Welcome to Gaia! ::

THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 8.0 - September '05


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.
3. Quilled Ramblings - Ramble, ramble, ramble.
4. La Revue - Ninja is all-knowing review mastah. Obey, now!
5. Staff Spotlight - Finally, meet the mugs of the muggles that made TGP possible.
6. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the staff.
7. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.



Editor's Note: TGP is currently reserving space for authors, guild owners, shopkeepers or anyone else that wishes to advertise in our 'zine. It'll be just 30g to post your link along with a short teaser. All proceeds will be added to the 'zine fund for future contests or writing projects, so don't hesitate to support this cause! Visit our HQ thread or contact alicemae for more details.



Alicemae reports:
.....For some blatantly shameless self promotion, click here.

.....Gaia towns? The heck?! Mahaha, indeed the time has come. Our little avi's are moving up in the world, my friends.

.....Booknerds unite! Grab some recommendations here since you know the book's only good if it's worth a second read.



Editor's Note: If you would like to be published in the next issue of TGP, simply contact alicemae or visit our guild for submission guidelines!



PART I. Poetry
Listed in alphabetical order by author.

For the Benefit of the Class Warriors by Bane is on Fire!
Ultimate Docter Demo by Conor Olaf Barret
Last Night's Walk by Mira Hopesbane
Downwind from the Crematorium by YakuVega Nari
Comatose Contortionist by Laverne Terres



For the Benefit of the Class Warriors
by Bane is on Fire!

She spools out silver linings
from her shabby jeans - coaxing
and coaching her faded
ambition.

Aspen winters bite her face,
weathering but better for her wear.
Crackling beyond her eyes, she glances
waywardly at a steadfast
angelic cloud.

She rose up from beneath the
subway tokens and the acid rain,
clutching onto her sparkling purse
and her glam diamond
days ahead.

Murdered at the Bastille, she
spends her Sundays wrapped up
in a balmy dialect.

And sweetly, she sings
of paranoia.

Ultimate Docter Demo
by Conor Olaf Barret
Editor's Note: Barret's piece was our Best of Issue Runer-Up! He was awarded 250g in prize money.

I've traversed the dirt-ridden deserts
of despicable deeds demanding donors
to dominate the sleeping blood bags
for the white crescent donut knights.
Riding on the trains of Anti Iconic Dominancy
and celebrating on the gullets of colds and flu's,
as they bust open the gallant brigade of 1970
with some hypodermic mistake.

A b*****d with a lime knife;
Lurking like a dancer in the limelight:
"You know there's something with that liver,
but your heart's all rotted out-
we could replace it with tape and scissors
or just tenderize the thing and then rip it out.
I'm just a doctor you'll soon b***h about
For doing it wrong in the blood spout
and replacing your gizzard with a bum lout,
But you're going under the lime knife-
So I wouldn't get too touched,
if you still want to ******** much in life.
By the way my name's Doctor Eleanor Mick Clout-
I work mostly at McDonald's so there's an ace up my sleeve.
In the fact hamburgers are similar to bodies I believe.
Under the faint light the burger lady
Prepares a fine bit of a chicken sandwich,
With whatever liver that looked alright,
But thinking candidly
Her assistants and she thought both looked ungodly,
So both went to the gut snack-
Then as if a bullet hit her back:
"That hit quite the tactical spot excitably,
so where do we operate exactly?"

Last Night's Walk
by Mira Hopesbane

I took a walk with Death last night-
We spoke of pleasant things;
Life, love, jitterbugs,
Cruel fate and angel's wings.

I took a walk with Death last night-
We talked of cold, cruel steel.
What was the job to be done?
And how might it feel?

I took a walk with Death last night-
I thought of the hidden knife-
Kept for an unruly thief-
But what of my sweet life?

I took a walk with Death last night-
And stared him in the eye
"No," I muttered with distaste.
"It is not yours, but mine."

I took a walk with Death last night-
He bowed with a genteel air,
"I see," he said with a touch of hurt,
"It is only fair."

I took a walk with Death last night-
I realized not too late
If you refuse his gift right now,
He will only wait.

Downwind from the Crematorium
by YakuVega Nari

I'd rather think it impish snow
Without the rather frosty glow
And wonder not what hellish pot
Belched this splash of raining rot.

It falls on streets with children gay,
Upon the baker's platter tray,
And we whisper, "Whisper not!
"It shall bring the culprit lot!"

For that what burns we will not think,
From those who turn we will not shirk,
For survival has the greatest cost:
All the people that we've lost.

Do not look; forget today.
Forget Friday, Wednesday, Saturday.

Forget the chimney in the west
Where the fires never rest;
Do not look,
But do not cry:

"Ash! Ash!
"Forget the ash!"

Comatose Contortionist
by Laverne Terres

When she stares you in the eyes
with that head back
between those feet as she contorts
just realize her gaze
is fixed upon the
iridescent backdrop.

A cocktail glass
tips between her fingers.
Pompous hairdo reflections
as she places it,
full,
on her chin to balance.

Segue: she,
on her precarious spot
of bland iron wire,
shall fall and hold
her perch for her life.
She shall know, then,
that the tuscan red dream
is a tarp of the circus;
lilliputan slaves darting inside.

She shan't be spared any of this
mercy when she lets go,
to the audience's unanimous gasping-
her mind will drone.
With a little tap of a ruler,
it will command that her sleep-
as unfeeling as death-
go on for more than months.

When she stares you in the eyes,
blink and walk away.



PART II. Fiction
Listed in alphbetical order by author.

Open House by Katherine
Snykhvana, Prologue by Xeheglar



Open House
by Katherine

Pau Pau insisted on holding my hand even though she was already burdened with too many bags. We suddenly stopped in front of a bakery where she told me in quick Cantonese to open the door. Too young to help carry the heavy loads of groceries, but old enough to have pride, I wanted to be useful to my grandmother so I did as I was told.

We both bustled into the pastry shop, edging our way through the crowd to the light blue counter. People everywhere spoke rapidly in Cantonese, as if they didn't have enough time alive to say all they needed. It was always like this in Chinatown, New York City. Pau Pau was still holding my hand, but my eyes followed the people inside the shop.

The older people like my Pau Pau appeared beaten, washed out, and gray, their wrinkled and pasty skin distinct against the bright jade of the tables. Their clothes were outdated and seldom bright. The elderly spoke slowly and laughed exuberantly. Like older buildings in New York City, their value was invisible to the eyes of hurried New Yorkers.

My gaze then followed the sound of laughter to the group of rowdy teenagers in the middle of the shop. The girls wore bright, shiny red lipstick and stood straight like newly remodeled buildings. Conversation at their table was about parents and family, their words as tight with contempt as the mini skirts they wore.

I suddenly became conscious of Pau Pau. Pau Pau, I said shaking my hand free, I'm a big girl now. She gave me an interested look and released my hand. But Sum Mei, she said, saying my name with tenderness, when you're a big girl, I won't be able to hold your hand anymore. I ignored her, my eyes fixated on a teenaged girl.

She looked thin enough to pass through a New York City ally, but dressed boldly enough in red and white to earn herself disapproving glances from the elderly, to which she responded with acid strong enough to strip paint. Her face was still milky white with innocence, but the glare of her gleaming pink lips stated so otherwise.

This one looked melted and icy despite her glow, like a building that has seen too many summers and winters and had too few reasons to keep going. The constant need for speed has placed a wear on her expression. From afar, she stood out from the rest like a new, modern structure that I soon forgot about the older buildings around her.

But from further inspection, I saw how she never smiled once, her mouth in a permanent tilt like a cheap apartment building in downtown Manhattan. A thought crossed my mind. Would I grow up to be like her? She was so bright and beautiful that she rivaled the pretty pink bakery boxes everyone seemed to be holding.

I looked at Pau Pau, who was leaning on me for support while waiting in the tortuously long line. Even though we were no longer holding hands, she had a hand on my shoulder. She had yet to let go. For a moment, we both resembled two buildings in Chinatown, one older, the other younger, both quietly supporting each other despite clear differences.

I looked back at the girl, then to Pau Pau once more, looking over the reds and blues of the youth and the gray stories of the old before turning back to my Pau Pau. I love you, I tell her. She smiles. We hold hands all the way home.



Snykhvana
Prologue
by Xeheglar

Mohnahn nw�sets cesohnces,
Ah-uhan wxuldh wahn kahnursw
Ces�usf�xudh turhhails.

Many years passed since then,
When the world as we know it
Suffered a great and terrible trial.

Oh, Avalon! This was the suggested resting place of Arthur, a king in the Age of Men; an island fertile in apples and the birth-forge of the great Excalibur. Yet glorious to one this image may appear, sometimes truth finds a methodology of exposure. And it was revealed, though not by the Hands of Men, to the eyes of all.
Avalon! Oh, Avalon! The sweet fragrance of cedars, endless cedars fallen upon by snow that sealed the precious virgin Forest of Eternity from all but one, one who shared solidarity in the company of a woodland denied boundaries, blessed with the cooing waters of brooks, streams, and waterfalls. And if there was to be an exact center in this eternal forest, it lay as the dwelling of its single spiritual companion.

Mohnahn tuty ohndr,
�kndh �lmurscestu wxuldh.

A trial that brought many to and end,
And nearly the world as well.

He, the one, lay upon the cold ground deep in a baited sleep, cushioned by thoughtful posies, unforgotten rosemary, and the ever sorrowful rue. Together, they lay, basking in the never-ending snow that refused to suffocate life. Thirty millennia came and went since the third demise of the creature Simurg. Yet again and likewise this entity lay in the Mythology of Men. But where the legends began, truth came to light. Man, an unknowing creature whose population was born of failure, temptation, and vanity had the answers beneath the ends of their noses, but in their folklores, their myths, and their legends they failed to discover the hidden truths, the basis of all stories. For it was not Man who originally settled the Earth, sibling guardian of the second Garden of Eden.

Ah-uhan ef�xuj�ohtuef�ul dhtymdh
Wehohah� �kndh wehohah�nemtu rhahnj�rh�atuces.

Those who've allowed themselves
To forget this awful past shall repeat it--
with and without regrets.

The darkness of his shadow descended upon the faithful flora. A behemoth to its brethren, Simurg not always was; born a pet of less intelligence to God Almighty, Xetuvih, known to Men by the names Jehovah, Allah, Adonis, Nissi, Elohim, and the sacred unpronounceable YHWH. Likewise truth sprang forth. In this universe it was not Xetuvih who is said to have made Men in her image. This did not concern Simurg, for his duty lay ahead. His bulk, a magnificence of ratite birds: rainbow plumage spreading like the dancing fingers of wildfires, tempests blown and born from a peacock's turquoise fan. A serpentine neck graced this avian beast with a bell-toned voice of ancients spoken by the maw and cranial avatar of aged, tried lupines.

Dhsetrh L�rhdh, staursll wxuldh mxurhahn?

Dear Lord, shall you show the world mercy?

Simurg cast his opening gaze to the white heavens. His prayer and musing on the world complete, the mother-of-pearl geode-cavern-carved sclera nestled rose-petal irises set aflame. Thus it was so, the triumvirate lunar display lay framed within his pupils: a west of gold, a high blue-green center, and an eastern crystal of silver. They alone encompassed a blueish-purple spiraling galaxy cloaked in a magnificent cream aura.

Ah-u�uces p�ahnj�ohnces

Thus, it begins.



Point! What's Your Point?
#7 Aphorisms for the Lazy
by Jeff A. Van Booven

It has come to my attention at this point that my rather large buffer for articles has slowly diminished. This is more of a fix to that problem so that I can be lazy for yet another entire month without actually having to do any sort of work. So instead of writing a decent article, I've decided to shower you with home-grown aphorisms.

1. When angering bees it is best to be fully clothed, else one is often stung.

2. In situations where things are on fire, it is best not to douse oneself in gasoline.

3. When one is assaulted with a knife, it is best to produce a gun and shoot the assailant.

4. Always wear gloves when plotting criminal action.

5. When being shot at it is advantageous to not get hit.

6. If pie is left unattended, steal it.

7. Always use spell-check when writing stick-up notes.

8. When robbing a bank, don't smile for the camera.

9. When asking a/s/l, always remember that fourteen, female, and "my dad's a cop" is a hint.

10. Bombing raids are an advantageous time for looting and pillaging.

11. When running for office, always remember: dying is a sure fire way to get elected.

12. Never insult a clergyman in a boxing ring.

13. It is better to stab somebody in the stomach; they're expecting it from the back.

14. If at first you don't succeed, increase violence and try again.

15. Peace is achievable if you kill everybody.

16. God hates kittens. This means that killing kittens is a sure ticket to heaven.

17. Mace is great for blinding a chainsaw murderer, but he'll still drop the chainsaw on you.

18. Always remember the poor starving kids in Africa; you'll always be superior.

19. When in Rome, it is advantageous to take pictures to prove you discovered time travel.

20. If attacked by aliens or robots, call Will Smith, not Keanu Reaves.



Quilled Ramblings
#1 Untitled
by Xeheglar

Some of the main things I intend to cover are the constant occassions where the students are mislead as to who invented what, and who did what before whoever else. There are so many inaccuracies in today's history classes that its sickening. Just some examples.

1) Date the steam engine was invented
2) Date the machine gun was invented
3) Date the automatic door opener was invented
4) Date the coin operated vending machine was invented
5) Date the fully automated puppet theater with sound was invented
6) First credited true car
7) The evidence behind the contact between many civilizations in the ancient time

These are just some of the inaccuracies taught in history class.

I think I'm going to make this ramble small for the first time. I am meaning to sound weird.

The entire conceptualization of a fair and progressive educational system, as far as I'm concerned, is the most faulty object of obsession since the time of the first suggestion humanity came from monkeys, some religious standpoint, or some hocus-pocus revelation that makes so little sense to the masses that someone must, independently, yell: WTF is wrong with you? Well, in that case if you are most interested in what I have to say on us, the supporters of this felled system, them, the providers of this wicked trial, and the miniscule brown furry rabbit hidden under my bed where the mutated dust bunnies lie, then please take a seat in the auditorium. If not, then you may leave and ask the overly large hissing cockroach in the back to guide you to the furnace where your body will be promptly incinerated for the better of society.

While what I say may not be wholly remarkable for you or the other people here (and those of you who may pass out from knowledge over consumption) what I say will most likely grab your attention--grab it and shake its existence like some night-stalking predator bent on bringing the apocalypse. Whether it is a person jumping from a window, in front of a train, off cliff or drowning themselves in a bucket of floating apples, you will have heard what I've had to say on this most utterly insulting educational system that has risen from the ashes of darkness and preys upon our children like some rampant nightmarish creature out of hell and living in the bedtime stories parents tell their children to scare them into a sleep which they probably don't deserve. Now onto business.

It has come to my attention most teachers will credit the steam engine to some schmuck in the 1800's who probably thought sticking a camel through the eye of a needle was easier than running things on this simple compressive activity that rent unto the masses a joy-gasm in awe of the newest so called inventions of the day. In fact, they probably had more than just joyful spasms of pleasure and fully engaged in such activities, thus giving birth to the first 'carbangers.' Chug, chug, chug, glug, glug, glug -- the steam engine powered our trains and soon led to a little book in the 1920's that told women how to get the most out of the vibrations while riding a train. (The book was, in fact, so popular, it went through twetnty-seven editions of publication...amazing! Let the carnal culture thrive!)

So where in the world did the Steam Engine come from if it wasn't invented by this guy, this man who is credited? It came from Alexandria, nearly 1800 years ago -- record scratch -- say what? Nearly 1800 years ago, by Hero(n) of Alexandria. Yes, you read me correctly, young one. And so it's revealed unto you the truth about the steam engine, known back then as the Aeolipile, a simple novelty device that would spin with the power of steam created from a tub of water inside the device heated by a fire. Yeah, what a frikken mind job the education system has played upon you here. And not only was it the Steam Engine invented around this time, but also the following: the marvelous automatic door opener, automated puppet theater with lights and sound, the coin-operated vending machine, the machine gun, the handheld crossbow, the odometer, and the world's first con machine -- break slam, crash -- WTF?! Yes, unfortunately, you've been lied to here again...all of these were invented by the same man, Hero[n] of Alexandria. Face it, you've been screwed.

This has been Xeheqlar, your Quilled Rambler to the world of facts! *Domo-Kun dance*



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.



Editor's Note: We're currently lacking in submissions for this department, so feel free to type up a little review (using the ninja's code, of course) to be published for the next issue! Books, music, anime, just about anything goes! So hop on that shiny soapbox already, my critical friend, I know you have something to say...



Movie Review: The Corpse Bride
Directed by Tim Burton
by Alicemae

I went to see this on opening night, feeling all giddy and excited since this was, after all, the latest Tim Burton flick. Unfortunately, the thing with having high expectations is dealing with the let downs when things don't go your way. Movies are no different, I s'ppose, and while I wouldn't call this a disappoint by any means, the ending just didn't hit me the right way. If you're going to make a movie about love that comes back to life, then you might as well make a stronger statement with it! Love triangles are only fun because you have to make a choice, and fate should never be allowed to hand over happy endings on a silver platter. Methinks those can only be earned through BST (blood, sweat, and tears) if you want 'em to be satisfying.

Besides, it seemed to me that Victor could've gone either way with his lady loves, and what kind of girl wants to be with her fella just because the other one's, uh... a little dead? It's like, "Wanted: Breathing female, that's all." Sorry, sweetheart, but that's not much to live up to now is it?

...Okay, I won't rant on for the sake of the Bridal Virgins, but let's just say that this one's pretty much all style and little substance. I still wish that Burton didn't take the easy way out since it could've been so much more! Of course, now that I've prepared you with the right set of standards to attend this film, I'm sure you'll get lots more amusement from it than I reaped: O, damn those lofty expectations of mine!

3 - ninja ninja ninja for Characters
3 - ninja ninja ninja for Storyline
4 - ninja ninja ninja ninja for Style
3 - ninja ninja ninja for Substance
3 - ninja ninja ninja Overall



Editor's Note: This month, we present to you the horrifying truths behind our friendly little avatars. Proceed with caution, dear reader... wink





















The Truth About Writer's Block (OR: Substitute Brain Sally)
by Arddunaid

"Hello class. I am your substitute brain. You can call me Miss Sal, or Miss S or just Sss. Or Mmm. Grunting and pointing is fine, too. I'm mostly just here to make sure the heart and lungs don't get off task, and that the liver doesn't quit his... Function. Oh, and we can't have the bladder losing control. Right?" Sal the brain titters nervously as the various organs eye her with stony silence. The pancreas starts to ooze.

"Ah. Yes. Well, we're going to be working on some basic stuff today. Breathing, beating, and uh, filtering! And the like! Right. We can do it!" She nods and smiles vigorously. Pancreas oozes a little onto the small intestine, who is trailing all around the room. It lets out a high pitched gurgle, and a faintly rotten smell fills the room.

"Pancreas! Quit oozing on the digestive system!" She glares at the wet gloppy bits on the floor, then sighs. "Well, can anyone tell me where the veins are? Shouldn't they be taking this to the kidney or something?"

The large intestine rears up and breaks wind at the substitute. She shudders violently, coughing and wheezing. "That is downright disgusting! And I shall appreciate it if you perform further evacuations only with proper ventilation!"

The wireless phone on the wall behind the teacher's desk begins to ring. The substitute brain Sally picks it up grumpily. "Hello?"

"Oh, hey there. I'm Lindsey, the regular brain. Sorry to bother you like this, I know it isn't usually your job. Uh, well, I'm on sabbatical, so I was wondering if you could do me a favor?"

Sal carries the reciever about the room, shoving aside flesh and cartilage looking for a goodly sized vein; "Ah, sure. Sure I can," she says distractedly. Finally she spots a bluish bit of tubing lurking in the back corner. "I told you to remove that ooze!" she says, pointing to the pancreatic mess. The vein darts over to the mess sheepishly.

"Uh, is there a problem there?" asks the regular brain.

Sal laughs into the reciever nervously. "Uh, sorry! Um, I was just-"

"Yeah. Well, can you do the favor?" interrupts the brain. "Wait, of course you can. I want a story for this thing I want to do..."

The gall bladder and pancreas snicker at the front of the classroom. Sal turns to see them creeping behind her desk. She hurries over and herds them back to their proper places. The lungs sigh in the second row, and Lindsey gets impatient at the other end of the reciever.

"Are you even listening to me? I want this story in the next thirty minutes, you know, which is sort of short notice and all, but really. I mean, I used to do that all the time for stuff."

Sal stares at her classroom, which seems to be subdued. She moves back to her desk and sits in the chair. At about the moment she realizes the chair is warmly wet the class starts laughing uproariously. Yellow bile drips onto the floor. The gall bladder begins to slink toward the door, dripping more of his own bile behind him. The vein dutifully picks it up while Sal begins writing her citation.

Lindsey clears her throat on the other end of the phone line. "Uh, Sal, right? Well, Sal. Here is the deal. Just make it short or long, or about anything, but really good. That's all I need. Just tell me as soon as you're done and I'll use it. Right? Well, I gotta go. So good luck with that."

"Uh, sure, and bye then..." says Sal distractedly, although Lindsey had already hung up. Sal sets the reciever in the cradle and walks up behind the gall bladder. She grabs him by the collar and hangs the citation in his face. "Any more of this ruckus and I'll have you removed!" She walks him back to his seat, then glares at the classroom. The bile from the chair begins to burn through her clothes a little. She tells the liver to watch his little brothers and leaves the room to change.

When she returns the pancreas and gall bladder aren't oozing, but the stomach is looking a little green, and the heart looks about ready to skip out. The lungs are still dutifully heaving in the second row, however, so she sits down with a fresh chair to write the story for Lindsey. Exhausted and out of her forte, she simply writes a synopsis of her day. She gets a little bile and digestive gas on the final draft, but what the hell. She's a substitute brain, after all.



Editor's Note: Another issue has come to fruition and I must apologize to my staffies for being so distracted this month with silly things like school and life. I need to get my priorities straight, don't you think? TGP or bust! wink Seriously though, please stay with us for the next few months even though our educators can be quite relentless with the work load. Granted, we may be busier at the moment, but the 'zine will live on regardless. Thanks for all your support and please look forward to our next issue. Your input would be greatly appreciated for that, in fact!

Thanks, Hawthorne! If only I could divest myself from levity, though.

I look forward to submitting a morbidly terrifying gorefest to the next issue.

Here I am; ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE.

Very snazzilicious.

I should send you my brothers, you have the same haircolour...

And, well, you've just got to ignore other things that take up your precious time from working for The Gaian Press.

So, but Hunt for Female Companionship will not be compromised by any sort of online magazine, ever. xd