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THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 15.0 - April '06


IN THIS ISSUE:
1. The Neighborhood Watch - Gaian news for our attention deficit generation.
2. Honorable Mentions - Writing submitted and scouted by the best.
3. Do Not Eat This Column - Even if it makes you hungry.
4. Geek Chic - A Girl's Guide to Geekdom.
5. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.
6. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.
7. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do.
8. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.

















PART I. Poetry
Listed in alphabetical order by author.

high-kick to religion jazz, by Laverne Terres
origami, by Scary Fairy
Phallical Fallacies, by Krause
Remember Yesterday, by S. Houser



high-kick to religion jazz
By Laverne Terres

My lips meet God on Sundays.
Sometimes it's more just an embrace,
fingers to back and I'm showered
clean from skin to marrow.
We are a circle when we want
on those weekends,
no sharp tongues or front or
backsides.

The piano is ivory cold
where my tongue meets the music,
under where the pads
of His pearly-white fingers play.
Flats twist around my fingers
in ring-bearing cushion's softness.
Hymns of cradles and blessings,
and I remember them all from
the first taste of Sunday.

origami
By Scary Fairy

"its a wish
of time and space,"
she says. he really
doesn't mind [or care].

it all just adds up to
everything and nothing
of approval---
like crumpled paper

............hiding in the streets.

............and we're just folding
our fingers into images we've
never seen but always wanted.


fingernails littered the sidewalk

............as we pressed paper cranes
to the ground so dirt dusted
their wings. we couldn't help

............but say hello goodbye.

Phallical Fallacies
By Krause

Phallus�s fallacies
Make the world go
p.d
u.o
...w...d...a
....n..............l
.....u...........l
.........o.r.a
Like little lips
laboring at labels,
libels, and other
lip service.
�You are my true love�
�You are my one and only�
Lying
...on
Lying.
To him, with him.
Chemicals aren�t the
Only caustic lye.
Like the burning
Lie she told him-
his phallical fallacy.

Remember Yesterday
By S. Houser

Do you recall those golden days
when the world was made up of
classrooms and hallways
old textbooks
chalk dust
the smell of lukewarm pizza
and frozen chocolate milk?

Mornings spent scribbling
unfinished homework
last-minute cramming
for next-period tests
goofing off in the study room

(it was a study room
in name only).

We traded secrets and gossip
like good friends do
and never thought there was more to life
than this.

At graduation
we threw our caps into the sky
confident that we would carve our niche
in history.

Some of us made it happen
and some of us didn't
and some of us still try
to coax those dreams into reality;

we struggle to cling
to the fading idealism of youth.

It's been awhile since I heard from you
and sometimes I wonder
if you ever spare me a passing thought
in your busy life.

But then you call
or drop a line or two
and I know that you haven't forgotten.

I haven't forgotten, either.

Even though we've gone our separate ways
I still remember:
Friendship lasts forever
(even when it gets tested a little
every now and again).

That golden age has passed.
Those idealistic times have faded
into pleasant memory
to be brought out whenever we meet for coffee
and talk about �the good old days�.

And we still hold onto our dreams
from all those years ago.

Although they're slightly wrinkled
the edges a bit torn
we keep them fisted tightly in our grasps
and encourage each other to make them come true

because dreams
like friendship
never die.



PART II. Prose
Listed in alphbetical order by author.

Chocolate, by Prisma Colored
Evil Taffy, by Jasper Riddle
Life with the Guys, by Stephanie Sargent
Naccavea- Xia's Chapter, by KiwiOfDestruction



Chocolate
By Prisma Colored

I'm just sitting, enjoying a light lunch, when suddenly I realize:

this isn't just any cocoa.
I don't know how I know it. It's the taste, the texture. The delicious way it slides thickly down my throat and leaves my mouth hot and dry.
I just know it.

This cocoa is an Elixer of Happiness.

I know the rules. I've known them forever, somehow. A sip is your contentment. Two makes a broad smile. A gulp is cheerfulness, lasting a day or more. A long draught, and you're on cloud nine for a week.

Drink a cupful and you're guarunteed happy for the rest of your days.

Of course I have some more. I mean, Jesus, I had a bad day. Give me a break.

Well, it wasn't a great day.


This stuff really has a kick to it.


Ha! I love it. Lovely. Love-it! I love you.

Humm.
Not much left now.

Heh!


It's almost gone.
Albeit intoxicated, my mind can still process a thought:
what would life be like with happiness as a given?

(I'd seem heartless. I knew that right off. No one would take my emotions seriously, either, be they anger or joy. Also, I'm pretty sure everyone would hate me.
Perpetually pleasant?
Hell, I would hate me.

Happily, of course.)

I consider love.
I want to feel my heart break

at least once.

I'm still giggling as I offer the dregs of the cocoa to the bathroom sink.

I'm so happy.

And maybe a little sad.

Magic can do that to you.

I remind myself to buy a box of Nestle next time, with little marshmallows,
and get back to my lunch.



Evil Taffy
By Jasper Riddle

The sky is cold, gray, unforgiving. It's always like this. The clouds are so heavy you can't see the sun unless you look, and they never seem to move. No matter how windy it is down here--as it inevitably seems to be--the clouds hang there, like a blanket covering the sun. It's going to rain again, at some point in the day. The rain will be like the clouds, chilly and gray, coming down in long, thick sheets of steel. It's always like that. There's never any thunder or lightning--just the cold gray clouds and cold gray rain.

Denizen sits next to me on the bus. He doesn't move or speak or blink--just sits there with his eyes half-closed and his long legs drawn up against his chest. I wonder for the fiftieth time who the hell he is, then turn away, closing my eyes and putting my head against the window. The cold glass feels good against my forehead.

My name is Derek. I can't tell you my grade--you'd never believe me. I can drive, but I don't have a car--no money for fuel. I don't know whether I live with my parents anymore; they're divorced, my mother's never at home, and my father gets me every other weekend. Sometimes I can stay out all night and neither will know.

Friends are few and far-between--my current batch are all friends, and have been for a while. Josh invited me to their study group once and afterwards, they didn't mind if I just stuck around. Maybe that was the start of this whole thing. The study group. I had been coming home from it one night and had been in a pretty foul mood, and then one thing led to another and I end up stuck with Denizen. I hadn't even meant to catch him, and he certainly hadn't meant to be caught.

The bus shudders to a halt and my stop is announced. I glance up at the sky through the window, then Denizen grabs my arm and hauls me upright, almost dragging me down the bus to the exit. You might think that this simple action means he cares about me--he doesn't. But he wants to get up and leave and he can't leave me, so he drags me along. Self-interest.

I wouldn't mind staying there, though. The bus can take me to eternity for all I care--it's nice just sitting there, looking out at the steel sky and letting my mind wander. But I let Denizen lead me home.

We go straight up to my room, and he sits on my bed, posture like that of a frogs'. It would be funnier if I didn't know what he was capable of. I start pacing.

"C'mon, Den. You're not still angry about that, are you? I caught you fair and square."

He glares at me and I ignore him. It's been a month and he's still pissed at me for capturing him. Can't really blame him--having him follow me around everywhere is really annoying.

"Do you wanna go hunting? Fine. Let's go hunting."

I turn to continue pacing and there he is, already in battle regalia, long white hair hanging loosely and mask in one hand. He stands a full head and a half taller, but I'm not scared of him. Instead, I smirk. "Alright, then. Let's go."


You'll want to know about Denizen now, I suppose. Okay then. I'm not terribly sure what the heck he is--only Janitor does. Jan says he's a Hunter, and I think I'm starting to understand what that is. The thing about him is that he never shows any expression--it's all with his eyes. He looks at you one way and he's annoyed--another way and he's mad. He doesn't seem to be capable of being happy--just mad, annoyed at me for catching him. And he never talks. I don't think he can. He doesn't even make any noises at all--no grunts, no whimpers, no growls, nothing. It's really creepy.


I walk down the street, wondering when the hell it's going to start raining--I hate the suspense. People jostle me on all sides, rushing to get here and there before the cold dull downpour starts--I think I'm the only one going at a leisurely pace. Going nowhere at a leisurely pace. The thought makes me smirk.

There. I feel something and turn. She seems to stand out from the crowd, a punk among businessmen, cigarrette held between two clawed fingers. I shrug and head her way--she ignores me, which is fine. I bump into her and mumble inaudibly. I have to be in contact with the person for this to work, and no one minds if you bump into someone on a city street.

Only I can see it. A great cloud of gray shoots out of her chest and darts into the air--it reminds me strongly of a sticky gray spirit. Watching it, I see Denizen--he's watching from the rooftops, watching me. He's got his mask on--this strange sheet of metal with bands and two red blobs for the eyes. I nod visibly and he leaps forward.

Now comes the fascinating part. His tongue shoots out like a frogs', faster than the eye can see, and snags the dark mess. Then the second is over, and he's sitting on the rooftop of a building across the street, watching me and slowly chewing, crouched in his strange froglike pose again. It would be more unnerving if I kept watching him, but I don't. I keep walking, knowing that he's following on all fours and watching me.

I look around. There's evil everywhere, and Denizen eats it. Well...I think he does, anyway. He catches it with his tongue, at least, so I can only assume he eats it. I have to find it for him, because of my gift. I can see evil, and I can banish it from people. It doesn't make them good or anything--just less inclined to do bad things. I never really did it before, except to my friends and family, but now I'm doing it all the time. Dunno why. Guess it's my life now or something.


I think it's going to rain now. Everything speeds up around me, but I continue at a pleasant pace, bumping into people as I head back home, hands in my pockets. Maybe I'll get caught in the rain and it'll wash Denizen away like a bad dream so I can keep living my life in a city that never changes under a steel cloud blanket.



Life with the Guys
By Stephanie Sargent

�At the age of fifteen I experienced the weight of blood falling upon my hands, for the very first time. Looking back I still see the horrified expression of the young lamplighter as he cried out without a sound as vividly as the words on the pages of this book. We were alone on that cobble stone street, just the two of us under the amber and violet sky that summer evening. Salivating with rabid hunger I pounced upon him, pinning him against a wall and taking that single, fatal bite. By the time my head had cleared I was a child again, standing over a bloody corpse with his pearly red fluid stained upon my virgin lips. It dripped from my chin to my breast and to all who would look upon me I was a murderer��

�Hold up.�

Lucas looks up from his stool in surprise. I can feel his pale grey eyes swerving over my expression as I re-read what he had dictated thus far on the glowing white computer screen. Finally he speaks, his sweet voice laced with dread. �What? Stephanie?�

Shaking my head, I turn to my albino friend, whom I�ve known now for six years going. We met during the last of my lonely years attending middle school at a hell hole appropriately named �Black Mountain�. He wandered into the dark forest of my imagination one chilly January morning during math class, my most hated foe, whom I shall do battle against until the day I die. Mark my words, Darth Algebra, you will perish. �I don�t like this,� I explain with a heavy sigh. �Your tone is dry, and you�re practically demonizing yourself.�

I can hear the legs of his stool creak as he leans forward in his bright Hawaiian t-shirt and scruffy blue jeans; garlic to the fashion sense of most fictional vampires who spend their evenings drenched in shades of black and red. Lucas is� different.

In the passage we�re working on Lucas is supposed to be explaining his first kill to the audience, an event which transpired in 1791. When he appears to me now he is 21 years old, physically, though his actual age stands around 230. Although he�s only half-vampire I was generous enough to give him the gift of eternal life when we met. He never thanks me for it. �Well, I wouldn�t want to sound too pathetic. It was a very serious moment, you know. And I�m not demonizing myself; I�m merely explaining to the audience that I had no control over my actions.�

I point to a word on the screen and impishly smirk, �Guys don�t have breasts.�

Lucas just about rolls onto the floor and dies. �Breast bone. I can�t say �chest�, it doesn�t sound right. Have you taken your pills today?�

�Yes, I just wanted to jerk you around a little.� I hold down the backspace key and Lucas�s hideous paragraph retreats into exile. �Let�s start over. You�ll get it right this time.�

�Six years. Six years.� I can tell he�s going somewhere with this. I lean forward and watch, trying to hide my amusement. Lucas hates me because I�m immature. �That�s how long I�ve known you. That�s how long you�ve been writing my story. Hell, is it even my story anymore? My eye color alone has changed four times since I met you � four times! You�re driving me insane, and don�t you start laughing!�

�I�m sorry,� I stutter.

�Can we please get on with this? Please, before you really piss me off.� Poor Lucas; he was unlucky to become my muse. I think he�s going to give me a really mean look any second now and storm off like he always does. Even though he�s remained my favorite muse all his life he is unfaltering in his belief that I will never get anything accomplished.

�Okay, for real this time. Why don�t we try starting off with something a little more� cheery!�

Lucas gives me a look like a puppy hiding its muzzle between his paws, hoping that I�ll throw him a bone. He always does this. I love the expressiveness of his eye brows, definitely doggish, even though you can hardly see them most of the time. Being albino has that disadvantage. In a sour voice, he says, �Like what?�

Before I can come up with something the jester of my muses waltzes in from behind and shocks me by dropping his buttocks upon my computer table, in the process swiping my mismatched collection of CDs onto the floor. I shriek and leap from my seat, gaping at my insane pure blood with his twinkling blue eyes and clownish grin. He is posed on my table with his legs tightly crossed, acting quite the girl as usual, and eyeing me with a slick, arrogant grin. �Milo! What the Hell has gotten into you!? You just knocked my CDs all over the floor!� I drop to my knees, collecting my precious babies from the grimy carpet.

He arches his spine in a curious manner, leaning over his knees to watch me as though I�m an exhibit at the San Diego Zoo. Supposedly 632 years old, Milo seems to have an odd case of vampire A.D.D., at times giving him the maturity of the 4th graders on South Park. Oh, he�s brilliant in some respects, but for the most part he�s a jerk. Lucas tells me he shudders at night because he lives under the same roof as Milo, which isn�t surprising, because aside from being a Yankee son of a b***h Lucas is also a homophobe. Being the British f** that Milo is he just loves to give my favorite muse a hard time.

Call it sibling rivalry.

Cradling my CDs with loving care, I rise to meet Milo�s inquisitive glare as he leans back with one arm eased over my computer monitor. �What?� I scowl.

�I was feeling lonely,� Milo taunts, pausing to brush a strand of silver hair from his face. His true hair color is composed of a chocolately brown; it�s so dark I sometimes mistake it for black. He gave himself those highlights when we first met (ironically, it was also in math class, except that Milo came to me quite intentionally during my Junior year) and to this day remains my most difficult muse to control.

Continuing, Milo says; �You�ve been ignoring me for weeks, love. I merely meant to grab your attention so that we might do something together. How about a picture, eh? I�ve got a brilliant idea in mind, would you like to hear?�

I narrow my eyes and search for a place to put my CDs down. �Not really� I�m sorta in the middle of something.�

�We�re writing,� Lucas adds tersely. Now he looks like a rattle snake shaking its tail.

Milo glances over his shoulder, though I doubt he notices Luke�s anger. �Maybe we could write! I�ve always wanted to get involved in his story. Why, I�d make a grand antagonist, don�t you think?�

�No.� Lucas�s resolve was clear.

�We�ll see� maybe later.� I know Lucas glares at me for this, but he�ll just have to live with it. I just hope none of my CDs were damaged and that Milo will leave me to my work.

When I look up I see Milo is giving me the old puppy face bit. For a ruthless killer (and trust me, he is ruthless) he sure knows how to make a girl�s heart melt. I can�t help but sigh in defeat. �Alright, alright� I�ll find someway to work you in.�

�Wait, wait, wait!� Lucas is up from his seat and his face is burning red. Well, burning pink actually, being albino doesn�t give him a license to look crazy mad. He looks sort of like the victim of an exploding pixie stick. �Now he�s involved! Christ what are you gonna have him do � molest me!� Milo makes a face. �No� I can�t work like this. Its just too confusing, you can�t stick to the story line!�

This is getting to be exacerbating. �It is my story, you know. You just happen to be in it.�

�Oh, and the fact that the story is about me gives me no voice. Are you freaking kidding me? You can�t expect to get us published if you just throw me all over the place in your writing � I�ve got a personality, I�ve got beliefs and values, I need to be a real person.�

�And you will be,� I�m starting to clench my fists. �The fact that Milo is going to be in it doesn�t change that. So would you just relax?�

I watch as a sigh cuts through Lucas�s teeth. Fangs exposed he looks quite fearsome for a moment. Lucas really is a nice guy, with plenty of wisdom he and I both feel should be shared with the world. Sometimes, however, he has moments were he starts to fall apart under the spotlight and just needs a minute to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Milo watches this display with interest. I am grateful that he keeps his big mouth shut. �Look, why don�t we all just take a break, huh? I think I feel a spell of writer�s block coming on.�

�Me too,� Lucas mutters. As he exits the room I catch a spark of blood-light flash from my third muse�s sunglasses. Lucas is my oldest, Milo is my youngest; the muse in the hall is the middle child. He�s not watching us, but he likes to make me think he is by starring so intently from across the hall. Although he�s almost completely blind he knows intuitively that he is a creepy fellow and takes great pride in this fact. Six foot five with a hair cut so eerily average you�d think it belonged to a cereal killer; he can always be seen wearing his heavy black trench coat and carrying his cane, which is embroidered in Chinese dragons and conceals a katana inside. Believe it or not he�s become extremely skilled with the sword, despite being blind. That probably has something to do with him being a psychic, but he�s not telling me anything. He greatly enjoys his secrets. In fact I knew him only as a brown haired teenager for a year and a half before he finally revealed himself as the skinny fashion impaired vampire I see lurking in the hall. He goes by Binx (sometimes he lets me call him Binxy Boy. I doubt he likes that very much). His full name is Scott B. Cameron. If you knew him, you�d realize why he goes by Binx. He is simply not a Scott.

Binx steps aside to let Lucas pass without as much as a hello. While Lucas despises him, as he does most of my other muses, I think Binx actually has some respect for him. That could just be my imagination. There�s no doubt about his relationship with Milo. They both dislike each other; I don�t doubt Binx would like anything more than to see his head rolling across the carpet. Fortunately for my youngest muse that would leave an awful stain, and I am strictly against anything that involves cleaning up messes.

As he strolls in, completely nonchalant and cool as a cucumber with freezer burn, Milo�s playfulness quickly subsides for he knows that my most diabolical muse has a vendetta against him. �What was all that racket about?�

You�re probably imagining Binx to have the deep threatening voice of a villain like Darth Vader or The Green Goblin. While you�d be correct in assuming that Binx is a villain (at least a very naughty anti-hero) I regret to inform you that his voice is not at all villain-like. He speaks with the supremacy and clarity of God himself (because he thinks that�s who he is) but he was made immortal at the mere age of seventeen, so his voice has not yet matured. There are kids at my high school I could compare it to.

If you�re asking how he can be seventeen years old and six foot five; don�t bother. I call it a vicious pituitary gland, a sensible explanation considering he is constantly pumped full of excessive testosterone.

Dropping into my computer chair I sorely explain to Binx about the argument Lucas and I were having a few minutes ago. He could steal the information from me at any time of his own accord anyway.

Binx, who is leaning in the door way like he�s too important to stand in front of me or something, scoffs at my explanation. �You are a bit of a b***h, Stephanie. A lot of a b***h. You shouldn�t put so much pressure on him, lest he explode and break your neck.�

�And you�re a b*****d,� I reply with a grim smirk. He has told me this many times. I�m used to it. �And Lucas is too nice for that, anyway. He�s just PMSing again, he�ll get over it.�

I�m suddenly distracted by Milo tapping my shoulder. �This is all terribly enthralling, but would you mind getting on with me? I think my brain is turning to fungus from lack of stimulation.�

�That would be a relief to us all,� Binx comments.

Caught between a laugh and a sigh I swivel around to face Milo with my hands floating above the keys. �Alright, what do you want to write?�

Milo sports a Cheshire Cat grin. �A love scene.�

�No,� I wince. �I�m not even ready for that.�

Once again Milo attempts to use his puppy face against me. He doesn�t get me this time, for I know Milo all too well. Any love scene suggested by him will quickly and inevitably lead to a love-making scene. I barely know anything about romance as it is, and as far as sex goes� I refuse to soil my computer with such pestilence.

�Oh, come around, now! You�ll have to write about romance eventually, you might as well start. Lesson one ��

�No, no, no, no, no!� I cover my ears and duck my head. �Thank you, Milo, but I�ll burn that bridge when I come to it.�

�No, look,� Milo leans over the monitor and starts hitting the keys with his finger. �The sky was-�

I slap his hand away with angst. �No, Milo. No. That�s a clich�. I don�t do clich�s.�

�You do too! What about Binx, yes? A blind psychic who works as a private eye; tell me that hasn�t been done, because I can name about fifty of them.�

�You can not. Besides, Binx is�� I glower at my blind vampire standing in the door. �Is not going to smoke his cigarettes in my house.�

�Shut your mouth,� he barks, cigarette still clutched between his fingers like a crucifix to show his creed. �I�ll smoke wherever I damn well please. I�m just a figment of your deranged imagination anyway; even if second hand smoke does exist you can�t get cancer from that.�

�Point taken, but you still can�t have it.�

�You�re a b***h.�

�And Jesus loves you too. Now do you have any bright ideas or are you just going to stand there and glare all day?�

�Wait a tick, what about me?� Milo complains.

I give him a discouraging look. �I�m not writing romance and you know it.�

�Doesn�t have to be romance. I�d fancy a bit of gore as well, I know how you enjoy that! Come on, let�s storm the castle walls, slaughter some peasants and sing koom-bi-yaah my lord. The plague sounds like a wonderful subject to get flippant about.�

I clench my fists over my eyes in pure anguish. At last I can breathe again. �You know� I think I�m gonna take a breather. You wanna come watch cartoons with Luke and me?�

Milo�s face sags and he shakes his head gravely. I find this odd, for Milo has a passion for the art of animation and just about anything involving pencil, paper and inspiration. �You know ol� Luke has no taste in cartoons. I didn�t realize he even watches television.�

�He doesn�t. Just flips channels, like its some kinda sport.� I start to glance at Binx, only to find him gone, probably outside so he can have his smoke. He drinks too (which is quite a funny sight and something I�d get a real kick out of writing down) and on top of that has probably done just about every drug in existence. He used to be as big a p***k about his stories as Lucas; I�ve been writing for him for almost five years now. Lately I guess he�s just lost interest. Every now and then he�ll come stalking up to me with an idea for a plot that usually turns out to be pure genius if we can see it through. He�s the quiet one, probably because he spends all his time brooding over his next adventure while the rest of us run around in crazy circles screaming bloody murder until something finally gets typed up.

At long last Milo slides off my computer desk, giving his back a good long stretch as he wanders around my room. I switch off Microsoft Word in vain, knowing in the pit of my stomach that nothing will be written, no grand discovery to be made today. I�m always dissatisfied when a day goes by and I feel I haven�t learned anything. In retrospect, maybe I have. After all, one can�t be a genius every day of the week. Perhaps it�s best I just plop down on the couch and give it a rest.



Naccavea- Xia's Chapter
By KiwiOfDestruction

Xia:

I have a firm belief in my theory that God jerks off. You see, God discovered self-pleasure when dinosaurs roamed the Earth. He was jerking off one day and a comet was being left unattended, because God was �busy�. And the comet headed towards Earth and killed the dinosaurs. God was jerking off when the evolutionary siren went off to �danger, danger, something bad will happen when a certain species comes along� and God usually sends out some parasites to kill them, but He didn�t because He was jerking off, and humanity was born. Sometime later in life He discovered different drugs to get Him hot, and He figured out how to have sex. So He went down and impregnated Mary, and when He saw what happened to His son, he was like, �Okay, I am never doing that again.� And He went back to jerking off. So one day He went up to His room and jerked off for half a millennium, and we have the Middle Ages and the plague and whatnot. He fixed it sometime in the 1500�s, but then, in 1607, He went and jerked off again and some of the Brits fled to America and created Jamestown. Every time there�s a war, God isn�t there, jerking off in His room.

This isn�t even really a theory; it�s a hypothesis. I could be wrong. But it seems like a logical hypothesis to me. Now, you may be wondering why I bring this up. Well, the answer is simple: I have just discovered what seems to be, to me, the ultimate proof that what I think is true. I have just discovered the ultimate ******** on the part of someone. Someone up there forgot to do their homework before making a really stupid decision, and now there is the ultimate consequence. Behold: the Naccavea.

The Naccavea can only be seen in the night. Furthermore, they can only be seen if you happen to be right near some invisible foolish rebels. They�ll do something so that you can see. Then there�s this weird bluish flash of light. I didn�t think about it, until the sun had finally set, and I heard voices in my house. A lot of them. There was some kind of party, it sounded like. I walked down to around where I heard the party noises, and I saw people crammed into the living room. And I mean crammed. All the men had what looked like pants or shorts on, and the women were dressed very naughtily. I knew I would look like an outsider, even though I lived there. So I walked upstairs and found the most revealing clothes I owned and put them on. Then I walked downstairs and I heard people talking.
�I wonder whose house this is.� Someone said. What the hell? I was thinking.
�It belongs to a family of them. Seven of them.� Eight.
�They�re so dumb.�
�Come on, they have no indication that we exist. They can�t see us, hear us, smell us, or feel us if we step on their toes or something. How are they supposed to know that we exist?�

�True. Still, how could they burn oil?� At this point, I realized that the partygoers were not talking about my family, they were probably talking about America in general. Which, as I realized, was probable. They had an unusual accent, like a combination of the British and the American accents. More American than British, however.

Wait a minute, what the hell? If we couldn�t sense their presence then why could I? And why would only Americans be unable to see them or hear them? I officially declare this a dream. I walked outside to cool my head. Yep, without a doubt this is a dream. I am only dreaming that it�s 6:30. I have ODed on some kind of illegal substance. Yeah, that�s it.

To prove to myself that I was, indeed, trippin�, I walked outside to clear my head.

WHOA! There were people crammed into the street, too, as if this were some kind of block party. They were partying their asses off in what looked like either shorts or revealing things that looked like lingerie minus lace and femininity. I walked out and saw people talking about sex, life, and something called the 1754 Vidi. Whatever the hell that was. I was beyond creeped out. Someone said something about being a �Naccavea�. I promise myself to never drink again. I thought. Had I ever actually had a drink? Eucharist. You got drunk off Jesus� blood.

�STOP RUNNING, ********!� Someone yelled. People cleared off from the street. There was a man there; he was actually wearing pants and a shirt. He looked kind of like a gas-station employee. He was holding what looked like a double-ended knife in his right hand. The man he was chasing wore blue shorts. He had brown hair and was scrawny.
�What did I do? I didn�t do anything! LEAVE ME THE ******** ALONE!�
�You brought one of them in!�
�I did not! And even if I did, what�s the big deal?� The man with the shorts said. The gas station employee grabbed a hold on his wrist and twisted it.
��What�s the big deal? They�re nuts.�
�You�re nuts. Now let me go!� The shorts man said, kicking the gas-station employee in the shin.
�Excuse me.� A girl said. She was about average height, olive-skinned, and dark-haired. She looked scared out of her mind.
�What?� The gas station employee snapped.
�You have no proof that Len did this, aside from your own suspicions. And, without proof, your claims mean nothing, and your apprehension of Len is illegal.� She said. Wow, I thought. Nice of her.

The gas station employee hesitated. �Fine. But don�t break the rules again. And I�m not very fond of either of you.� Pretty obvious, I thought. Everyone got back in the street.
�Thank you! Thank you so much!� The shorts-man, Len, probably, said.

�You�re welcome, Len.� The girl said. I noticed that she was wearing clothes less revealing than what most other people were wearing, just a midriff-baring tube top and boy-cut shorts, both black.
Len saw me, and he stared. �Len, what are you looking at?� The girl said, looking in my direction.
�Nothing. I�m going to crash one of the houses to get some juice. I�ll be back.�
�Okay.�
Len walked over to me and whispered in my ear. �Are you one of us?�
�Of course I am.� I lied. I heard what sounded like old school rap being played. People were yelling and I was pretty sure a few were shagging each other.
�No, you�re not. I let you in.� Len said. s**t. I am in so much trouble.
�You won�t get in trouble. I will.� Len said.
�Len, right?�
�Yeah.�
�Who was that girl who you were talking to?�
�Naomi.�
�Oh. Think she�ll get jealous? I think you kinda owe her for saving your a**.�
�You win.� Len walked back to Naomi and they were talking again.
�Hey, look, there�s a car.� Someone sniggered. I turned, and there was a car about to run everyone over. Oh, s**t. I had to scream, to do something, to�
The car whizzed through everyone, as if they were air. Everybody was unhurt. What the hell? I needed some sleep.
�Hey!� Someone called. It was Naomi.
�Hi.� I said, walking over to her. �Naomi, right?�
�Right. You know, I saw a� movie, I think they call it, where one of the characters had my name. There was a lot of black leather.� What the hell were you doing watching gay porn? I almost asked.
�Yeah. And there was a lot of people killing each other. And there was these phones, and robots, and �Smiths��. It had to be The Matrix. Wait, there were no Naomis in the Matrix. I am so stupid. Her name is Niobe.
�I think Len and Niobe are screwing.� Someone said. I turned, and, sure enough, there was a public display of affection that could probably get them arrested. Jeez. I needed an asprin.

~~

At approximately 7:00 AM, I noticed that the people around me seemed to be sort of translucent. I promised myself that this was a dream and downed another asprin. Lay off the ******** Asprin or you�ll get yourself killed. The rational part of my head told me. It was amazing that I was even able to think rationally, considering the fact that I had probably taken enough Asprin to get high for a week.
�Len told me everything.� Someone said. I turned and saw Niobe. �The b*****d. I stood up for him because I thought he didn�t do it, and he ******** did. God damn his oily hide.�
I, being so articulate, said �Uh��
�Indeed. Now, I want you to tell me everything. But you might have to carry me up the stairs.�
�Huh?�
�Naccavea can�t climb stairs. Someone ******** up the 1754 Vidi.�
�Unh.� I said, another of my brilliant witticisms.
�We can�t be overheard, so I need you to help me climb up the stairs.�
�Hold on.� I grabbed a bottle of my parents� liquor. I needed to forget my stomachache from too much asprin.
�Lean on me.� I said. Niobe obliged. When we tried to climb the stairs, Niobe kept falling over. I finally carried her up the stairs, like she had initially suggested. Niobe wasn�t as heavy as I expected. She wasn�t as heavy as I thought the weight necessary to keep being alive was. It was like carrying a blanket up the stairs. The first thing I did when I got to the top of the stairs was take a nice, long swig of my parents� alcohol. It was the most disgusting thing I had ever tasted. It was a combination of cat piss and dirty diapers. I realized it was probably one of Adrienna�s brilliant concoctions. And sure enough, a label on the bottle read: �Zima, champagne, doctor pepper, mountain dew, red bull, secret ingredient� What in the name of Jesus possessed me to pick that bottle? I suddenly realized how much asprin I had taken. What? That couldn�t be right! I had taken about enough to cure a thirteen-year-old�s headache. That didn�t make any sense. I needed some more of Adrienna�s Essence of Wet Dog.
�So. What�s it like? Being you. I�ve always been curious. I mean, not you, but like��
�It sucks. Everyone�s stupid and cruel. I go to school everyday and learn useless s**t. Then I go home and do my homework, then I go to bed and eventually die.�
�What do you mean, go to bed?�
�I sleep.�
�What does that mean?�
�I, uh, my mind is sort of�dormant.�
�Oh, you mean sort of like our suspension?�
�Huh?�
�Oh, of course. You wouldn�t know. Well, our version of sleep is sort of being suspended in midair and being unable to do anything. That�s why everyone�s fading. They�re tired.�
�Whoa.�
�We can see and hear and stuff, though.�
�Oh.� And so, Niobe and I discussed every last thing, from the 1754 Vidi to the educational systems to technology.
�Hey, what�s your name?� Niobe asked. I could barely see her anymore, but I noticed that she smelled like burning chocolate.
�Xia.� I responded.
�How do you spell it?�
�X-I-A�. I couldn�t remember anything after that point, due to the fact that I passed out.
The next morning, I saw a very short note next to me. It said:
Dear Xia,
Everything that happened last night was real. It was not a dream.
Sincerely,
Niobe