the gorgeous cover art of the hardback edition. I have spent a lot of time just staring at the cover; even if I hadn't already been a Peter Pan fan, I think the cover art alone would have enticed me to read the book.
The second is that proceeds from every copy of Peter Pan in Scarlet sold will go to J.M. Barrie's favourite charity, Great Ormond Street Hospital. So if you don't want to read the book yourself, buy it as a gift for someone else! It's for a great cause.
4 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - for Characters
5 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - for Storyline
5 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - for Style
5 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - for Substance
5 - :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: :Ninja: - Overall
Movie Review TMNT
Directed By Kevin Munroe
Review By Rushifa
For old fans of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the new movie is a stroll down nostalgia lane. For new fans, it's not a bad place to jump in. Although it throws you into the aftermath of a previous plot, it does a good job of bringing you up to speed. The opening both introduces the characters, and orients you quickly, without losing the audience in unneeded exposition.
The plot is fairly simple. Leonardo is off training in Mexico, and in his absence the remaining turtles have drifted apart, each attempting to carry on with their lives, with little success. Meanwhile, an immortal warrior is attempting to gather 13 monsters which had been loosed on the world, calling on assistance from some of the turtle's old enemies.
Stylistically, it takes awhile to adjust to the movie. Done completely in CG, it has a style similar to that of The Incredibles, and it takes some getting used to. The turtles look especially odd, seeming much smaller to me than in the original movies or TV show. However, once you get used to it, the suspension of disbelief sets in, and its smooth sailing from their.
The movie was better than I expected it to be. The themes were a little over-stated, but, after all, it's made for children. Overall, a nostalgic, entertaining movie.
4- ninja ninja ninja ninja - for Characters
3- ninja ninja ninja - for Storyline
3- ninja ninja ninja - for Style
3- ninja ninja ninja - for Substance
4- ninja ninja ninja ninja - Overall
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