Lillian Ashe
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 20.0 - September '06
IN THIS ISSUE:
1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.
2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted by the best.
3. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.
4. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.
5. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do.
6. Critic's Corner - A critique by Scary on Issue 18.0's Best of Issue, School.
7. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.
PART I. Next Door Neighbors
Working to improve Gaia's writing environment, The Gaian Press and Deus ex Machina are teaming. Deus ex Machina is a private (yet active) guild of about 170 members with a hardworking moderation team that dedicates its time to attracting and entertaining fellow guild members. Their forums include casual and in-depth discussions, writing resources, roleplaying, and poetry. Just click the banner to visit them!
Gaia's Beta Guild Like peanut butter and jelly, Marge and Homer, The Gaian Press and Gaia's Beta Guild have come together at last. See their guild here! It's a small, public little corner of Gaia with about 70 members and a simple, straightforward layout. Beta Lists are posted for those who want a beta or wish to be a beta, and discussions on editing tactics can be found in the Library subforum. So look no further, fellow writers; A good editor is just a click away!
PART II. Latest Gossip
~Haven’t gotten any rare events recently? Use this to see if you’ve just missed ‘em. (Click on the link, then open your inventory. And yes, this is completely legit.)
~O RLY? YA RLY. SRSLY? SRSLY. NO WAI! Erm, sorry ‘bout that. Just got carried away thinking about the new donation items. ORLY hat, anyone?
~And, for something a bit closer to home, did anyone notice that the forum-title has been changed? From Writer"s Forum, to Writers Forum?
PART III. Bulletin Board
Readers! If you have a writing-related site/guild/thread that you would like to advertise (or affiliate!) please PM Serieve or post in one of our public threads. Be warned though, we investigate first to see if it's suitable to be advertised and offer rejections if we find that they are not. No fee will be included, but donations are very much appreciated. In fact, all donators will be listed and thanked publicly in the Afterword.
PART I. Poetry
Listed in alphabetical order by title.
First Word, by Scary_Fairy
Pretty Chassis, by vernereal d111sease
Stallion of the Mores, by Stephanie Sargent
Trading Lives, by Aderyn
First Word
By Scary Write-bot 1500
"b***h."
No one heard it, sitting
in my cardboard box
with glitter pens;
Power Ranger dolls.
The television blared
with power ballads and
sitcoms.
I wanted to watch football.
"b***h b***h."
She said, he said,
I screamed. Mommy
wouldn't let me out
of the box. She said she
was going to ship me
to the place called
Sesame Street.
"b***h no."
Pretty Chassis
By vernereal d111sease
Jaws of life: she forced open
oil-slick's and tire-squeal's
consequential red of the heart
smacked under her nose.
"Words are terrible"
blew venom-bright spit
into my eyes.
The tiny dyed bottles
scented her pockets to draw bugs
from windshield wiper ends
as she molded the porch
to her shape.
Every afternoon shade
came from mosquito smears
smoothed into a hand.
She'd crashed across syllables
since she mastered herself
over them. The routine had gone
from speech to beautification,
even if the speeches kept her pockets
heavier with paper than with smell,
and in later days the bugs
will stop coming.
Trading Lives
By Aderyn
The babe was born
in a rush of pooling
blood that just kept coming.
I watched as nurses
scurried around, frantic
like useless field mice.
I watched as the doctor
bowed his head to
hide the shaken terror
painted on his face.
I watched and stared
at the sweat-soaked cotton
shift, whose fabric
clung and outlined thin hips.
"Rest well, my dear."
Morbid words, but
I spoke them, ignoring
the doctor's poorly stifled gasp.
I'd never loved her.
This baby was made by
duty and compassion,
not passionate love.
She looks up, says
skyward to the heavens,
"If it's a boy,
name him Milan.
A girl will be Melantha."
I nod curtly.
"Her name is Melantha."
The baby begins to
squall like a seagull,
a shrill, never-ending cry.
My wife lies dead,
eyes closed, a pale
reflection of former glory.
I turn away.
Stallion of the Mores
By Stephanie Sargent
Ripples startle the gentle mire.
A shadow glides beneath the murk,
Rancid bubbles burst forth.
All is quiet, like a catacomb sealed in stone
All is desolate, like the wind creeping through a cemetery field.
The stallion of the mores turns in restless slumber,
Click, click, click;
The shifting of bone against bare bone.
Splash, gurgle, swoosh;
Fish scatter from his terrible wake.
A thick grey mane is twisting;
His eyes gleam hungry red;
Pale, bloodless flesh skates just below the surface.
Black hooves gallop along the mucky bottom.
At last the stallion emerges,
Skin hangs from his atrophied head;
Lips are thin and teeth the color of bile.
He shakes himself, flinging water from his accursed pelt.
The misty bog wraps about his decomposing form.
Distorted beneath dappled moon light the stallion emerges once more,
A gallant horse with strong legs and pure white coat gallops out of the fog,
Into the night.
PART II. Prose
Listed in alphbetical order by title.
Massacred Memories, by Aderyn
The World of Green- Chappie Numero One, by Elion
Massacred Memories
By Aderyn
My name is Kieran Quoniera, but not for much longer. Today is my wedding day, the day I shall be joined in formal union to a young woman who loves me and will always fill my life with joy.
I do not love her in return.
Mari is wonderful, a shining beacon across dark water, but love is a powerful word. She professes it for me, has said it many times, and her word is law. I will marry her to give her happiness, just as she has given me happiness; I will make love to her, produce an heir to preserve her bloodline; I will do my duty as her wedded consort, always.
Then I will find some pretext to return to Attica, my homeland. Even if I must take another identity, pretend to be what I am not, I will return to Halavin's court and take revenge for my love - or die in the trying.
Love. Maybe I am still trapped in the past, even after everything fate has given in recompense. By the Almighty, thirteen is certainly too young to love. Isn't it?
***
We began the trip at dawn, just as the sun crept over the horizon. I wasn't at all happy about having to rise an hour before the sun, and on my birthday, no less! But the sight of the sunrise cheered me up immediately. True beauty, like a glowing rainbow set aflame by the gods! I was speechless, with no sarcastic comment for once.
I look back upon that memory with amusement, nowadays. How ignorant I was then, awed by a mere sunrise! True, I still admire the sun, but certainly not in the same way. At dawn that day, I was still innocent, a boy. By the same time the next day, I was a man, mature and hardened. The death of a loved one changes you that way.
In any case, I was broken out of reverie by a light tap on my shoulder. I jumped and whirled around frantically before relaxing in relief. It was only Gabe, my cousin and best friend. "Don't sneak up on people like that, Gabe! You almost made me hit my head on the sky!"
Gabe laughed. "It's your own fault for being entranced by the sunrise, Kier. Next thing you know, you're going to start writing poetry!"
My cheeks burned and I made a face, shaking my head violently. "No way, poetry is for girls!"
Cocking his head, Gabe opened his mouth to voice a retort - probably another cutting remark, as his tongue was even more trouble than mine. But I was saved from another unmanly blush by the shrill voice of Hannah, the housekeeper. "Kieran! Gabriel! If you two aren't on your horses in ten seconds, we're leaving without you!"
Hurriedly, Gabe and I raced toward Hannah, who was holding the reins of two horses. As we came within sight, Hannah scowled and scolded,
'Where were you two? We're already running behind schedule as it is. Especially you, Kieran. You're thirteen years old now, you should know better."
I scrunched up my face, but I didn't dare backtalk to Hannah. For all that she was a commoner and a servant, she had the authority to get me into big trouble with my mother, Lady Nieta. Father was the strict one, but Mother's disappointed looks hurt me much more than any of Father's never-ending lectures.
Hanging my head meekly, I walked past Hannah and mounted my horse, a bronze gelding called Copper. Gabe swung onto his own horse, a gray mare named Fog for her innate ability to blend in and navigate in a heavy fog. We both urged our mounts into a trot; I rode ahead in front and Gabe brought up the rear. My parents rode in the carriage at the middle of the procession, the safest position.
Before, I had always traveled in the carriage, as befitted my rank as heir to Father's estate. I had only been permitted to ride Copper today as a special privilege for my birthday, and even that small allowance had only been after days of begging. Sometimes I truly envied Gabe, the youngest of three sons. He possessed so much more freedom than I, and yet I knew he envied me as well, for my inheritance and future wealth. We were best friends, but we each longed for the grass on the other side of the (impenetrable) fence.
As I rode in silence - apart from the steady clip-clop of horseshoes - my mind wandered to my parents. Before his marriage, Roald Keon Quoniera was relatively penniless for a noble; however, Nieta Jinul's generous dowry combined with numerous expensive gifts from King Halavin (Nieta's first cousin) built up his coffers considerably. In fact, if Mother hadn't been born female, she would have been next in line for the throne, as her father had passed away long ago and King Halavin had no close male relatives.
Under normal circumstances, my mother and father would never have been allowed to wed. She was an archduchess of noble blood, and he a lower lord. Nieta had already been betrothed to an Ijan prince, but when the prince died unexpectedly in an earthquake, King Halavin took pity on her and gave her free choice of her next husband.
So under extremely improbable conditions, my parents married and had me. I suppose that makes me an extremely improbable child. I should be grateful to be alive, I guess, but frankly, I'm not.
By the time I had finished pondering my family's convoluted history, we were at the gate of Duke Xilan's enormous manor. Gabe and I dismounted quickly, racing through the gate and up the winding stone path. I had a head start, of course, but Gabe was a much faster runner. We reached the front porch of the manor at the exact same time, like we always did. As I folded my legs and collapsed tiredly on the ground, the manor door was opened by none other than (the very pretty) Yvenne Quoniera.
Yvenne was the daughter and only heir of Duke Xilan; however, as she was female, she would inherit only her father's estate and not his title. It was a conflicted subject, for that title would pass to my own father. And though I had loved Yvenne for two years, I was loath to tell her my feelings. We were far enough apart to prevent a genetic catastrophe, but my father's inheritance was a troubling obstacle.
"Welcome to thy home, my cousins." Yvenne's greeting was painfully formal, spoken in an emotionless monotone while sinking into a deep curtsy. As Gabe and I jumped up and brushed ourselves off, I wondered briefly what had changed her so. Only a year ago, Yvenne had greeted us with a smile and a hug.
Remembering belatedly that I had yet to give the ritual reply, I quickly intoned, "I am honored to visit thy home, dear cousin Yvenne."
Always striving to outdo me, Gabe smiled wickedly and said, "It is always an honor to visit your beautiful home, dear Yvenne." It was a clever twist of words on the original, enough to elicit raised eyebrows but no reprimand.
I was immediately jealous, because I could see Yvenne biting back a smile. But Yvenne said nothing, another sign that she had changed. A year ago, she would have laughed outright and shaken her head at Gabe's foolishness; today, she was afraid to even smile. But what - or who - did she fear?
As Gabe and I stepped inside and removed our overcoats, Yvenne led us down familiar marble-laid hallways to the location of each year's birthday banquet, the Great Hall. We both knew the way, of course - after thirteen consecutive years, it was hard not to remember the way - but apparently acting the hostess was one of Yvenne's new duties.
The Great Hall was overflowing with people, attesting to the size and power of House Quoniera. Following Yvenne's silent instructions, Gabe and I parted ways to our respective seats. I sat at the High Table with Duke Xilan and my parents, and to my great luck, Yvenne as well. As a third son, poor Gabe was relegated to a lower table. I could barely glimpse his head from my seat, so far away he was. As always, Gabe's significantly lower rank brought on a wave of guilt.
The feast lasted for several hours, well into the night. By the time Duke Xilan announced the opening of the ballroom, it was almost midnight and pitch-black outside, a blanket of stars shining bright overhead. I pushed back my chair and stretched contently; I was about to follow the crowd into the ballroom when Yvenne suddenly appeared by my side.
Yvenne's lovely face was marred with an expression of pure terror, and I was instantly concerned. She began to speak, a torrent of frantic words bursting from her mouth. "Kieran, you have to leave, now! You must leave before - before it happens!" She shuddered. "Go! You must be off these grounds by morning, or House Quoniera will truly fade away in disgrace. Please, go!"
Impulsively, I grabbed Yvenne's hand. "Come with me, then. I-I love you! I don't know what happened this past year, but it doesn't matter. If there really is a danger, come and leave with me."
Yvenne shook her head. "Oh Kier, I love you too, I really do. But you must go! There's not much time left, and I am already claimed." She closed her eyes briefly, as if gathering strength. "Father sent me to the convent. He didn't have a choice - they blackmailed him. But then they wanted me, said if I went to live with them and eventually married the- the king, they would leave Father alone. I agreed, but Father refused to let me go. He said he would see House Quoniera's ruin before my marriage to the enemy, and now he will!"
She reluctantly pulled her hand away. "I'm going to plead with them, beg them to let Father live. You must leave now, Kier, before it's too late! It's already too late for me, but you still might have a chance at happiness." With that, Yvenne fled into the unsuspecting crowd.
"Wait! What about Gabe, and my parents?" I called out too late. Yvenne was gone. I almost refused to leave her behind, but I remembered her last words to me. If Yvenne wanted me to run, then run I would. But happiness with another girl, I vowed would never happen. It did eventually come true, of course, though not for many years. I was only thirteen when I made that vow, and too naive to know better.
I wove through the throng of relatives, distant and close, toward a side exit. Just as I slipped through the door, I saw Gabe, running out of the ballroom at a breakneck pace. Yvenne had warned him as well, then. But it was already too late. As the grandfather clock began its midnight chime, deadly black arrows flew out of nowhere. I quickly looked away, but not before I glimpsed an arrow sprouting from Gabe's chest and the resulting sea of blood.
I have no idea how I escaped that night. Everywhere I passed, black arrows rained down but never hit me. I didn't see Yvenne or her father, or my parents, but I saw Copper and Fog ruthlessly shot down along with the other horses in the stables. I had been aiming to find a horse, for escape would be far faster mounted than on foot, but it was again too late.
Yvenne's warning to be off Quoniera lands by sunrise was fresh in my mind as I headed into the fields. Even pushing myself, however, I barely managed to reach the border when the first streaks of pink appeared in the sky. As soon as I crossed into safe territory, I fell asleep against a tree. Exhaustion had finally taken over; my low stamina would prove to be my downfall.
When I awoke, I was no longer leaning against a tree. Instead, I was slumped against the side of a barred wagon, shackled hand and foot. Several other children around the same age were also in the wagon, all staring intently at me. I looked down at my muddy tunic and pants in dismay, realizing that I had been mistaken for a peasant.
I had been captured into slavery. When the slavers came around to serve the daily meal of stale bread and water, I managed to discover that the wagon was headed to a market just across the border in Sierra. I found that fact ironic; had I tried to enter Sierra by myself, I would certainly been turned back for my lack of a passport. But now this wagon was carrying me to safety, albeit as a slave - for in Sierra, those responsible for the massacre of House Quoniera could never find me.
I've never allowed myself to dwell on the memories of the massacre. By keeping the subject in the back of my mind, I could keep away the overwhelming grief. It was necessary in the world of slavery, for slaves have no time to grieve, or indeed to feel any true emotions. Yet as a result of my self-denial, I have never accepted the death of House Quoniera; of all those who died, Gabe and Yvenne always threatened to invade my consciousness and send me spiraling into painful, unwanted memories.
I lived this way, day after day, until the day my owner died and I was back on the auction block. That day, a girl only a little older than me became my new mistress - and eventually, helped me to find happiness again, just as Yvenne had predicted all those years ago.
The World of Green- Chappie Numero One
By Elion
It was green. Everything was green.
The houses were green.
The wrenches were green.
The little bucket shaped cars were green.
The water was green.
Even the people were green.
The only thing that wasn't green was, sometimes, the grass. It was the only color one ever saw besides green. Why wasn't the grass green?
It simply just wasn't fashionable to have green grass. If one was fashionable they had yellow-green grass. And in a world where everything was the same shade of green- that yellow made all the difference.
It was a simplistic world, containing one street called Green Street. Actually, it would normally be said that there were nine streets in the World of Green. However those are the rules of our world, and not of theirs.
And anyone who begged to argue that Green Street was more than one simple street was thrown to the end of the World of Green.
They were thrown to the Red Sign.
The Red Sign was the only thing besides the grass that was not green. However, the sign was not spoken about, was not thought about, and as far as the citizens cared the Red Sign was not even in their world.
Or most of the citizens at any rate. But, no matter what world, there is always at least two oddballs- often three. One -or more depending on the amount of oddballs- will always be the one advocating the abnormal belief. The other -or sometimes two others- will stay silent about their beliefs.
In the World of Green there was currently -the other citizen had been thrown to the sign four years ago- only one citizen thinking about the Red Sign and only one citizen who was also sincerely curious if anything happened beyond the feared sign. After all, where did all the non-believers go when they were thrown to the dreaded sign?
This citizen's name was Robert Richard Michael Litinly Parsons Homer the VIII. Or, simply, Bob. Bob was fifteen years old, the son of the only Gardener in the World of Green and the only Lawyer in the World of Green. He was exactly five feet with an extra eight inches and one half an inch on top of that.
No, he was not 5'8". At least not where it mattered, and that was in his tiny green world. According to those in his tiny green world he was exactly five feet with an extra eight inches and one half inch on top of that.
Bob had what many considered to be perfect hair, at exactly ten inches length and eight strands at the top of his head constantly pointing straight in the air.
He also had perfect style, always wearing trousers made of polyester and shirts made of plastic.
He had amazing eyes; round and bulging with perfect lips that were chapped in all the right places and amazing full on the top lip and beautifully limp on the bottom lip.
Bob was gorgeous.
Girls stared and giggled and blushed as he walked by and men glared and scowled. All the male citizens were jealous of Bob's good looks. How dare he, they thought! How dare he be so perfect in everyway!
Now many are skeptical. One like this could not be beautiful. But I assure you, he was. Remember now, we are not in the culture we are used to. We are in a place very far, yet very close.
Can you guess where we are? It's not particularly important, however rather interesting.
I first thought of Bob in the middle of Church, with random inspiration hitting me like-like-like pancakes.
Random and completely out of nowhere.
Until I found out that it wasn't so random. In truth it was planned out exactly. However else was Bob to send out his story than through a seven-year-old girl with an over-active imagination?
You see, this story- or at least some of it, and most certainly all of it you know right now- takes place very close to home.
As a matter of fact, it takes place not 20 feet from the Jungle Gym at Edgemont Montessori Elementary School, Montclair, New Jersey, 07043.
The World of Green takes place on a pine needle, on a pine tree, very up high in the air.
Or, at least 15 feet in the air.
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. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.
4. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.
5. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do.
6. Critic's Corner - A critique by Scary on Issue 18.0's Best of Issue, School.
7. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.
PART I. Next Door Neighbors
Working to improve Gaia's writing environment, The Gaian Press and Deus ex Machina are teaming. Deus ex Machina is a private (yet active) guild of about 170 members with a hardworking moderation team that dedicates its time to attracting and entertaining fellow guild members. Their forums include casual and in-depth discussions, writing resources, roleplaying, and poetry. Just click the banner to visit them!Gaia's Beta Guild Like peanut butter and jelly, Marge and Homer, The Gaian Press and Gaia's Beta Guild have come together at last. See their guild here! It's a small, public little corner of Gaia with about 70 members and a simple, straightforward layout. Beta Lists are posted for those who want a beta or wish to be a beta, and discussions on editing tactics can be found in the Library subforum. So look no further, fellow writers; A good editor is just a click away!
PART II. Latest Gossip
~Haven’t gotten any rare events recently? Use this to see if you’ve just missed ‘em. (Click on the link, then open your inventory. And yes, this is completely legit.)
~O RLY? YA RLY. SRSLY? SRSLY. NO WAI! Erm, sorry ‘bout that. Just got carried away thinking about the new donation items. ORLY hat, anyone?
~And, for something a bit closer to home, did anyone notice that the forum-title has been changed? From Writer"s Forum, to Writers Forum?
PART III. Bulletin Board
Readers! If you have a writing-related site/guild/thread that you would like to advertise (or affiliate!) please PM Serieve or post in one of our public threads. Be warned though, we investigate first to see if it's suitable to be advertised and offer rejections if we find that they are not. No fee will be included, but donations are very much appreciated. In fact, all donators will be listed and thanked publicly in the Afterword.
PART I. Poetry
Listed in alphabetical order by title.
First Word, by Scary_Fairy
Pretty Chassis, by vernereal d111sease
Stallion of the Mores, by Stephanie Sargent
Trading Lives, by Aderyn
First Word
By Scary Write-bot 1500
"b***h."
No one heard it, sitting
in my cardboard box
with glitter pens;
Power Ranger dolls.
The television blared
with power ballads and
sitcoms.
I wanted to watch football.
"b***h b***h."
She said, he said,
I screamed. Mommy
wouldn't let me out
of the box. She said she
was going to ship me
to the place called
Sesame Street.
"b***h no."
Pretty Chassis
By vernereal d111sease
Jaws of life: she forced open
oil-slick's and tire-squeal's
consequential red of the heart
smacked under her nose.
"Words are terrible"
blew venom-bright spit
into my eyes.
The tiny dyed bottles
scented her pockets to draw bugs
from windshield wiper ends
as she molded the porch
to her shape.
Every afternoon shade
came from mosquito smears
smoothed into a hand.
She'd crashed across syllables
since she mastered herself
over them. The routine had gone
from speech to beautification,
even if the speeches kept her pockets
heavier with paper than with smell,
and in later days the bugs
will stop coming.
Trading Lives
By Aderyn
The babe was born
in a rush of pooling
blood that just kept coming.
I watched as nurses
scurried around, frantic
like useless field mice.
I watched as the doctor
bowed his head to
hide the shaken terror
painted on his face.
I watched and stared
at the sweat-soaked cotton
shift, whose fabric
clung and outlined thin hips.
"Rest well, my dear."
Morbid words, but
I spoke them, ignoring
the doctor's poorly stifled gasp.
I'd never loved her.
This baby was made by
duty and compassion,
not passionate love.
She looks up, says
skyward to the heavens,
"If it's a boy,
name him Milan.
A girl will be Melantha."
I nod curtly.
"Her name is Melantha."
The baby begins to
squall like a seagull,
a shrill, never-ending cry.
My wife lies dead,
eyes closed, a pale
reflection of former glory.
I turn away.
Stallion of the Mores
By Stephanie Sargent
Ripples startle the gentle mire.
A shadow glides beneath the murk,
Rancid bubbles burst forth.
All is quiet, like a catacomb sealed in stone
All is desolate, like the wind creeping through a cemetery field.
The stallion of the mores turns in restless slumber,
Click, click, click;
The shifting of bone against bare bone.
Splash, gurgle, swoosh;
Fish scatter from his terrible wake.
A thick grey mane is twisting;
His eyes gleam hungry red;
Pale, bloodless flesh skates just below the surface.
Black hooves gallop along the mucky bottom.
At last the stallion emerges,
Skin hangs from his atrophied head;
Lips are thin and teeth the color of bile.
He shakes himself, flinging water from his accursed pelt.
The misty bog wraps about his decomposing form.
Distorted beneath dappled moon light the stallion emerges once more,
A gallant horse with strong legs and pure white coat gallops out of the fog,
Into the night.
PART II. Prose
Listed in alphbetical order by title.
Massacred Memories, by Aderyn
The World of Green- Chappie Numero One, by Elion
Massacred Memories
By Aderyn
My name is Kieran Quoniera, but not for much longer. Today is my wedding day, the day I shall be joined in formal union to a young woman who loves me and will always fill my life with joy.
I do not love her in return.
Mari is wonderful, a shining beacon across dark water, but love is a powerful word. She professes it for me, has said it many times, and her word is law. I will marry her to give her happiness, just as she has given me happiness; I will make love to her, produce an heir to preserve her bloodline; I will do my duty as her wedded consort, always.
Then I will find some pretext to return to Attica, my homeland. Even if I must take another identity, pretend to be what I am not, I will return to Halavin's court and take revenge for my love - or die in the trying.
Love. Maybe I am still trapped in the past, even after everything fate has given in recompense. By the Almighty, thirteen is certainly too young to love. Isn't it?
***
We began the trip at dawn, just as the sun crept over the horizon. I wasn't at all happy about having to rise an hour before the sun, and on my birthday, no less! But the sight of the sunrise cheered me up immediately. True beauty, like a glowing rainbow set aflame by the gods! I was speechless, with no sarcastic comment for once.
I look back upon that memory with amusement, nowadays. How ignorant I was then, awed by a mere sunrise! True, I still admire the sun, but certainly not in the same way. At dawn that day, I was still innocent, a boy. By the same time the next day, I was a man, mature and hardened. The death of a loved one changes you that way.
In any case, I was broken out of reverie by a light tap on my shoulder. I jumped and whirled around frantically before relaxing in relief. It was only Gabe, my cousin and best friend. "Don't sneak up on people like that, Gabe! You almost made me hit my head on the sky!"
Gabe laughed. "It's your own fault for being entranced by the sunrise, Kier. Next thing you know, you're going to start writing poetry!"
My cheeks burned and I made a face, shaking my head violently. "No way, poetry is for girls!"
Cocking his head, Gabe opened his mouth to voice a retort - probably another cutting remark, as his tongue was even more trouble than mine. But I was saved from another unmanly blush by the shrill voice of Hannah, the housekeeper. "Kieran! Gabriel! If you two aren't on your horses in ten seconds, we're leaving without you!"
Hurriedly, Gabe and I raced toward Hannah, who was holding the reins of two horses. As we came within sight, Hannah scowled and scolded,
'Where were you two? We're already running behind schedule as it is. Especially you, Kieran. You're thirteen years old now, you should know better."
I scrunched up my face, but I didn't dare backtalk to Hannah. For all that she was a commoner and a servant, she had the authority to get me into big trouble with my mother, Lady Nieta. Father was the strict one, but Mother's disappointed looks hurt me much more than any of Father's never-ending lectures.
Hanging my head meekly, I walked past Hannah and mounted my horse, a bronze gelding called Copper. Gabe swung onto his own horse, a gray mare named Fog for her innate ability to blend in and navigate in a heavy fog. We both urged our mounts into a trot; I rode ahead in front and Gabe brought up the rear. My parents rode in the carriage at the middle of the procession, the safest position.
Before, I had always traveled in the carriage, as befitted my rank as heir to Father's estate. I had only been permitted to ride Copper today as a special privilege for my birthday, and even that small allowance had only been after days of begging. Sometimes I truly envied Gabe, the youngest of three sons. He possessed so much more freedom than I, and yet I knew he envied me as well, for my inheritance and future wealth. We were best friends, but we each longed for the grass on the other side of the (impenetrable) fence.
As I rode in silence - apart from the steady clip-clop of horseshoes - my mind wandered to my parents. Before his marriage, Roald Keon Quoniera was relatively penniless for a noble; however, Nieta Jinul's generous dowry combined with numerous expensive gifts from King Halavin (Nieta's first cousin) built up his coffers considerably. In fact, if Mother hadn't been born female, she would have been next in line for the throne, as her father had passed away long ago and King Halavin had no close male relatives.
Under normal circumstances, my mother and father would never have been allowed to wed. She was an archduchess of noble blood, and he a lower lord. Nieta had already been betrothed to an Ijan prince, but when the prince died unexpectedly in an earthquake, King Halavin took pity on her and gave her free choice of her next husband.
So under extremely improbable conditions, my parents married and had me. I suppose that makes me an extremely improbable child. I should be grateful to be alive, I guess, but frankly, I'm not.
By the time I had finished pondering my family's convoluted history, we were at the gate of Duke Xilan's enormous manor. Gabe and I dismounted quickly, racing through the gate and up the winding stone path. I had a head start, of course, but Gabe was a much faster runner. We reached the front porch of the manor at the exact same time, like we always did. As I folded my legs and collapsed tiredly on the ground, the manor door was opened by none other than (the very pretty) Yvenne Quoniera.
Yvenne was the daughter and only heir of Duke Xilan; however, as she was female, she would inherit only her father's estate and not his title. It was a conflicted subject, for that title would pass to my own father. And though I had loved Yvenne for two years, I was loath to tell her my feelings. We were far enough apart to prevent a genetic catastrophe, but my father's inheritance was a troubling obstacle.
"Welcome to thy home, my cousins." Yvenne's greeting was painfully formal, spoken in an emotionless monotone while sinking into a deep curtsy. As Gabe and I jumped up and brushed ourselves off, I wondered briefly what had changed her so. Only a year ago, Yvenne had greeted us with a smile and a hug.
Remembering belatedly that I had yet to give the ritual reply, I quickly intoned, "I am honored to visit thy home, dear cousin Yvenne."
Always striving to outdo me, Gabe smiled wickedly and said, "It is always an honor to visit your beautiful home, dear Yvenne." It was a clever twist of words on the original, enough to elicit raised eyebrows but no reprimand.
I was immediately jealous, because I could see Yvenne biting back a smile. But Yvenne said nothing, another sign that she had changed. A year ago, she would have laughed outright and shaken her head at Gabe's foolishness; today, she was afraid to even smile. But what - or who - did she fear?
As Gabe and I stepped inside and removed our overcoats, Yvenne led us down familiar marble-laid hallways to the location of each year's birthday banquet, the Great Hall. We both knew the way, of course - after thirteen consecutive years, it was hard not to remember the way - but apparently acting the hostess was one of Yvenne's new duties.
The Great Hall was overflowing with people, attesting to the size and power of House Quoniera. Following Yvenne's silent instructions, Gabe and I parted ways to our respective seats. I sat at the High Table with Duke Xilan and my parents, and to my great luck, Yvenne as well. As a third son, poor Gabe was relegated to a lower table. I could barely glimpse his head from my seat, so far away he was. As always, Gabe's significantly lower rank brought on a wave of guilt.
The feast lasted for several hours, well into the night. By the time Duke Xilan announced the opening of the ballroom, it was almost midnight and pitch-black outside, a blanket of stars shining bright overhead. I pushed back my chair and stretched contently; I was about to follow the crowd into the ballroom when Yvenne suddenly appeared by my side.
Yvenne's lovely face was marred with an expression of pure terror, and I was instantly concerned. She began to speak, a torrent of frantic words bursting from her mouth. "Kieran, you have to leave, now! You must leave before - before it happens!" She shuddered. "Go! You must be off these grounds by morning, or House Quoniera will truly fade away in disgrace. Please, go!"
Impulsively, I grabbed Yvenne's hand. "Come with me, then. I-I love you! I don't know what happened this past year, but it doesn't matter. If there really is a danger, come and leave with me."
Yvenne shook her head. "Oh Kier, I love you too, I really do. But you must go! There's not much time left, and I am already claimed." She closed her eyes briefly, as if gathering strength. "Father sent me to the convent. He didn't have a choice - they blackmailed him. But then they wanted me, said if I went to live with them and eventually married the- the king, they would leave Father alone. I agreed, but Father refused to let me go. He said he would see House Quoniera's ruin before my marriage to the enemy, and now he will!"
She reluctantly pulled her hand away. "I'm going to plead with them, beg them to let Father live. You must leave now, Kier, before it's too late! It's already too late for me, but you still might have a chance at happiness." With that, Yvenne fled into the unsuspecting crowd.
"Wait! What about Gabe, and my parents?" I called out too late. Yvenne was gone. I almost refused to leave her behind, but I remembered her last words to me. If Yvenne wanted me to run, then run I would. But happiness with another girl, I vowed would never happen. It did eventually come true, of course, though not for many years. I was only thirteen when I made that vow, and too naive to know better.
I wove through the throng of relatives, distant and close, toward a side exit. Just as I slipped through the door, I saw Gabe, running out of the ballroom at a breakneck pace. Yvenne had warned him as well, then. But it was already too late. As the grandfather clock began its midnight chime, deadly black arrows flew out of nowhere. I quickly looked away, but not before I glimpsed an arrow sprouting from Gabe's chest and the resulting sea of blood.
I have no idea how I escaped that night. Everywhere I passed, black arrows rained down but never hit me. I didn't see Yvenne or her father, or my parents, but I saw Copper and Fog ruthlessly shot down along with the other horses in the stables. I had been aiming to find a horse, for escape would be far faster mounted than on foot, but it was again too late.
Yvenne's warning to be off Quoniera lands by sunrise was fresh in my mind as I headed into the fields. Even pushing myself, however, I barely managed to reach the border when the first streaks of pink appeared in the sky. As soon as I crossed into safe territory, I fell asleep against a tree. Exhaustion had finally taken over; my low stamina would prove to be my downfall.
When I awoke, I was no longer leaning against a tree. Instead, I was slumped against the side of a barred wagon, shackled hand and foot. Several other children around the same age were also in the wagon, all staring intently at me. I looked down at my muddy tunic and pants in dismay, realizing that I had been mistaken for a peasant.
I had been captured into slavery. When the slavers came around to serve the daily meal of stale bread and water, I managed to discover that the wagon was headed to a market just across the border in Sierra. I found that fact ironic; had I tried to enter Sierra by myself, I would certainly been turned back for my lack of a passport. But now this wagon was carrying me to safety, albeit as a slave - for in Sierra, those responsible for the massacre of House Quoniera could never find me.
I've never allowed myself to dwell on the memories of the massacre. By keeping the subject in the back of my mind, I could keep away the overwhelming grief. It was necessary in the world of slavery, for slaves have no time to grieve, or indeed to feel any true emotions. Yet as a result of my self-denial, I have never accepted the death of House Quoniera; of all those who died, Gabe and Yvenne always threatened to invade my consciousness and send me spiraling into painful, unwanted memories.
I lived this way, day after day, until the day my owner died and I was back on the auction block. That day, a girl only a little older than me became my new mistress - and eventually, helped me to find happiness again, just as Yvenne had predicted all those years ago.
The World of Green- Chappie Numero One
By Elion
It was green. Everything was green.
The houses were green.
The wrenches were green.
The little bucket shaped cars were green.
The water was green.
Even the people were green.
The only thing that wasn't green was, sometimes, the grass. It was the only color one ever saw besides green. Why wasn't the grass green?
It simply just wasn't fashionable to have green grass. If one was fashionable they had yellow-green grass. And in a world where everything was the same shade of green- that yellow made all the difference.
It was a simplistic world, containing one street called Green Street. Actually, it would normally be said that there were nine streets in the World of Green. However those are the rules of our world, and not of theirs.
And anyone who begged to argue that Green Street was more than one simple street was thrown to the end of the World of Green.
They were thrown to the Red Sign.
The Red Sign was the only thing besides the grass that was not green. However, the sign was not spoken about, was not thought about, and as far as the citizens cared the Red Sign was not even in their world.
Or most of the citizens at any rate. But, no matter what world, there is always at least two oddballs- often three. One -or more depending on the amount of oddballs- will always be the one advocating the abnormal belief. The other -or sometimes two others- will stay silent about their beliefs.
In the World of Green there was currently -the other citizen had been thrown to the sign four years ago- only one citizen thinking about the Red Sign and only one citizen who was also sincerely curious if anything happened beyond the feared sign. After all, where did all the non-believers go when they were thrown to the dreaded sign?
This citizen's name was Robert Richard Michael Litinly Parsons Homer the VIII. Or, simply, Bob. Bob was fifteen years old, the son of the only Gardener in the World of Green and the only Lawyer in the World of Green. He was exactly five feet with an extra eight inches and one half an inch on top of that.
No, he was not 5'8". At least not where it mattered, and that was in his tiny green world. According to those in his tiny green world he was exactly five feet with an extra eight inches and one half inch on top of that.
Bob had what many considered to be perfect hair, at exactly ten inches length and eight strands at the top of his head constantly pointing straight in the air.
He also had perfect style, always wearing trousers made of polyester and shirts made of plastic.
He had amazing eyes; round and bulging with perfect lips that were chapped in all the right places and amazing full on the top lip and beautifully limp on the bottom lip.
Bob was gorgeous.
Girls stared and giggled and blushed as he walked by and men glared and scowled. All the male citizens were jealous of Bob's good looks. How dare he, they thought! How dare he be so perfect in everyway!
Now many are skeptical. One like this could not be beautiful. But I assure you, he was. Remember now, we are not in the culture we are used to. We are in a place very far, yet very close.
Can you guess where we are? It's not particularly important, however rather interesting.
I first thought of Bob in the middle of Church, with random inspiration hitting me like-like-like pancakes.
Random and completely out of nowhere.
Until I found out that it wasn't so random. In truth it was planned out exactly. However else was Bob to send out his story than through a seven-year-old girl with an over-active imagination?
You see, this story- or at least some of it, and most certainly all of it you know right now- takes place very close to home.
As a matter of fact, it takes place not 20 feet from the Jungle Gym at Edgemont Montessori Elementary School, Montclair, New Jersey, 07043.
The World of Green takes place on a pine needle, on a pine tree, very up high in the air.
Or, at least 15 feet in the air.
