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THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 16.0 - May '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. Geek Chic - A Girl's Guide to Geekdom.
4. Point! What's Your Point? - Anti-social, anti-state, anti-you.
5. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press.
6. La Revue - Advice on things to do or not to do.
7. The Afterthought - Preview for the next issue and then some.















PART I. Poetry
Listed in alphabetical order by title.

Afterlife After Life by Krause
four ways to look at the sun by Onion
nightmares, by heart of glass
terrible labor, by Laverne Terres
Viva la Classique, by PiousCorn



Afterlife After Life
By Krause

Saint Peter, I always expected less,
more gray and cumulo-stratus
than bright sk[eyes] and vibrancy.
Obsidian non-Euclidian
replacing fluted marble
and marble flutes.
My afterlife after life
never had mileum aureum.

I always found my gold
on Earth: leaves falling
in autumn, last month�s playmate�s
lengthy locks, cr�me brule
Life un-through being lived
And yet I�m not livid.
No, that�s untrue.
Muscles tense and veins bulge,
teeth clench and words sputter.

�It was your time� becomes
A hard [con]cept except
for blind Faith and her friends
following each other over cliff�s edge.
I don�tcan�twon�t wrap my fatty bacon
around the tender filet mignon.
It�s the cooks job. My life
came out rare, not well-done.

four ways to look at the sun
By Onion

i.

like an egg
the sun drops
and shatters
into a yolky mess
we choose to call night.
time and only time
will reform its shell
where all the king's horses
and men
would fail.

ii.

i imagine the fish
in the pacific ocean
watching it descend
like an atom bomb
toward their coral beds
know from experience
it will never touch them.
it will burn a new thing called
tomorrow instead.

iii.

we called it [********] in high school,
the furtive kiss from cherry to virgin tip
of a cigarette;
i stand waiting on the spine of the roof,
cupping my hands, but i know no wind
will put the sun out.
it must be stomped into the black clay,
always one horizon from reach.

iv.

god is a cyclops
forever rolling it.

nightmares
By heart of glass

the leviathans must have
curdled from the soot gathering
in the troposphere, straddling
under saturnine winter heights �

then, tangy & silent, water creaming
under the phony bows of Lotos,
brine popped the surface with the
flowering surprise of perennials.

they must have slid like wind in
wheat-fields, perhaps supplely
folded into subconscious shapes

until the ocean fell awake
&, sweat-soaked, checked the stars.

terrible labor
By Laverne Terres

Tonight, it tried to be beautiful,
casting off its casual plus fours
and untucked shirts.
It stood strong in
the dining tables and chairs,
spread in the sandstone tiles
outside supermarkets.
It bent in the walls,
protecting our bare
skin and sensitive eyes.

It tried to be beautiful, showing
the town to dusty paths
and yellow unmown fields, offering
a bouquet of bony oaks, maples, ash.
They were something held dear
in the hearts of the
next generation
antiquists.

Tomorrow, the crude white sheet
covers its shriveled motherhood,
and what good the trees aren't
that seat us instead of fueling flames.

Viva la Classique
By PiousCorn

Monotonous repetition,
The riffs breaking,
Accompanied by soaring trills.

Sounds to you,
Like cheap hypnosis,
A dirty dangerous thrill.

Accursed blessing,
Shadowed light,
The gift of modern day.

You may scorn,
But into your brain,
It seems to make its way.

�Cry pardon,� you scream,
�But it seems to me,�
�That you are tainting what I say.�

Deeper it digs,
Rooting like pigs,
As slowly you�re driven insane.



PART II. Prose
Listed in alphabetical order by title.

Anything, Everything And Nothing At All, by Prairie_Fire
Flies, by Sera
Prologue: Ageless by Kobreck
What Great War? by Vannak



Anything, Everything And Nothing At All
By Prairie_Fire

I once heard a rumor that said I�d sold my soul to the devil so that I would live forever.

On that same token, I�ve also heard rumors saying I was born without a soul.

Curious, I know.

Now, a rumor can never become fact unless it�s confirmed. My problem is that I don�t know which of these delicious tid-bits I should deem as true. As far as I know I�ve never met the devil and I�m sure if I did he�d find something of more value in my keep than just my immortal being. As for not having a soul, well, if I were a betting man I�m afraid I�d have to bet against myself on that one. Seems like the odds are pretty even there and even never seems to go in my favor.

Those are the facts, a.k.a., the unimportant things. What is important you ask? Okay, since you asked, what�s most important is the story itself, not tiny, irrelevant, pointless details like the truth. Who wants to hear the truth anyway? A judge? A jury? Not the executioner, he doesn�t give a s**t. I mean, seriously, wouldn�t you respect George Washington more if instead of ponying up to chopping down that cherry tree he instead told his folks that a gang of Indians all cracked out on peyote came and stole the tree but before they could sacrifice it�s plentiful blossoms to their heathen thunder god or whatever George came in and scalped them all on their own tomahawks? He could have even made his own scalps out of like horse hair and tree bark� or mud, who knows, the point is we could have a more honorable monument to Washington of him proudly holding some Indian skull caps instead of some phallic ivory tower and an idiotic, moralistic story if George had just been a decent liar, or better yet, a decent story teller.

That�s what I do you know. Well, not professionally of course. You think I could afford these clothes, these shoes, this watch on a storyteller�s salary? Well, the watch yeah, maybe, I bought it from a street vendor in New Orleans, sixteen bucks. But it�s a real Rolex, trust me. Anyway, no, unfortunately I can�t live off my yarns, but if I could I�d be a richer man than I am now and believe you and me that�s saying something. I run a hotel in a little town. It�s safe to say I do quite well for someone my age. Twenty-seven years young and I�ll never have to worry about money a day in my life. This would be a good time to thank my mother and father for being so good and leaving behind their business to me, but, I think I�m going to use my �Get Out Of Being Guilty About Your Dead Parents Free� pass and just move this conversation along�past go�and collect two hundred dollars. Ca-ching!

Okay, before I have to start paying Parker Brothers any royalties, let�s get this conversation back on track. Now, people love to hear a good story. And there�s a lot of them to be told here in Wooden Nickel. That�s where I�m from, Wooden Nickel Washington. Never heard of it, right? Don�t worry, not too many people have. Like I said it�s a little town. The worst kind of clich�, you know? Some dumpy old Hicksville all the way out in the boonies, one street, Main Street of course, going right through the center; white trash drunks from the factories raising hell every night at the local bar before going home to their bruised up wives. Cops are a bunch of corrupt sons of whores so they won�t do nothing about that. Then there�s the well-to-do blue bloods who live on the coastline in their palatial mansions. The factory owners of course, their noses always in each others business, talking s**t whenever their boney backs are turned on one another as they live out their droll, sexless lives until the day they finally sit down to their final meal of Vicodin and red wine and do the only generous thing they�ll ever do in their lives and give their two-faced friends an excuse to go out and buy a new little black dress.

Damn, can you say tangent? Sorry, in case you haven�t noticed I tend to do that every now and again. I�ll be honest with you. I�ve once or twice� okay six times have suffered what doctors like to call severe head trauma. Don�t look at me like that, it�s not so bad, plus, how many people can say they have pieces of their own skull in their sock drawer? Or how many people can say they�ve been told by fourteen medical professionals that they�re lucky to be alive? Okay, yeah, it�s not winning the Pulitzer, but bragging rights is bragging rights, am I right? Right.

So... what were we talking about?



Flies
By Sera

There are always flies buzzing around me. I don�t know why. I�m not the Fly Queen. But lately, there�s always been two or three of these little flies buzzing around me. It�s very strange, that. I�m a clean person. Take a shower every day, wash my hair every two days. I don�t go to dumps, and I live in the suburbs. Essentially, I never see these flies.

But they�re buzzing around me, drunken pepper dots whirling around in the air, tickling my hand and then flying off once again. It�s annoying. And I didn�t used to have flies, until that Halloween night. And I sincerely doubt the flies came from bobbing for apples.

I only remember bits and pieces of Halloween night. A dare, laughter, and an old lady with an eye patch, clad in a black dress and holding a crooked brown cane. Her bony fingers grab my hair, and I don�t remember what happened after that.

She haunts me, the old lady. More than the flies. Every time I close my eyes, I see the old crone, her skin wrinkled and her lips dry parchment. She�s saying something, the lady with the pure blue glass eye. Her mouth is moving.

I cannot hear her.

-----

I�m at school. Just walking down the hallway, staring at my brown shoes, moving onto my Literature class. My Lit teacher was being cranky of late. She claimed that her best friend went to jail, but that didn�t explain the gigantic red D slashed over my essay. It was my best one yet, too. I felt sad.

�Hey, Emmie!� Look up. There she is, the little Asian girl with long brown hair and almond-shaped eyes. She has a cherubic happy face, but this time, her friends surrounded her. All of them had the round face shape, happy happy happy. I tug at my own hand-me-down jacket, and smile back.

�Tell them how pretty my eyes are!� she demands, lisping like she always does. It just adds to her adorability, of course. They were all so cute. In a way, they were the Elite Girls. I wasn�t even a half member.

�Oh, not again,� one of the girls said, rolling her eyes. She had a sharp face, with high cheekbones and elegant wavy black hair, befitting chocolate skin.

�No, tell them!� the girl said pleadingly, tugging at my jacket. �Tell them my eyes are beautiful.� Entrapped in their games? Er� okay.

�They�re . . . beautiful?�

�Yay!� the girl cheered, throwing up her arms in delight. I glance closer to her eyes, almost out of curiosity.

The moment I admitted those words, her eyes suddenly became very pretty. They were sparkling, elegant and rich and refined all at once. A hazel kind of brown, I judged, very befitting for her. But looking closer, I saw some kind of sadness.

Stepping back, I could see the throng of girls all had that sad look on their face. I got this feeling, an unpleasant feeling, that I had to go somewhere. An urgent feeling that I had to go somewhere now. And that floating feeling that the girl and her friends only cared about her pretty eyes because they were trying to say good-bye. I had to go somewhere, quickly quickly, and I couldn�t be late . . . I had to leave those girls, and leave them now.

I woke up, my face covered in sweat. I didn�t move from underneath my covers. The morning was gray and cold. I was confused. Why were they saying good-bye? I wasn�t going anywhere any time soon.

Right?

------

This time, I was actually at school. I could tell. The cold was biting at my nose and face, and I was yearning for gloves in Sunny California. Pulling my shabby jacket around me, I glanced up down the hallway. I didn�t see the happy girl, but I saw a girl I had known in middle school�her name was Sing, if I could recall correctly. I hadn�t seen her for a long time, and I was surprised to see her here, like something out of a distant memory, a cloudy memory in my mind.

But the look on her face looked haunted and gaunt, even though she was still chubby and happy. Sing was a bit on the pudgy side, her face as flat as a dinner place with tiny bumps for noses and eyes and mouth. But today, this cast a different effect on her. It was as if something was after her, and I didn�t know what.

Sing glanced at me, and still had that haunted look on her face as she passed me. If anything, it grew more rigid, and she looked away.

A dreamy face from a past memory.

---

I�m sitting in Spanish class. The teacher is conjugating on the board, and I feel uncomfortable in the festive room. It�s decorated in bright yellows and shining reds, and streamers everywhere. I take a break from the bright pink worksheet, glancing outside the window.

I saw a girl bobbing up and down. Strange. Her pale face was appearing and disappearing as she stalked between shutters and doors. She was pretty, with soulful and sweet brown eyes and a pouty mouth with porcelain white skin. She looked happy, chipper.

�Who is she?� I indicated outside.

My partner barely looks up. �Who�s who?�

I glance back outside. The bobbing girl had disappeared again, leaving me nothing but a wistful memory.

-----

I�m sitting by the road, holding my books. My stomach had hurt suddenly. My parents had hugged me good-bye today. They usually didn�t. We were a distant family, and hugs were rare.

The old lady�s house used to be inside the forest. I can�t find it anymore. I�m scared. The memory of the crone haunts me, and it�s something I can�t outrun. What is she saying?

A fly buzzes past me. I swat it away.

This is a dangerous highway. There�s three accidents annually at this intersection alone. My friend lived near here, but then she moved. Actually, she moved a little after Halloween.

�Double dog dare you,� she says slowly, licking her index finger generally, and sucking on it gently. She had that strange habit. �Double dog dare you . . . to go to that crone�s house, inside the forest.�
�What?� I�m scared. It was a full moon tonight, and the woods were dark. Crickets chirped eerily and owls hooted at the most insane times. Even my own footsteps were scaring the s**t out of me.

�It�s Halloween! Don�t you want to go?� she asks, swinging her candy basket around. �Come on . . . how about this? You just touch her house, and I�ll give you all my candy.�

I bite my lower lip. �Will you come with me?�

�I�ll wait here, Emmie. There�s nothing to worry about.�

I shiver, and pull my jacket closer. And I put my candy basket down.

Creeping through the forest makes me scared. The leaves crunch underneath my footsteps, and I have this feeling that somebody�s watching me. Just . . . watching me, with eerie eyes. But I can�t see anybody when I look around.

An owl hoots. I begin to jog, all my muscles feeling stiff. Darkness surrounds me. The trees have faces and long branches, stretching out to touch me, to grab me. I see the crone�s house ahead. It�s an old-fashioned house, with a porch and all. I figure all I have to do is touch the fence, then run away. But my feet won�t move.

Finally, I begin to step forward. Each step resonates loudly throughout the forest. I keep my eyes on the windows in the house. There are no lights on. Perhaps she�s out trick-or-treating too.

One more step. Nobody moves. The forest is silent, holding its breath for me.

With creaking fingers, I gently touch the fence. Breathing a soft sigh of relief, I looked up at the window, which was right in front of me now. An old lady, her skin wrinkled and with one eerie blue eye, stares down at me, her face scowled angrily.

The contrasting sight makes me scream, and I run. I keep on running throughout the forest, knowing that old lady is still standing at the window, glaring at me as I run. Will she send dogs after me? Will she curse me? I�m screaming and running and screaming. Then there are the bright lights.

There was a trucking incident, where a drunk driver didn�t see a little girl running out on the road. I bite my lower lip and draw blood. Then I stand up, and I turn around. I know who�s there. The old lady, hobbling on her cane, nods to me solemnly, with her eerie blue eyes.

�Hello, Emmie.�

I can hear her now. The flies are still buzzing around me, but I don�t mind anymore. And I feel sadness, grief, and relief all at the same time.

�It�s time for you to come with me.� Her voice is like sandpaper. I don�t mind. I reach out and touch her hand, and she holds onto me tight. �Don�t run away again,� she warns, and I smile and nod. Then we walk into the light, just as the sun rises and touches the flies.



Prologue: Ageless
By Kobreck

Dry leaves, stirred up by the breeze of my passing, danced across the paved stone behind me, settling as I paused to look up at the house. The October chill reached my fingers even through the heavy fabric of my overcoat; it was cold, too cold for this time of year. I fancied I saw winter's first flakes darting across the dark shutters of the house, but they were only more leaves. Too many leaves, covering the dead grass of the weed-filled lawn and collecting in the gutters. Bare, the trees reached up--here one bending over the broken fountain and clogging the stagnant water with leaves, there one leaning towards the house and scratching at the windows as if it was asking to be let in.

It saddened me to see the house in such a state. When I'd left six years before it had been a happy place, full of music and people. Now... Now it stood there, alone, looking haunted--and it was I who had come to haunt it. Would I find that those visions still danced through the halls and that the ghostly music still played in an echo of those times, nearly covered up by the dry rustling of mice underneath the floorboards?

The leaves stirred again as I moved on, whispering at my heels and asking me why I'd returned to this place--what had led me here, pulled me back? Even I couldn't answer that; or, if I could, I didn't want to. I reached the porch; more leaves tumbled through the holes in the rotted wood as I pushed them aside with my shoes, sounding for safe passage to the door.

I wondered, for a moment, if she would be there to greet me--but no, she was gone, gone with the music and the freshness of spring air and the evening dew--and I was left with this: the cold and an empty house and leaves everywhere. The door opened at my touch, unlatched by wind and weather, and the corroded bronze knob came away in my hand. I let it drop.

As I moved through the dark hallways and empty rooms, trying to bring back the memories, it occurred to me that perhaps I was only a memory as well. Lost. How did they remember me, the girls in their crinoline and muslin as they batted their eyelashes and laughed lightly behind their powdered hands? Was I the foreign gentleman, the tall dark and handsome stranger with a smile and a dance for each of them? Or was I unremembered, lost amid the wine and the heavy perfume and the other men who were more open to their invitations?

Would things have been different if I had stayed, ageless as the world spun around me and time passed me by?

----------

I struck a match, the hiss of the flame flaring up loud in the empty room. It flickered, blown by a ghost wind as I held it up while removing the glass shield of the lamp before lighting the wick. After sputtering for a moment and sending up a tendril of smoke then lost to the darkness, it caught. The flame steadied, an inconsequential beacon in the growing shadows. I blew the match out, and let the charred wood drop to the rug where it smoldered among the damp leaves.

It mattered not whether the match caught or not. All would go up in flames before the night was over. That was how it had to be--build bridges, get over them, and burn them behind you. Six years was too long to keep holding on to what was no longer there. It was my curse to cling to the past. Everything passed me by, faded into oblivion, but I kept going and kept the memories close.

Smoke curled up from the leaves, but no fire. In a sudden fit of anger I backhanded the lamp, sending it flying across the room with a crash and the shattering of glass in the dark. Why did I continue to hope that she would still be there, waiting for me in the upstairs bedroom? Let the flames consume her. What did I care? It was over; she was gone. There had been nothing there in the first place, nothing but coy glances and a few kisses underneath the rose-covered trellis when no one was looking. Let it end, let it go.

I left the house, now a larger beacon in the night that called the fireman's claxon into business. No one saw me; a shadow within the shadows, not touched by the light of the fire as it leapt up and licked the sky. It was done. I turned my back to the house and moved on, hoping that for a while I could move ahead before the past caught up with me again.

Editor's Note: If you would like to keep track of this story, click here.



What Great War?
By Vannak

By some 90th year, this chair, the sky and my wife begin to finally feel like something new; and when I breathe, they momentarily inch their way about the world. I'm not a man of much prayer, but when I turn to my wife and say, "You think God will remember me?" she looks over to me as though I had just admitted I'm still hiding arsenic under my tongue from which ever war it was I fought in.

I just look down, guilty. She only responds with a sigh before she goes about rocking in her chair, slowly, as though going too fast may burn up her remaining hours. I myself am not as cautious. Her hand quickly finds its own way into my hand, and they breathe together. We are facing each other, rocking slowly as lovers do, and our rings clink together.

There�s a spark between us and the world, and it's like being teenagers all over again, being high off of whatever we could inhale. Gunfire, cigarettes, air, or a small girl's nervous, shaking breath. I stand up and sit in a bench beside her, so that her hands are draped across her body, gently forcing her to face me.
I've spit out that little pill. The war's been over.
Now I am in my wife's arms, and remember, I am old now. I am wise now.
From my experience, I whisper to her as she sleeps, of how I never meant to keep those vows sacred.
She's asleep.