alicemae
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 3.1 + 3.2
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. Poetry
Listed 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 want
by 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 Ballet
by 10_6madhatter
She 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.
Tears
by Dragon Lilly
Tears 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 gold
Touched
by Alice Jenkins
Touched,
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. Fiction
Listed in alphbetical order.
The Badger Brigade
Chapter Three: The First Kill is The Hardest
Nah, not really.
by Hemp Fandango
Beth 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.
Eleanor
by Helena Winge, a.k.a. Deliastere
He 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 Flashed
by Kestrel Arien, a.k.a. Kestrel Queen of Wands
Lightning 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. Jahoclave
Why 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.
We find the best so you don't have to.
IN THIS ISSUE:
1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.
2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted and scouted by the best.
3. 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. Poetry
Listed 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 want
by 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 Ballet
by 10_6madhatter
She 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.
Tears
by Dragon Lilly
Tears 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 gold
Touched
by Alice Jenkins
Touched,
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. Fiction
Listed in alphbetical order.
The Badger Brigade
Chapter Three: The First Kill is The Hardest
Nah, not really.
by Hemp Fandango
Beth 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.
Eleanor
by Helena Winge, a.k.a. Deliastere
He 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 Flashed
by Kestrel Arien, a.k.a. Kestrel Queen of Wands
Lightning 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. Jahoclave
Why 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.
