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THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 22.0 - November '06
IN THIS ISSUE:
1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.
2. WriMo Replay - See what these writer's have accomplished in 30 days!
3. Geek Chic - A Girl's Guide to Geekdom.
4. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.
5. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do.
6. 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 up. 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 their fellow guild members. Currently, a Masquerade is in the works for August 8th, and the public is invited to come and see. 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. 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.
WriMo Replay
Listed in alphbetical order by title.
This month's issue celebrates the much-anticipated end of National Novel Writing Month, a 30 day challenge to write a novel of 50,000 words. Below we have newborn excerpts people were willing to share with us!
By Any Other Name, by Rushifa
Confessions from Kronberg, by Collin Tierney
"Good Bye", by Alfred B.
Star Seekers - excerpt from Chapter 8, by radioactive alchemist
Those Unreal: Part One, By Serina knights
Untitled, By Serieve
By Any Other Name
By Rushifa
The Palace was larger than anything Thelesis had ever been in, and it frightened her. Despite that, she held her head high, directed her servants with a steady voice, and tried not to feel overwhelmed. After all, this was her future home.
The Royal Family had the choice of any noble woman in the kingdom to marry the High Prince; it was mere luck that they chose Thelesis. It helped that her father was a respected General of the Empyreal Army, and that her mother was decided from a well known family, but these social connections alone were not enough. The royal family had seen something special in her, something new. Something, perhaps, which the Prince’s former wife had not had. Or, perhaps she simply fit the physical requirements. What ever the reason, rather her luck was good or bad remained to be seen.
Her quarters, which consisted of a large bedroom, two side rooms for handmaids, a large, ornate private bathroom, a sprawling walk-in closet, and three rooms reserved for music and Lessons. Her own parents were among the wealthier families of the Royal Court, but she had never been allowed such luxuries as this. And this was only her temporary quarters. In a few years, when her marriage to the High Prince was finalized, this would all become just a memory; but what a memory.
As Thelesis turned around, inspecting the grand bedroom, a meek girl stepped out of the shadows, and bowed before her.
“Welcome, Young Madam. I am to be your personal handmaiden, if you will take me. My name is Vie.”
Thelesis inspected the girl, silently. Her eyes were cast downward, with a slight tilt to her head even when she had finished bowing. She sported the light golden hair which was common among the Lower People, but her skin was pale and ivory, and she smelt of sweet perfumes and rock baths. This was a servant used to working among royalty, a girl who had never worked in the fields or stables. An acceptable offering from the High Family.
Thelesis did not return the bow. “Very well. See to it my things make it here alright; and I would like a bath ready when I get back from meeting with their Majesties.”
The girl nodded deeply, and disappeared into the Thelesis’ peripheral vision, taking command of the other servants. Thelesis left her to it.
The hallways were long and elegant, and Thelesis felt entirely lost. Her afternoon was free fpor exploring her new home, and learning her way to and from the necessary areas. Her evening, however, would be much more adventures, with a grand ball being held in her name. But she couldn’t think about that yet. Right now, the only thing that was important was the hallways in front of her.
Ornate rugs adorned the walls, to keep the warmth in during the cold winter months, and skillfully done portraits and scenery had been hung along them, with the occasional reading nook thrust into the middle. The windows, which were as least twice as high as Thelesis was tall, looked out onto the courtyard, and the garden beyond that.
Through one particular window, Thelesis stopped, and simply stared out at the breath taking landscape unfolding in front of her. There was a large reading chair there, with a few books spread crookedly on the table beside it. They were all about Prince’s and Princess, off having gallant adventures in distant lands, and fighting all number of mystical creatures. A few of them Thelesis had even read herself, or versions of them, anyway. She wondered, as she flipped the pages of one of the oldest, most worn, most beloved books, whose daily readings they were.
The sun was already low to the horizon when Thelesis realized she had allowed the books to distract her for too long. She stood up, dropping the book in her hurry, and spend off down the hall; it was only then that she realized she could not remember which direction she had come from.
Her footsteps were the only sounds that could be heard along these lonely corridors, and it seemed the deeper Thelesis went the more familiar the halls looked. She was lost. Only her first day here, and already she was going to be unfashionably late. Her heart pounded in her chest as she tried desperately to reorient herself, but there simply were no landmarks she could go off of. Even the windows no longer showed her the decorated courtyard, and instead presented only the same shots of endless trees.
It was almost dark. Just after night fall, the feast would begin, and after that the ball. She must be ready by then, but Thelesis found herself more and more lost, and more and more flustered, no matter what she tried. Just as she was beginning to give up all hope, something caught her attention: the soft tick-ticking of feet not her own. She whirled around, but no matter which way she turned, she could not discern its source.
Out of an open doorway, a small, pale hand extended, and clasped Thelesis’s hand gently. She screamed, whirled around, and raised one arm as if to fend off an attacker. But instead of a pale ghost, or a frightening monster, she saw only the slight, apologetic figure of her handmaiden.
“I have come to gather Young Madam for the feast,” the girl explained softly. “Is Madam quite done exploring?” Something in the girl’s tone annoyed Thelesis. It almost seemed as if she were making fun; laughing at the silly country girl who had gotten lost in her own castle.
“I think I’m about through,” Thelesis replied, haughtily. “We shall return to my quarters. Are my things in order?”
“Everything has been brought as you ordered.”
“And my gowns?”
“Your own have been unpacked, and there are a number of ones awaiting you, courtesy of their Majesties.”
“Very well, I shall wear one of those. Pick out something in a rich red, if you have it.”
“Yes, young Madam.”
Thelesis had always liked the color red. Besides being a royal shade, she always felt it had looked stunning on her. Something about her dark hair and pale skin made the red glow around her, and bring out the gentle flush of her cheeks and the pink of her lips. But in truth, she would have taken any gown, only to be brought safely back to more familiar ground. Of course, she could never let the simpering little handmaiden know that.
The gown, when it was presented to Thelesis, was more beautiful than she had ever imagine. But it stood to reason, she told herself, that the future High Queen would be gifted the very best of the best. Future High Queen. She was going to have to get used to that.
It fit her like a glove. Her measurements must have been sent over, because ever stitch, every piece boning, ever petticoat, seemed arranged to her specific comfort.
“Who made this gown?” Thelesis demanded of the nearest handmaiden, a short-haired, snubbed-nosed girl who smelt of cooking.
“Vie, my Lady.”
“Vie,” Thelesis called, summoning the girl from her task of arranging the Lessons room. “Vie, I am told that you are responsible for this dress. Is this true?”
“Yes, young Madam,” Vie replied, in a cautious, wary tone. There was a silence, as Thelesis looked down her nose at the other girl. Then, finally, she spoke.
“I didn’t know a mere handmaiden was capable of such craftsmanship.”
Vie smiled, despite her self. “I have many skills, my lady.” She bowed low before Thelesis. “That is why I was chosen to serve you, exclusively. You need only tell me what you desire, and if it is within my power it shall be done.”
Thelesis nodded, feeling a fool for thinking this girl a mere simpleton. “With skills such as these, I would be happy to accept your unconditional service.” Thelesis nodded the girl forward, turning around to expose her bare, back, the buttons of her dress unfastened. “Come, help me get ready.” Vie did so without complaint.
The feast was delicious, but Thelesis found herself uncomfortably stuck between her future mother-m-law, and the High Prince’s sisters. The High King and Queen sat at each end of the table. Her future husband sat opposite her, and gave her approving glances from time to time, with his brothers descending down the table away from the head. He had two brothers not much younger than him, the youngest of which seemed about Thelesis’ age, and two younger sisters who were still just children, and watched her with distaste. To the side of the table, a gaggle of handmaidens were gathered around a small table, where a young boy of about 6 and a baby girl no more than a year old were being fed a simplified version of the grand meal. Thelesis watched them with a sense of sadness. These children were soon to be her stepchildren, the son and daughter of the High Prince through his first wife. Thelesis felt sad for them, motherless, but their situation was not within her control.
No one spoke to her, except in formal, bustling tones, and often with food in their mouths. In her own turn, she was expected to behave with the best of manners, and field lively but rehearsed conversations across the table. There was no companion to be found, no truly friendly face looking back at her. Surrounded by her new family, she felt utterly alone.
If possible, the ball was even duller than the meal. Although Thelesis’ certainly shown above all the others in her gown of fine red, it did not help her with the other girls. Her new sisters were too young to attend the dance, and the various female cousins hung with the other noblewoman in politely avoiding the new Princess. She could not understand their cold, fake smiles, and the anger hiding behind their eyes. The smells of there exotic perfumes seemed to act as a wall between them and here, and she respected their discomfort, and let them be.
In the highlight of the evening, the High King and Queen descended from their thrones, and danced a long, slow dance together. When their were threw, it fell to Thelesis and the High Prince to lead the next slow dance. She could feel her face flushing as he came towards her.
She barely knew the High Prince, who was a few years older than her. At twenty-four, he had already had his fill of parties and special dances, and looked with only mild curiosity at his seventeen-year-old betrothed. Thelesis felt very small and very young beside him.
The Prince was not a pompous man, but he carried himself as someone who had been trained sense birth to fit a specific role. His smiles, his voice, his very manner, all gave away that he carried the future responsibility of an entire country on his shoulders. He was a man very aware of his destiny.
Strong and sure, his arms clasped her in a slow, swirling dance: the type reserved for couples in love. Although she had learned such dances in her Lessons, and was quite good at them, as a princess should be, she and never before had to call on such a talent. Thelesis’ early life was not field which much budding romance, and she didn’t feel much now, either. The dance made her blush, but out of embarrassment at the number of jealous and angry faces trained on her and the Prince. She could feel herself getting light headed, perhaps from the Prince’s cologne or her own perfume, but her stomach remained strong, and soon the dance was over.
Prince ---- bowed to her, kissing her hand, and left her to meld unsuccessfully into the crowd. The instance his hand released her, she felt as if the world began to rush in around her. The crowd naturally gave the Prince a respectful circle of privacy, even in the most bustling areas, but no such honor was given her. Not yet, anyway.
The girls around her, she noticed, were all more energetic than herself. Where as she felt tired after only one, slow, dance, they were all eager to flounce around the floor with their respective suitors. Dressed in their finest, the young nobleman gather around the girls like eager peacocks, showing of their plumes. Each girl wore a small, simple yet ornate headdress, mostly of plain medal and modest jewels. Their status and availability were shown by their elegant suits, fine, masculine jewelry, and cunning smiles. Dancing was a means of courtship, a frolic of excess youthful energy, and the other’s enthusiasm for it made Thelesis feel only more removed, more tired.
A soft, persuasive music floated about the room, picking up now and then to fling the willful dances into their partners, and liven up the pace of the more dignified adults. Everywhere Thelesis looked, her eyes were blinded by bright lights, made only brighter by the florescent gowns and suits around her. The pervasive smell of sweat and sweet perfumes made her stomach turn. A shark, throbbing pain began to develop behind her eyes, and al she could think of was getting out of that oppressive room.
Everything was a bit more bearable once she made it to the veranda. The fresh air helped a great deal. It was also blissfully un-crowded, with most people kicking their heels up inside. Sitting on a small, one-person cement bench, she looked over then ornate garden, and was able to just breathe and try and get her bearings.
It was a beautiful night. The moon was high and full, and from her perch Thelesis could hear the soft, sleepy hum of crickets in the garden below. The scent of summer flowers drifted into her noise, banishing the lingering stink of the ballroom. As she sat there, looking at the stars, Thelesis could feel the tense muscles in her back relaxing. It had been a long day, and there was a long night ahead of her. As she sat in contemplation, she sensed a presence behind her, as if someone were waiting patiently for her to turn around.
As she swiveled in her seat, her eyes adjusting to the bright light from the ballroom window. Behind her, dressed in the formal attire of a servant, was the handmaiden Vie.
“If Young Madam is tired, we can retire to her quarters.” Vie gave her a saccharine smile. “It is indeed a tiring event, one’s first night in a new place.”
Thelesis straightened her back, looking at Vie down her nose. It was true, she was tired, and nothing sounded better than retiring to the large, soft bed she had barely had time to sit on so far. But, she did not want to give Vie the satisfaction of being so right. “Thank you, but I think I shall be quite alright.” Thelesis stood, walking haughtily passed Vie, who was forced to slide quickly to one side. “You needn’t wait up for me. I may be very late.” She returned to the ballroom, and, catching the eye of the nearest young gentleman, was quickly on the dance floor with everyone else, swinging and swirling.
Author's Note: I had a wonderful time this year. It was my second time doing NanoWrimo, and, although I again failed to complete the goal, I got a great deal done. 30,000 words, to be exact, which isn't too shabby, if I do say so myself. It got a little crazy this year, which you can read more about in Geek Chic, but over all, a wonderful experience. I can't wait for next year! (Excuse the sloppiness, this is just a rough draft. I ran in through word, but that's about all.)
Confessions from Kronberg
By Collin Tierney
I don’t think people realize how painful it’s been for me to refrain from telling this story. Not a day goes by in which I don’t feel at least one shot of adrenaline in my spine at the thought of reliving an experience that stood in front of my face and taunted me for more than a year’s worth of dreams. Ironically, while I was in Germany, living and breathing the dream and able to pinch myself at any moment to prove it was all real, I wanted to go back home. I wanted to show my dad the 660 digital photographs I’d taken in the time span of three weeks, tell other friends and family about all the quirky people I’d met and all the strange experiences I’d made, and have a breakfast of cereal with fat free milk.
It’s been over for nearly six months, and but like a widow wallowing in pity for a husband lost in some faraway war, I can’t stop grieving about it. I miss almost everything I couldn’t take home: the smells, the people, the culture, the scenery, the language. However, I would fail even the least sensitive of polygraph tests if I said everything over there was lovely. That’s what practically ruined it for me—those things in life you can’t change, like the people you live with.
For my own sake, I’ll be completely honest here. I hated Pascal, and to a large extent, I still hate him. There came many an occasion while I lived in his house that I wanted to confront him and say:
“Pascal, I think you are very selfish and childish because you can’t get over the fact that I am interested in things more intellectually stimulating than soccer and the ******** World Cup. Please, stop being an a*****e and arguing with me about things over trivialities like how many seconds it took the world’s fastest swimmer to complete the 100-meter Breaststroke. I came to Germany to learn. You want to watch all three 90-minute soccer games every day? Fine—Germany’s craze for soccer is something I can take with me for the rest of my life. In the mean time, you can spare the sweat required to walk up the stairs and connect the internet for me so that I can keep up to date on my American affairs for a fraction of the time you spent doing so while at my house. Please grow up and start reading the clues that clearly show you’re not the center of the universe.”
To say that would not only have been unbearably destructive to my relationship with Pascal and his family, but I didn’t want to take the time to translate it all into German only to mess the pronunciation up on half the words. I didn’t mention in the rant above that Pascal is quite a bit more interested in putting one’s German down than I ever was with his English. Pascal’s a nice, fun, sarcastic individual and I don’t blame his friends for being his friends; however, based on my observations, he’s also a douche to people he doesn’t understand.
Pascal isn’t on trial, though, and I have no intentions of turning my reflections against him. Instead, I’d rather let my observations speak for themselves. Pascal saw me with a notebook and pen wherever I went, but he never concluded anything more than that I was bored. (Because, seriously, if someone is writing day and night, it simply means they’re depressed with their nation’s losing soccer team and have nothing better to do.) No, I’m just a little on the detail-oriented side of things; should Pascal ever by some stroke of bad luck read this, he can be satisfied knowing I didn’t make a single thing up.
***
Detail-oriented. Yes. I kept telling myself I could write a book on the flight from Minnesota to Reykjavik alone, and I probably could. It would bore most other readers if it only concerned the flight, but not me. I look up in the sky on clear days and see trails of jets as they bank south for a landing in St. Paul, and acerbic bouts of jealousy seethe into my entrails. I often want nothing more than to get on a plane and fly back to Frankfurt. People say planes are just like buses—uncomfortable as always, only that they’re in the air—and that tells me they’re missing the point: they’re in the air!
Iceland Air isn’t a comparison to Lufthansa, but the flight was awesome nonetheless. The plane was stuffy, it smelled of grease, the seats were dirty, and the aisle was terribly congested as I came in with my exchange group from Buffalo, Minnesota. It was rainy outside, and to my dismay, fog smeared the window from the outside. Worse yet, we were forced to sit in the plane for another 45 minutes as the crew tried to get the air conditioner working. I sat in-between my German instructor, Michelle Strassburg, a young woman of about 28, and Nicole Witstine, a classmate. Strassburg declined to give me the window seat, and for that time we remained on the tarmac, I couldn’t forgive her for it. My ears grew deaf and unsympathetic to her squirming and intermittent mutterings, like “Okay, this is intolerable.” I’ll admit that I was gaining perspiration under my clothes just the same, but I was content so long as I could see outside when we took off.
I waited patiently enough. After literally dreaming of this day for the last year, an extra half hour didn’t seem too unjust. Remaining composed, I opened my carry-on bag and acquired a second pack of Big Red. As someone who chews for the flavor alone, I found myself in need of a waste basket, but because I had no such luxury, I filled my mouth with additional sticks. On the tray in front of me went my notebook, MP3 player, and incomplete manuscript. I was set for a solid six hours of writing, regardless of the heat.
In the end, I indeed had the privilege of looking outside, and it was worth everything. Fortunately, the confines of the plane gradually became cooler as the air conditioning improved. Passengers bustled past with carry-on luggage thrice the size of my own and found their seats in pain-staking slow motion. The windows cleared of fog, and the tarmac outside shifted. Steadily, the jet engine’s shriek outside my window matured.
The Icelandic pilot spoke first in his native tongue as miniature television monitors appeared from the ceiling and explained how to properly buckle our seat belts and where the exits were located. Even talkative passengers quieted and listened in. I forgot about my unfinished novel in my lap. This was it, after all—June 5, the pinnacle of my life up to this point, as far as I was concerned. Destination: Deutschland, home to foamy piss-yellow beer and humorless, coldly-efficient folks who talked like their mouths were full of food, right?
Seated somewhere behind me, Evan Bauernschmittt commented to Joe Mitlying on the feeling right before the plane takes off. “Don’t you love that?” he exclaimed in his bewildered, cross-eyed way. “Everything just freezes for a moment, and then—”
Bam! The jet engines wind up and force the plane along at Autobahn speed toward the other end of the runway. Going from zero to several hundred miles an hour in a handful of seconds leaves your heart behind at the back of your ribcage. The rumbling underneath is soft and deafening simultaneously, and in one magnificent blink of time, you’re off into the air.
I was stone-dead captivated. Craning my neck to see outside the window, I watched with transfixed incredulity as the ground shrank. Suddenly, I could see for dozens of miles. Even under the storm’s gloomy spell, Minnesota was beautiful. In fact, it was because of the rain that the grass below looked so lush and the lakes so dark and blue. Downtown Minneapolis shriveled into an isolated corner of the world no larger than a bead of water on the window, and the ground vanished beneath the blanket of clouds.
The evening accelerated into night as we sped ahead in time. The clouds turned pitch-black, yet the sun’s rays lingered on the northern horizon, vibrant and orange as ever. It was a stunning contrast; we abandoned the sun in Minneapolis, but it was already waiting for us in the Atlantic. The six hours to Reykjavik, Iceland were a blur as I wrote. I stopped only to throw out the ten sticks of cinnamon gum in my mouth, to eat dinner, and to watch the sunrise. If ever someone claims inspirational location is inconsequential to the outcome of your work, tell them they’re full of s**t.
For some reason, I see photographs and video footage of views from above the clouds, and yet I feel nothing. Perhaps that’s the problem with my experience—you have to be there. It’s not something you can describe through pictures alone. Perhaps that’s why I chose to write about a point in my life that, instead of pointing me in a new direction, has in fact stolen the compass arrow altogether.
Author's Note: I started this last week with a splitting headache from too much catawba juice at 11 pm, and realized about half an hour later that I'd written all you can see below. Enjoy the excerpt, which mostly an introduction to the piece.
"Good Bye"
By Alfred B.
I was never good at writing letters. All the hidden emotions that needed to come out on paper just never came out of the heart. Just like now.
The pen flicked back and forth between my fingers as I slumped over the desk.
What to write, what to write...
I could’ve written some crap about how I regretted ditching them all, but in the end it wouldn’t have made any difference - they knew I wanted to leave.
I could’ve told them they had changed the way I thought for ever and ever - but hell, that wasn’t true in the slightest. I knew - and they knew - I was still the a*****e I’d always been.
I could’ve asked them to remember me on and on - but what good is dwelling on the bastards of the past? As if they’d want to remember me.
I could’ve begged for forgiveness for all the crap I had loaded onto them for years - but, deep down inside, did I really care?
So I just sat there. Paper on the desk, pen in hand, mind wandering. Words didn’t come to my blank brain and hollow heart. I sighed - I was never good at writing letters... Never good at all. What was the use of writing a letter at all if they knew why I had just “packed my bags” and crawled off? I couldn’t lie to them - so what else was there to write?
The truth?
What good was that to do?
So I sat there. Seconds ticked by on the clock. Minutes flittered past. An hour.
What was I doing here, wasted time on writing a stupid, god-forsaken letter that probably nobody would look twice at? That nobody cared about?
But at least I could do the courtesy of actually saying something for once.
So, I forced my hand and heart into it. Hunched over the scrappy, derelict desk, I scribbled on the paper. And scribbled. I said in the letter that I didn’t want pity, or sympathy, or forgiveness. I wanted them to just forget. I didn’t care if they hated me - what good would it do? I had been an a*****e loaded with s**t to the brim, and I knew it. And I told them that they probably wouldn’t see me again - the father away I traveled from them, the better.
In the end the letter was short and pretty much to the point. I gave a half-hearted attempt to fix some of my handwriting, then just stared into space for a while. Where would they go? What would happen to them? Would they take my advice, or would one of them chase after me? A cockroach crawled up the dirty grey walls, antennae flicking back and forth. One thing was obvious - I wouldn’t regret leaving this dump. And I wouldn’t forget leaving them.
So in the end, I picked up my pen, and wrote two letters at the end of the paper. The last letters I wrote in this empty pit of a flat.
Good bye
Author's Note: I'm low on the Nanowrimo word count - probably mainly because I write more in my mind than actually on paper (or keyboard, in this matter). Anyways, a little piece that I did to add into it at the very start... ^__^ It's not brilliant, but now I'm quite fond of it, so meh. ^^
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. WriMo Replay - See what these writer's have accomplished in 30 days!
3. Geek Chic - A Girl's Guide to Geekdom.
4. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.
5. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do.
6. 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 up. 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 their fellow guild members. Currently, a Masquerade is in the works for August 8th, and the public is invited to come and see. 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. 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.
WriMo Replay
Listed in alphbetical order by title.
This month's issue celebrates the much-anticipated end of National Novel Writing Month, a 30 day challenge to write a novel of 50,000 words. Below we have newborn excerpts people were willing to share with us!
By Any Other Name, by Rushifa
Confessions from Kronberg, by Collin Tierney
"Good Bye", by Alfred B.
Star Seekers - excerpt from Chapter 8, by radioactive alchemist
Those Unreal: Part One, By Serina knights
Untitled, By Serieve
By Any Other Name
By Rushifa
The Palace was larger than anything Thelesis had ever been in, and it frightened her. Despite that, she held her head high, directed her servants with a steady voice, and tried not to feel overwhelmed. After all, this was her future home.
The Royal Family had the choice of any noble woman in the kingdom to marry the High Prince; it was mere luck that they chose Thelesis. It helped that her father was a respected General of the Empyreal Army, and that her mother was decided from a well known family, but these social connections alone were not enough. The royal family had seen something special in her, something new. Something, perhaps, which the Prince’s former wife had not had. Or, perhaps she simply fit the physical requirements. What ever the reason, rather her luck was good or bad remained to be seen.
Her quarters, which consisted of a large bedroom, two side rooms for handmaids, a large, ornate private bathroom, a sprawling walk-in closet, and three rooms reserved for music and Lessons. Her own parents were among the wealthier families of the Royal Court, but she had never been allowed such luxuries as this. And this was only her temporary quarters. In a few years, when her marriage to the High Prince was finalized, this would all become just a memory; but what a memory.
As Thelesis turned around, inspecting the grand bedroom, a meek girl stepped out of the shadows, and bowed before her.
“Welcome, Young Madam. I am to be your personal handmaiden, if you will take me. My name is Vie.”
Thelesis inspected the girl, silently. Her eyes were cast downward, with a slight tilt to her head even when she had finished bowing. She sported the light golden hair which was common among the Lower People, but her skin was pale and ivory, and she smelt of sweet perfumes and rock baths. This was a servant used to working among royalty, a girl who had never worked in the fields or stables. An acceptable offering from the High Family.
Thelesis did not return the bow. “Very well. See to it my things make it here alright; and I would like a bath ready when I get back from meeting with their Majesties.”
The girl nodded deeply, and disappeared into the Thelesis’ peripheral vision, taking command of the other servants. Thelesis left her to it.
The hallways were long and elegant, and Thelesis felt entirely lost. Her afternoon was free fpor exploring her new home, and learning her way to and from the necessary areas. Her evening, however, would be much more adventures, with a grand ball being held in her name. But she couldn’t think about that yet. Right now, the only thing that was important was the hallways in front of her.
Ornate rugs adorned the walls, to keep the warmth in during the cold winter months, and skillfully done portraits and scenery had been hung along them, with the occasional reading nook thrust into the middle. The windows, which were as least twice as high as Thelesis was tall, looked out onto the courtyard, and the garden beyond that.
Through one particular window, Thelesis stopped, and simply stared out at the breath taking landscape unfolding in front of her. There was a large reading chair there, with a few books spread crookedly on the table beside it. They were all about Prince’s and Princess, off having gallant adventures in distant lands, and fighting all number of mystical creatures. A few of them Thelesis had even read herself, or versions of them, anyway. She wondered, as she flipped the pages of one of the oldest, most worn, most beloved books, whose daily readings they were.
The sun was already low to the horizon when Thelesis realized she had allowed the books to distract her for too long. She stood up, dropping the book in her hurry, and spend off down the hall; it was only then that she realized she could not remember which direction she had come from.
Her footsteps were the only sounds that could be heard along these lonely corridors, and it seemed the deeper Thelesis went the more familiar the halls looked. She was lost. Only her first day here, and already she was going to be unfashionably late. Her heart pounded in her chest as she tried desperately to reorient herself, but there simply were no landmarks she could go off of. Even the windows no longer showed her the decorated courtyard, and instead presented only the same shots of endless trees.
It was almost dark. Just after night fall, the feast would begin, and after that the ball. She must be ready by then, but Thelesis found herself more and more lost, and more and more flustered, no matter what she tried. Just as she was beginning to give up all hope, something caught her attention: the soft tick-ticking of feet not her own. She whirled around, but no matter which way she turned, she could not discern its source.
Out of an open doorway, a small, pale hand extended, and clasped Thelesis’s hand gently. She screamed, whirled around, and raised one arm as if to fend off an attacker. But instead of a pale ghost, or a frightening monster, she saw only the slight, apologetic figure of her handmaiden.
“I have come to gather Young Madam for the feast,” the girl explained softly. “Is Madam quite done exploring?” Something in the girl’s tone annoyed Thelesis. It almost seemed as if she were making fun; laughing at the silly country girl who had gotten lost in her own castle.
“I think I’m about through,” Thelesis replied, haughtily. “We shall return to my quarters. Are my things in order?”
“Everything has been brought as you ordered.”
“And my gowns?”
“Your own have been unpacked, and there are a number of ones awaiting you, courtesy of their Majesties.”
“Very well, I shall wear one of those. Pick out something in a rich red, if you have it.”
“Yes, young Madam.”
Thelesis had always liked the color red. Besides being a royal shade, she always felt it had looked stunning on her. Something about her dark hair and pale skin made the red glow around her, and bring out the gentle flush of her cheeks and the pink of her lips. But in truth, she would have taken any gown, only to be brought safely back to more familiar ground. Of course, she could never let the simpering little handmaiden know that.
The gown, when it was presented to Thelesis, was more beautiful than she had ever imagine. But it stood to reason, she told herself, that the future High Queen would be gifted the very best of the best. Future High Queen. She was going to have to get used to that.
It fit her like a glove. Her measurements must have been sent over, because ever stitch, every piece boning, ever petticoat, seemed arranged to her specific comfort.
“Who made this gown?” Thelesis demanded of the nearest handmaiden, a short-haired, snubbed-nosed girl who smelt of cooking.
“Vie, my Lady.”
“Vie,” Thelesis called, summoning the girl from her task of arranging the Lessons room. “Vie, I am told that you are responsible for this dress. Is this true?”
“Yes, young Madam,” Vie replied, in a cautious, wary tone. There was a silence, as Thelesis looked down her nose at the other girl. Then, finally, she spoke.
“I didn’t know a mere handmaiden was capable of such craftsmanship.”
Vie smiled, despite her self. “I have many skills, my lady.” She bowed low before Thelesis. “That is why I was chosen to serve you, exclusively. You need only tell me what you desire, and if it is within my power it shall be done.”
Thelesis nodded, feeling a fool for thinking this girl a mere simpleton. “With skills such as these, I would be happy to accept your unconditional service.” Thelesis nodded the girl forward, turning around to expose her bare, back, the buttons of her dress unfastened. “Come, help me get ready.” Vie did so without complaint.
The feast was delicious, but Thelesis found herself uncomfortably stuck between her future mother-m-law, and the High Prince’s sisters. The High King and Queen sat at each end of the table. Her future husband sat opposite her, and gave her approving glances from time to time, with his brothers descending down the table away from the head. He had two brothers not much younger than him, the youngest of which seemed about Thelesis’ age, and two younger sisters who were still just children, and watched her with distaste. To the side of the table, a gaggle of handmaidens were gathered around a small table, where a young boy of about 6 and a baby girl no more than a year old were being fed a simplified version of the grand meal. Thelesis watched them with a sense of sadness. These children were soon to be her stepchildren, the son and daughter of the High Prince through his first wife. Thelesis felt sad for them, motherless, but their situation was not within her control.
No one spoke to her, except in formal, bustling tones, and often with food in their mouths. In her own turn, she was expected to behave with the best of manners, and field lively but rehearsed conversations across the table. There was no companion to be found, no truly friendly face looking back at her. Surrounded by her new family, she felt utterly alone.
If possible, the ball was even duller than the meal. Although Thelesis’ certainly shown above all the others in her gown of fine red, it did not help her with the other girls. Her new sisters were too young to attend the dance, and the various female cousins hung with the other noblewoman in politely avoiding the new Princess. She could not understand their cold, fake smiles, and the anger hiding behind their eyes. The smells of there exotic perfumes seemed to act as a wall between them and here, and she respected their discomfort, and let them be.
In the highlight of the evening, the High King and Queen descended from their thrones, and danced a long, slow dance together. When their were threw, it fell to Thelesis and the High Prince to lead the next slow dance. She could feel her face flushing as he came towards her.
She barely knew the High Prince, who was a few years older than her. At twenty-four, he had already had his fill of parties and special dances, and looked with only mild curiosity at his seventeen-year-old betrothed. Thelesis felt very small and very young beside him.
The Prince was not a pompous man, but he carried himself as someone who had been trained sense birth to fit a specific role. His smiles, his voice, his very manner, all gave away that he carried the future responsibility of an entire country on his shoulders. He was a man very aware of his destiny.
Strong and sure, his arms clasped her in a slow, swirling dance: the type reserved for couples in love. Although she had learned such dances in her Lessons, and was quite good at them, as a princess should be, she and never before had to call on such a talent. Thelesis’ early life was not field which much budding romance, and she didn’t feel much now, either. The dance made her blush, but out of embarrassment at the number of jealous and angry faces trained on her and the Prince. She could feel herself getting light headed, perhaps from the Prince’s cologne or her own perfume, but her stomach remained strong, and soon the dance was over.
Prince ---- bowed to her, kissing her hand, and left her to meld unsuccessfully into the crowd. The instance his hand released her, she felt as if the world began to rush in around her. The crowd naturally gave the Prince a respectful circle of privacy, even in the most bustling areas, but no such honor was given her. Not yet, anyway.
The girls around her, she noticed, were all more energetic than herself. Where as she felt tired after only one, slow, dance, they were all eager to flounce around the floor with their respective suitors. Dressed in their finest, the young nobleman gather around the girls like eager peacocks, showing of their plumes. Each girl wore a small, simple yet ornate headdress, mostly of plain medal and modest jewels. Their status and availability were shown by their elegant suits, fine, masculine jewelry, and cunning smiles. Dancing was a means of courtship, a frolic of excess youthful energy, and the other’s enthusiasm for it made Thelesis feel only more removed, more tired.
A soft, persuasive music floated about the room, picking up now and then to fling the willful dances into their partners, and liven up the pace of the more dignified adults. Everywhere Thelesis looked, her eyes were blinded by bright lights, made only brighter by the florescent gowns and suits around her. The pervasive smell of sweat and sweet perfumes made her stomach turn. A shark, throbbing pain began to develop behind her eyes, and al she could think of was getting out of that oppressive room.
Everything was a bit more bearable once she made it to the veranda. The fresh air helped a great deal. It was also blissfully un-crowded, with most people kicking their heels up inside. Sitting on a small, one-person cement bench, she looked over then ornate garden, and was able to just breathe and try and get her bearings.
It was a beautiful night. The moon was high and full, and from her perch Thelesis could hear the soft, sleepy hum of crickets in the garden below. The scent of summer flowers drifted into her noise, banishing the lingering stink of the ballroom. As she sat there, looking at the stars, Thelesis could feel the tense muscles in her back relaxing. It had been a long day, and there was a long night ahead of her. As she sat in contemplation, she sensed a presence behind her, as if someone were waiting patiently for her to turn around.
As she swiveled in her seat, her eyes adjusting to the bright light from the ballroom window. Behind her, dressed in the formal attire of a servant, was the handmaiden Vie.
“If Young Madam is tired, we can retire to her quarters.” Vie gave her a saccharine smile. “It is indeed a tiring event, one’s first night in a new place.”
Thelesis straightened her back, looking at Vie down her nose. It was true, she was tired, and nothing sounded better than retiring to the large, soft bed she had barely had time to sit on so far. But, she did not want to give Vie the satisfaction of being so right. “Thank you, but I think I shall be quite alright.” Thelesis stood, walking haughtily passed Vie, who was forced to slide quickly to one side. “You needn’t wait up for me. I may be very late.” She returned to the ballroom, and, catching the eye of the nearest young gentleman, was quickly on the dance floor with everyone else, swinging and swirling.
Author's Note: I had a wonderful time this year. It was my second time doing NanoWrimo, and, although I again failed to complete the goal, I got a great deal done. 30,000 words, to be exact, which isn't too shabby, if I do say so myself. It got a little crazy this year, which you can read more about in Geek Chic, but over all, a wonderful experience. I can't wait for next year! (Excuse the sloppiness, this is just a rough draft. I ran in through word, but that's about all.)
Confessions from Kronberg
By Collin Tierney
I don’t think people realize how painful it’s been for me to refrain from telling this story. Not a day goes by in which I don’t feel at least one shot of adrenaline in my spine at the thought of reliving an experience that stood in front of my face and taunted me for more than a year’s worth of dreams. Ironically, while I was in Germany, living and breathing the dream and able to pinch myself at any moment to prove it was all real, I wanted to go back home. I wanted to show my dad the 660 digital photographs I’d taken in the time span of three weeks, tell other friends and family about all the quirky people I’d met and all the strange experiences I’d made, and have a breakfast of cereal with fat free milk.
It’s been over for nearly six months, and but like a widow wallowing in pity for a husband lost in some faraway war, I can’t stop grieving about it. I miss almost everything I couldn’t take home: the smells, the people, the culture, the scenery, the language. However, I would fail even the least sensitive of polygraph tests if I said everything over there was lovely. That’s what practically ruined it for me—those things in life you can’t change, like the people you live with.
For my own sake, I’ll be completely honest here. I hated Pascal, and to a large extent, I still hate him. There came many an occasion while I lived in his house that I wanted to confront him and say:
“Pascal, I think you are very selfish and childish because you can’t get over the fact that I am interested in things more intellectually stimulating than soccer and the ******** World Cup. Please, stop being an a*****e and arguing with me about things over trivialities like how many seconds it took the world’s fastest swimmer to complete the 100-meter Breaststroke. I came to Germany to learn. You want to watch all three 90-minute soccer games every day? Fine—Germany’s craze for soccer is something I can take with me for the rest of my life. In the mean time, you can spare the sweat required to walk up the stairs and connect the internet for me so that I can keep up to date on my American affairs for a fraction of the time you spent doing so while at my house. Please grow up and start reading the clues that clearly show you’re not the center of the universe.”
To say that would not only have been unbearably destructive to my relationship with Pascal and his family, but I didn’t want to take the time to translate it all into German only to mess the pronunciation up on half the words. I didn’t mention in the rant above that Pascal is quite a bit more interested in putting one’s German down than I ever was with his English. Pascal’s a nice, fun, sarcastic individual and I don’t blame his friends for being his friends; however, based on my observations, he’s also a douche to people he doesn’t understand.
Pascal isn’t on trial, though, and I have no intentions of turning my reflections against him. Instead, I’d rather let my observations speak for themselves. Pascal saw me with a notebook and pen wherever I went, but he never concluded anything more than that I was bored. (Because, seriously, if someone is writing day and night, it simply means they’re depressed with their nation’s losing soccer team and have nothing better to do.) No, I’m just a little on the detail-oriented side of things; should Pascal ever by some stroke of bad luck read this, he can be satisfied knowing I didn’t make a single thing up.
***
Detail-oriented. Yes. I kept telling myself I could write a book on the flight from Minnesota to Reykjavik alone, and I probably could. It would bore most other readers if it only concerned the flight, but not me. I look up in the sky on clear days and see trails of jets as they bank south for a landing in St. Paul, and acerbic bouts of jealousy seethe into my entrails. I often want nothing more than to get on a plane and fly back to Frankfurt. People say planes are just like buses—uncomfortable as always, only that they’re in the air—and that tells me they’re missing the point: they’re in the air!
Iceland Air isn’t a comparison to Lufthansa, but the flight was awesome nonetheless. The plane was stuffy, it smelled of grease, the seats were dirty, and the aisle was terribly congested as I came in with my exchange group from Buffalo, Minnesota. It was rainy outside, and to my dismay, fog smeared the window from the outside. Worse yet, we were forced to sit in the plane for another 45 minutes as the crew tried to get the air conditioner working. I sat in-between my German instructor, Michelle Strassburg, a young woman of about 28, and Nicole Witstine, a classmate. Strassburg declined to give me the window seat, and for that time we remained on the tarmac, I couldn’t forgive her for it. My ears grew deaf and unsympathetic to her squirming and intermittent mutterings, like “Okay, this is intolerable.” I’ll admit that I was gaining perspiration under my clothes just the same, but I was content so long as I could see outside when we took off.
I waited patiently enough. After literally dreaming of this day for the last year, an extra half hour didn’t seem too unjust. Remaining composed, I opened my carry-on bag and acquired a second pack of Big Red. As someone who chews for the flavor alone, I found myself in need of a waste basket, but because I had no such luxury, I filled my mouth with additional sticks. On the tray in front of me went my notebook, MP3 player, and incomplete manuscript. I was set for a solid six hours of writing, regardless of the heat.
In the end, I indeed had the privilege of looking outside, and it was worth everything. Fortunately, the confines of the plane gradually became cooler as the air conditioning improved. Passengers bustled past with carry-on luggage thrice the size of my own and found their seats in pain-staking slow motion. The windows cleared of fog, and the tarmac outside shifted. Steadily, the jet engine’s shriek outside my window matured.
The Icelandic pilot spoke first in his native tongue as miniature television monitors appeared from the ceiling and explained how to properly buckle our seat belts and where the exits were located. Even talkative passengers quieted and listened in. I forgot about my unfinished novel in my lap. This was it, after all—June 5, the pinnacle of my life up to this point, as far as I was concerned. Destination: Deutschland, home to foamy piss-yellow beer and humorless, coldly-efficient folks who talked like their mouths were full of food, right?
Seated somewhere behind me, Evan Bauernschmittt commented to Joe Mitlying on the feeling right before the plane takes off. “Don’t you love that?” he exclaimed in his bewildered, cross-eyed way. “Everything just freezes for a moment, and then—”
Bam! The jet engines wind up and force the plane along at Autobahn speed toward the other end of the runway. Going from zero to several hundred miles an hour in a handful of seconds leaves your heart behind at the back of your ribcage. The rumbling underneath is soft and deafening simultaneously, and in one magnificent blink of time, you’re off into the air.
I was stone-dead captivated. Craning my neck to see outside the window, I watched with transfixed incredulity as the ground shrank. Suddenly, I could see for dozens of miles. Even under the storm’s gloomy spell, Minnesota was beautiful. In fact, it was because of the rain that the grass below looked so lush and the lakes so dark and blue. Downtown Minneapolis shriveled into an isolated corner of the world no larger than a bead of water on the window, and the ground vanished beneath the blanket of clouds.
The evening accelerated into night as we sped ahead in time. The clouds turned pitch-black, yet the sun’s rays lingered on the northern horizon, vibrant and orange as ever. It was a stunning contrast; we abandoned the sun in Minneapolis, but it was already waiting for us in the Atlantic. The six hours to Reykjavik, Iceland were a blur as I wrote. I stopped only to throw out the ten sticks of cinnamon gum in my mouth, to eat dinner, and to watch the sunrise. If ever someone claims inspirational location is inconsequential to the outcome of your work, tell them they’re full of s**t.
For some reason, I see photographs and video footage of views from above the clouds, and yet I feel nothing. Perhaps that’s the problem with my experience—you have to be there. It’s not something you can describe through pictures alone. Perhaps that’s why I chose to write about a point in my life that, instead of pointing me in a new direction, has in fact stolen the compass arrow altogether.
Author's Note: I started this last week with a splitting headache from too much catawba juice at 11 pm, and realized about half an hour later that I'd written all you can see below. Enjoy the excerpt, which mostly an introduction to the piece.
"Good Bye"
By Alfred B.
I was never good at writing letters. All the hidden emotions that needed to come out on paper just never came out of the heart. Just like now.
The pen flicked back and forth between my fingers as I slumped over the desk.
What to write, what to write...
I could’ve written some crap about how I regretted ditching them all, but in the end it wouldn’t have made any difference - they knew I wanted to leave.
I could’ve told them they had changed the way I thought for ever and ever - but hell, that wasn’t true in the slightest. I knew - and they knew - I was still the a*****e I’d always been.
I could’ve asked them to remember me on and on - but what good is dwelling on the bastards of the past? As if they’d want to remember me.
I could’ve begged for forgiveness for all the crap I had loaded onto them for years - but, deep down inside, did I really care?
So I just sat there. Paper on the desk, pen in hand, mind wandering. Words didn’t come to my blank brain and hollow heart. I sighed - I was never good at writing letters... Never good at all. What was the use of writing a letter at all if they knew why I had just “packed my bags” and crawled off? I couldn’t lie to them - so what else was there to write?
The truth?
What good was that to do?
So I sat there. Seconds ticked by on the clock. Minutes flittered past. An hour.
What was I doing here, wasted time on writing a stupid, god-forsaken letter that probably nobody would look twice at? That nobody cared about?
But at least I could do the courtesy of actually saying something for once.
So, I forced my hand and heart into it. Hunched over the scrappy, derelict desk, I scribbled on the paper. And scribbled. I said in the letter that I didn’t want pity, or sympathy, or forgiveness. I wanted them to just forget. I didn’t care if they hated me - what good would it do? I had been an a*****e loaded with s**t to the brim, and I knew it. And I told them that they probably wouldn’t see me again - the father away I traveled from them, the better.
In the end the letter was short and pretty much to the point. I gave a half-hearted attempt to fix some of my handwriting, then just stared into space for a while. Where would they go? What would happen to them? Would they take my advice, or would one of them chase after me? A cockroach crawled up the dirty grey walls, antennae flicking back and forth. One thing was obvious - I wouldn’t regret leaving this dump. And I wouldn’t forget leaving them.
So in the end, I picked up my pen, and wrote two letters at the end of the paper. The last letters I wrote in this empty pit of a flat.
Good bye
Author's Note: I'm low on the Nanowrimo word count - probably mainly because I write more in my mind than actually on paper (or keyboard, in this matter). Anyways, a little piece that I did to add into it at the very start... ^__^ It's not brilliant, but now I'm quite fond of it, so meh. ^^
#7 We Must Be Crazy