alicemae
THE GAIAN PRESS - Issue 1.0
IN THIS ISSUE...
1. The Neighborhood Watch - A quick look around the world of Gaia
2. Honorable Mentions - Poetry and fiction submitted and scouted by the best
3. Goad the Goat - Musings from a homo-intellectus
4. Do Not Eat This Column - Even if it makes you hungry
5. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press
6. Critic's Corner - What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
7. Writer's Aide - Help is just a click away
8. The Afterthought - A short overview of our next issue and other upcoming Press events
peiormentis reports...
- Gaian Homes Preview. Le Gasp! Homes for our wonderful little avis? What ingenious things will they think up next?
- Gaia Naked Day, February 12-14. Hmph. Do what you wish. I, for one, will be keeping my clothes on.
Kraeela reports...
- Some fellow Gaians (with the help of mod VO) are attempting to collaborate on an RP style story of Gaia. Writers, click here for more information.
- Gaia's 2nd Anniversary Ball took place Friday 18th. Hope everyone had a good time in spite of the lag!
alicemae reports...
- In honor of Valentine's Day, everyone received a box of Valentine chocolates to give to that special someone. For those who missed this chance in receiving chocolates, don't worry! They're still available in the jewlery store in Barton Town for 100g per box.
- Gaia is currently working on a new one-on-one chat system called Hangouts! Stay tuned as it develops.
Serieve reports...
- Going Postal! Have you donated lately? Sent in a drawn picture with it by any chance? Gaia shows its gratitude with Going Postal! All pictures sent in by donators are displayed for the world to see.
The Nakie Day Controversy: For, or Against?
Many of us on February 12, 2005, went around posting in the forums with our avatars bare and naked for the world to see. However, many of us did not. Which were you?
Supporters say it shows unity as well as equality. No more envying the wealthier member's avatars, or having newbies flamed for something they've done. Who's to say which is which on Nakie Day? Others did it just to go with the flow, or to show how sexy they could be beneath their layers of clothing. On the other hand, some members had no choice.
Those who were against Nakie Day say that Gaia is where it is today because of its unique avatars. We show unity already simply by all being here and dressing our lovable little representatives. Several members dressed in as many layers as they could, calling it Absurdly Overdress Your Avatar Day (AOA), or Wear As Many Layers As Possible Day (WAMLAPD).
Then there are those who were neutral to the whole situation. Many were amused at the ongoing fight, though they took little to no part in it. Whether or not the neutral members dressed or undressed was solely their decision, however, and many stayed as they had always been.
PART I. Poetry
Listed in alphbetical order.
Cartwheeling Gourd Munchers
by Pi
A monstrous mash lay seeding on the lawn,
whistling to forget it was
chiseled to smile. (Smashing, really.)
It may have been lit from within, but
not even tea candles could temper
the splattered obit.
Like a note dropped in the hall between
classes, or a carnival game
carelessly shattering glasses,
it lost its eyesight to prankish misery.
(And just when the optometrist had
sent the bill.)
Even a head made of
straw knits
tighter
memories than a cavity of
lightbulbs.
Choice
by Morgan-Le D.
In the darkness
Tears had formed
Death...he had mourned
Out of darkness came a light
Shining there,
Beautiful, bright
Loving voices from afar,
But the darkness stood
Black as tar
Out of darkness came a light
Shining there
Mysterious, Bright
Crowds of people, leisures, love
In the darkness, there it stood
But the light from above...
It grew brighter, as it should
Beating, beating
Hearts were beating
Smiling, loving, yet very needing
Faces smiling, laughing, loving
Even brighter the light grew shining
In between,
Love and Death
In between,
Fright and happiness
Turning from each side to another
He held his cross,
He closed his eyes
Taking no steps
Making not a noise
Out of the light a voice whispered 'die.'
Still standing there,
Still closing his eyes
Still holding his cross
Still not making a noise
Out of darkness a voice whispered 'die.'
The path chosen
The path taken
Needs no explanation
Smiling faces turn to frowns
That way...they stay frozen.
Circles
by Ivy Black
twenty-seven lines
of dry words,
like ill-formed autumn leaves
they will return,
full-circle,
to spring, she believes.
twenty-seven buds
in spring,
fed on the dead,
their lost brethren--
all those words
waiting to be read.
twenty-seven circles:
trunks, crowns, lives,
in the tired trees
she harvests,
each autumn,
for what she thinks she sees.
twenty-seven dreams,
of trees, and leaves,
and mere humanity
but these are only words,
these dreams,
are only vanity.
twenty-seven lines,
each one trying
to be wise.
Order of Society
by the.god.of.ice
Convention and convictions
Connived corellation of constructions
Simply in society an existence subliminal
Perhaps ethical but never rational
Intelligent invocations of interests concerned
Viceral victims of victorious capitalists
Dictations of directors directed to devulge
Dogmatic drivel to drive the simple mind
Sold out slaved sardonic saviors of society
So said, so lived, the order, we, state.
Sanctimonia
by Zimsky
It isn't any compromise
keeping me awake
only those dying eyes
perhaps it's my mistake
p***k your finger on the spinning wheel
now it is time to sleep
forgot to feed the muse again
beyond the window creep
hold out your palm
for blood to spill
into the casket wide
peek into the velvet slumber
get up and crawl inside
illusion in the corner eye
forget the image there
mystic in simplicity
people begin to stare
possibility fused to moral
a hard key to uphold
but with this key
open the door
to greatness
brave and bold
casket closed
fate decide
your choice plated for bliss
only god
knows what's in store
of an entity like this.
Vulture spottin'
by The Rebel prince!
Far from merry weather,
jazzin' in a 'super' kind of
busied basket.
[a central park of sorts]
towers and prison guards
bring such champagne faces to...
alcoholic mothers...
and their paper rollers?
This vault notion turns me on
like sun keepin' his distance.
(no way I'm screwin' you, he says)
'the boys' on their monday machines
swirlin' and twirlin'
who knows what
pirate plunder are going to be committed?
Shadows make the best friends
while you dance and hop rope,
inside an eye of a hurlin' hurricane.
I'm looking out the stained glass.
it hurts, singin' this garden song.
Sights of fast; past romances
stringed by a wired wire puller.
Yeah, it's sorta depressing and (reminiscing),
but I'll breathe in, and labor out
inside this golden feathered graveyard.
PART II. Fiction
Listed in alphbetical order.
It Comes Away Red
by DispatchNA
The smoke sets off an alarm in my mind, a warning to run from the unclean jazz bar into the bright, frighteningly real city of Paris. Shoulders tensed and jaws clenched in an effort to control myself, I stiffly turn to my right and encounter a freshly exhaled cloud of smoke.
My eyes burn as a reminder to blink. Through the green-grey pollution, past the sweetly intense saxophone solo across the room, a boulder of a man looks me right in the eye. The smoke is pouring out of his mouth. He's like a ******** train. Lethargically, he scratches his chin, covered in stubble and sweat. His movements are slow and calculated, but not once do they lose their arrogance.
"Do you mind?" I ask, knowing that most likely he does and I'm playing right into his hands. Surprisingly, the man only throws the offending cigarette on the floor and mashes it in with his heel. I'm tempted to argue the sanitation issue, but hold my tongue for fear of my sanity.
I do my best to ignore him as I continue to listen to the band play a nostalgic piece. I hold my beer at the bottom of the neck, as do half the occupants of the room; my stance is casual, and my clothes are meant to blend in. So why the hell is Goliath still glaring at me?
I smooth down my shirt in an attempt to calm myself. I have been so good for so long? This is not the time to start again. I don't want to move again.
And yet, at the first sign of advancement from him, I move. I leave, holding tight to the neck of the beer bottle. I can't tell who's watching; I can't remember the difference between red and green, door and window, danger from safety.
And then I'm outside, and it's a lovely spring night; a night for lovers. And I'm standing in the middle of a breeze, shivering from my sudden and sickening paranoia, holding a near-empty beer bottle in front of a prosperous bar. The man's no where in sight as I do my damnedest to figure out what's a taxi and what's an actual car.
I feel something on my arm and - ********, it's just like in the movies - I turn around, and there he is. He's lit up a fresh cigarette, as if to taunt me. He smiles around the cancer, his eyes unreadable. He's leading me, taking me from my post on the curb. Where?
Where else? Where do men take people like me? What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to act? I love this s**t.
I'm led around the walled-in jazz music, to where a grey garbage can slumps in a rather forlorn fashion. And the dirty deed is done.
He doesn't make a sound as I pierce his belly with a shard from my beloved beer bottle. Only looks down in fragile awe, as if the scent and glitter of the blood is not enough to convince him that this is more than just a movie. Delicately he reaches down and dips a finger in the steadily pouring stream. It comes away red, a red that cackles in the spring night meant for lovers. I am silent, standing away from his, extra glass crying to me from the ground. I bend down and pick up a piece, twirling it in my hands. His eyes widen in fright as I lean forward and carefully, with the detail of an artist, paint a taut tight-rope across his neck. The glass comes away red.
*
"We had to drug her."
"It was that bad?"
"Nightmares again."
The Badger Brigade
Chapter One: It Starts
by Hemp Fandango
"World serves its own needs,
Listen to your heart bleed,
Dummy with a rapture and the revered and the right, right.
You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light,
Feeling pretty psyched." - "It's the End of The World as We Know it" by REM.
Sara Marigold stared up at the magically enchanted ceiling in the great hall of Hogwarts. The sky was littered with large, black thunderheads and a storm was inevitable. She amused herself by trying to work out where lightning actually came from while Professor McGonagall continued to read out the names of first year students waiting to be sorted.
"Larger lot than usual, isn't it?" said friend and fellow Hufflepuff fifth year, Elizabeth Gould.
"It'd be because of Dumbledore," Alex Worth said knowingly. "What with the rise of you-know-who, parents are anxious to send their kiddies to Dumbledore's protection."
"I wish they'd all just hurry up already," Sara muttered to her friends as they applauded yet another newly sorted Gryffindor. "I'm hungry."
"Oh, relax, Sara," Alex said, stretching her arms and indulging in her irritating habit of cracking her neck. "McGonagal's almost finished."
"Oi, you lot," hissed seventh year Beth Harris down the table. "Keep quiet until the sorting's finished."
"What is she going on about?" Alex whispered when Beth had turned away. "Since when were we not aloud to talk-"
"We're not going to tell you twice," Ernie Macmillain snapped from further along the table.
"Oh, stuff it Ernie." Alex muttered sulkily.
"Doesn't matter," Sara whispered. "They're done, see?"
Indeed it looked as if the last student had been sorted and now McGonagall walked forward but stopped, startled, when Dumbledore stood up suddenly.
"We are not finished sorting just yet, Professor McGonagall." he said, his eyes a-twinkling. "We have a new student this year, a transfer from America. She will be entering her sixth year. Please welcome, Miss Polaris Riddle!"
There was scattered applause as a young woman of about 16 strode into the hall. Her waist length onyx black hair was streaked with blood red highlights. She wore a black Good Charlotte shirt with a pleated, short skirt, which clearly displayed her long, shapely legs and spiked wristbands. Her many facial piercings glinted in the candle light, as did her amethyst eyes.
"Hold on," Elizabeth said, sounding annoyed. "Since when did we no longer have to wear our school uniforms?"
"Yeah," Sara agreed, frowning. "And since when could we have piercings and hair streaks without McGonagall pitching a fit?"
Elizabeth shrugged and glanced at McGonagall. She was amused to see the teacher's lips thin and her eyes narrow. Her amusement turned to disbelief when the newcomer came up and ripped the sorting hat right out of McGonagall's grasp and put it on her head.
"Bloody hell," Sara breathed, gaping at the student. "What an idiot."
The hat sat silent on the girl's head for some time. Polaris kept making faces beneath it and she kept muttering things like "...I'll hex you if you try..."
"Wait, is she threatening the hat?" Hannah Abbot asked incredulously. "The bloody Sorting Hat? Who does that?"
"The same kind of genius who annoys McGonagall," Zacharias Smith answered from further down the row. "And be quiet."
Finally, after about ten minutes of debating, the hat shouted out: "SLYTHERIN!" and there was much applause.
"Finally," Sara said. "Now we can-"
SLAM! went the doors of the Great Hall. Every head in the hall swiveled in its direction as, on cue, lightning struck impressively, outlining a very female figure.
The figure, clad in a large cloak with the hood hiding her face, strode directly up to the teacher's table. She pulled off her hood, revealing a very beautiful face. She shook out her mane of platinum blond hair, which flashed in the candle light. Her crystal blue eyes surveyed the hall with a curious look. She turned to Dumbledore and had a hushed conversation with him.
"Students," he said when they had finished. "May I introduce another student joining this year, Miss Serena Greenleaf. She comes to us from the distant land of elves." The beautiful woman bowed her head demurely.
""Distant land of elves"? I thought they worked in the kitchens?" Sara asked.
"She doesn't look like a house elf." Alex said, tilting her head from side to side. "From any angle."
Serena took the hat from a confused looking McGonagall's hands and sat primly on the stool. Another long stretch of silence followed as the hat sat in deep thought on her head.
The assorted Hufflepuff's all began to fidget and shuffle nervously. Some engaged others in quiet conversation. Sara couldn't help but notice that theirs was the only house not staring in rapt attention at the "elf". She glanced around and saw that Zacharias was also giving the other houses a shrewd stare.
Finally the hat shouted out "GRYFFINDOR!" and all was well again. Although Sara couldn't help but notice how enthusiastic the Gryffindors had become. They were practically wetting themselves with joy.
"About damn time," Alex muttered folding her napkin into her lap expectantly. "I'm starvi-"
SLAM! went the Great Hall doors. Again.
"Oh, come on!" Alex shouted, earning a round of "shh"s from her house mates.
"There, there, Alex," Elizabeth said, patting Alex on the back. "How much longer could this go on?"
***
Over two hours, apparently.
As the doors slammed open once more, Alex stared intently at her plate, her brow furrowed.
"No food's going to appear no matter how long you stare at it," Elizabeth said as she filed her nails.
"Actually," Alex said not looking up, "I'm trying to decide whether I should eat it or kill myself with it."
"Tough choice, that," Elizabeth admitted. "Better flip a coin."
Many of the Hufflepuff's had lost interest in the Sorting Ceremony. Those that hadn't were running bets on just how long it would continue for. Many others had fallen asleep, started a game of cards, and others, like Alex, were seriously considering eating their plates/robes/mates/all three/etc.
"Strange," Sara mumbled.
"What, is there another winged one?" Elizabeth asked dryly without looking up.
"Well, er, this one has cat ears and a tail," she admitted. "But that's not what I was talking about. Have you guys noticed that none of them have been sorted into Hufflepuff? I mean, they've gone into every other house but ours."
Alex looked up and saw that, indeed, the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables were practically bursting with new transfer students, and even Ravenclaw had increased its numbers. Hufflepuff, on the other hand, had been spared. Not a single multi coloured head sat at their table. She also couldn't help but notice that even though the ceremony was dragging on into the wee morning hours, every single person in the other houses still applauded like mad whenever a new student was sorted.
Alex moaned and rested her head on her plate. "Nuts to this," she proclaimed. "Let's just go to bed. I doubt any of the teachers are going to notice."
Sara had to admit she was likely right. Each teacher's look varied from bemused to brain dead. With two notable exceptions; McGonagall, who looked as if she was struggling between displaying the same brain dead look as her colleagues and Snape, who had a vein throbbing on his temple was currently leaving the land of "furious" to "bloody livid" as yet another punk American was sorted into his house. Sara imagined the fact that the student had the last name "Snape" added to his fury.
"I had no idea Snape had kids," Sara said. "Poor things." she added as an after thought.
"Yeah, well," Elizabeth said, returning to her nails. "I didn't know Potter had so many twin sisters. You learn something new every day."
"Death is welcome," Alex muttered from her plate.
"Alright, alright, let's go," Elizabeth said, getting up. As she did so, a few others followed her, including Ernie and his crew. They sidled quietly from the hall, missing the dark looks being shot at them from the assorted transfer students.
"Bloody hell!" Alex shouted, throwing up her hands dramatically as the started up the stairs. "That was amazingly stupid."
"No kidding," Susan Bones said, slouching dejectedly behind Ernie. "I thought I was going to die from boredom."
"Really? I thought hunger would do me in first." Alex groused rubbing her stomach. "I hate going to bed hungry. I should've eaten my plate when I had the chance!"
They arrived to their common room and Ernie spoke the password ("Bubotuber!" wink . When they entered they saw that they were not the only students to escape. Sitting by the fire was a seventh year boy, named Conrad Coates. He was bent over the table, writing intently on a scrap of parchment. He turned to see them standing in the entrance way and quickly stuffed the parchment into his robes.
"Hallo Conrad," Hannah said before yawning.
"What are you up to, Coates?" Ernie said suspiciously.
"Writing to my mum." he said, smiling cheerfully.
"Before the first day of classes?" Ernie asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"She worries, my mum," Conrad said smoothly as he stood up. "There's no reason to take such a tone with me." he said, sounding wounded.
Ernie snorted. "I take a tone with you, Coates, because you are a prefect's nightmare. I do remember confiscating more than thirty galleons worth of rubbish from you."
"I don't remember you confiscating rubbish, Ern," he said, his cheerful tone never faltering, even at Ernie's bristling. "I do remember you unfairly stealing Terrick's Terrifick line of cosmetics. The finest of the fine." he added.
"That's the stuff that gave me a rash! All over my face." Elizabeth exclaimed. "It was awful. I broke out in red blotches and everything."
"Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back," Conrad said smoothly. Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak again. "For thirty days," he added quickly. Elizabeth huffed and folded her arms over her chest.
Ernie sighed and headed upstairs into the boys' dorms. Hannah and Susan soon followed.
"Now that they're gone," Conrad said quietly after the sound of foot steps faded. "May I interest you ladies in some food?" he reached into his robes and pulled out a loaf of bread and some apples.
Alex reached out hungrily but was stopped when Sara grabbed her wrist.
"How much?" she asked flatly.
"I'm wounded. What makes you think I wouldn't just help out my fellow house mates in times of need?"
"Because you're Conrad Coates." Elizabeth said from behind Sara.
"How much?" Sara repeated.
"2 galleons per apple, 5 per loaf of bread." he said crisply over the sound of Alex choking.
"5 galleons? That's daylight robbery!" she said after she recovered.
Conrad shrugged. "Take it or leave it." 15 galleons were produced, with much mutinous muttering from the girls. They took their bread and padded up the stairs.
After they had settled down for sleep, Sara stared long and hard at the ceiling. All these new students, she thought. I wonder where they all come from. Sighing, she turned over and fell into a light sleep.
Untitled
by goatcreature__MAGNUM
Welcome to The Gaian Press in the Writer's Forum, we wish it the best! As an introduction to what we hope will be a lasting attraction, it becomes important to explain the purpose of this column entry. This will be a post-up dedicated towards the aid and advice that can be offered to the Gaians of the Writer's Forum. With a forenote of summary over the recent events or highlighted threads in the WF, it will be followed by a piece of writing advice for those endeavoring writers out there. It would be much appreciated, if there is a question or some form of help we can offer, to PM it directly to goatcreature__MAGNUM whereon he may best help or answer questions to the utmost of his abilities. And who knows, addressing issues openly may help more than one person out there with similar problems. A second submission may be added with a brief post-up from a friendly WF regular, who may be familiar to those who frequent the WF. And that's all folks! Hope to keep the topic on current WF events and to see that this thread flourishes well!
On the note of posting a first entry, we will cover a simple topic that I cannot stress enough. Please, people, before you post, read the stickies or back-log a few pages to see if the topic you're deciding to submit hasn't already been done before. Checking back four pages or so really isn't that difficult a task. And for reading the stickies, believe us, there is nothing more frustrating than seeing work submissions being entered in the WF and neglecting to notice or submit them properly in their designated sub-forums. Really, let's make an effort and reduce littering in the beautiful WF, land of the free and home of the endangered "homo-intellectus."
You Are Not A Critic
Why some critics could use criticism themselves.
by Bane is on Fire!
A routine sweep of the Prose and Poetry forums will reveal several things to most discerning readers - low quality poems and stories, blind praise being dolled out arbitrarily, author hissy fits and the occasional criticism.
When I first joined Gaia in late 2003, the Prose forum was an oasis for snarky and harsh critics. Critics like January, Puchiko, Jahoclave and clarion savaged poorly written prose with wit and style. Most of these people have either left Gaia or have stopped critiquing, though, and they've given way to a new breed of critics - critics who don't have a clue what they're talking about.
I've always been a proponent of jagged reviews - when you're critiquing, there's no point in sugar-coating and sparing the author's feelings. They're posting their work on the internet to improve, so you've got to show them where they're bad so it will stand out in their mind where to improve.
But recent criticisms I've seen strike me as being without any real substance. A lot of critics have gotten the idea that giving a few lines about how the poem/story sucks and maybe throw in a personal insult or two will make them cool and edgy on the forum. Guess what? It doesn't make you cool or edgy.
I don't have a problem with snarking in a review. What I do have a problem with is when the review looks less like a critique and more like a couple of snappy one-liners that'll look good if someone sig-quotes you.
I'm also a firm believer that critics need to know what the ******** they're talking about. If you're critiquing someone on their rhyme scheme, you've got to know the poetic flow. If you're critiquing someone on their vocabulary in a story, be sure you know what the words mean and how they're used. And so on and so forth.
So why do we have so many critics running around these days who don't seem to understand the works they're critiquing? Most reviewers seem to be so vague it hurts these days...why are people suddenly so adverse to giving specifics? I really do think this proves one thing, that many critics on Gaia don't have any idea what they're talking about and so they stick to throwing out vague comments on why a story or a poem sucks.
There are still plenty of good critics on Gaia, ones that are specific and knowledgeable, and still manage to get a few witty comments in there. But they're a dying breed, being knocked-out by the aforementioned critics who seem to enjoy notoriety more than anything.
A few suggestions to the critics, from me to you:
- Be Specific: I may have already mentioned this, but it bears repeating. Instead of saying "Your vocab sucks. Use a thesaurus," use examples of how the poem would work better with different vocabulary used.
- Review The Poem, Not The Author: Why bother attacking the author? In your initial review, saying things like "Oh, you whiny baby. You're not really suicidal, so get over it. Go to hell, a*****e!" is not being a critic at all. Your job is not to make assumptions about the author's mental state, your job is to review the work they've produced. Ad hominem attacks will never make your critique anything but a load of "controversial" bullshit.
- Defense =/= Hissy Fit: When an author replies to your review and defends their work without saying anything like "You suck!" or "Your review is s**t! Go to hell!" - they are not throwing a hissy fit. They are reasonably disagreeing with your review. Remember, the critic isn't always right, and the author doesn't have to take every word the critic says with a bowed head.
- When In Doubt, Say So: If you're not sure about how a word or something else is misused, say something like "I'm not sure, but I think this is misused," rather than "this is misused." It'll be a lot less embarrassing if you're wrong.
So those are some little suggestions to critics on how to prevent from being a "notorious" critic like I have talked about for this column.
Socio-Political (De)volution
by The Mad Poet of Ishtar
With dust for fingers
we trace lines in the clean
white
signature of God
(or your highest power of choice)
and dream it stays.
The grey streaks,
the amber waves of
brain
burned out on too much television.
Which does not rot your heart,
surveys say. Light up for a
Thrill ride,
on the musical edge.
Songs used to be written in
His Name
but these days just
spit it out like a curse.
Could be worse. Never better though, and
if you vote for me I'll make your piss
Rainbows. Yes.
And s**t gold. I have a plan!
To make everything sharp and clean
and right
in these childish scrawls of
grit, cheap grime painted glitz.
Just don't mention where,
too loud.
With dust for fingers
we paint lies in the buried name
of God
(or your new-age substitute of choice)
and forget who made hands
in the first place.
- Dragon Lilly comments: Socio-Political (De)volution I also liked. It is quite interesting and I don't believe that I've ever seen that point made before. It seems at least a bit true, unfortunately. I don't like some of the word choices, the curse words in it but they do get the point across. Some of the lines seems to be divided up in strange places but all in all, it's good.
- peiormentis critiques: It Comes Away Red
Maybe the tenses need to be cleaned up a bit in the second sentence. I love the first sentence. It appeals to me in some strange sort of way. There is an invisible rhythmn between its lines.
Pass means to go by. Past means a preceeding time. Pass would be more fitting. The swearing doesn't seem like a must, but it appears to be in character so I won't complain. The imagery of the man is very well done. You didn't seem to put much into it, but I still have a very clear image of him.
Dun Dun Duuuun. So many questions. The narrator seems to have an unexplained pent up anger. Has she been holding in her emotions for too long? Hmm?
Why is she so unhinged? She played into hands. She wanted the attention and now she's running away. Maybe she has already lost her sanity. It's a very good description of how she's feeling though. A whirlwind of color flashes through my mind as she runs away.
She played into his hands, then ran away, and now she tells us that she loves it. She wants the attention or maybe your trying to confuse us on purpose. Sometimes confusion makes for a good writing style. This could be one of those times with a little more clarity. How oxymoronic.
Irresistable imagery. Delicious descrption. Excellent elaboration. You have traveled the path to my heart many times now with your wonderful way of showing her every move. You might want to edit the first and second sentences. I think the second might be a fragment without the help of the first. The sentence, "I am silent, standing away from his, extra glass crying to from the ground." might have too many commas, but I'm weak in the grammar department. I could be wrong. It doesn't seem to make much sense the way it is, though.
I must say this is a wonderful ending. It wraps it all up very quickly without much need for explanation. No need for the public to be wary of a murderer.
Here are some helpful links that the lovely Serieve put together. Enjoy!
- www.positiveteenmag.com
- www.teenwritersdream.com
- www.upwordspoetry.com
- www.bartleby.com
- www.rhymezone.com
- Look forward to the Seven Deadly Sins Writing Project. Headed by Serieve and backed by seven talented writers, watch as Pride, Envy, Rage, Sloth, Greed, Gluttony, and Lust take on poetic form!
- We're currently scouting for a gifted artist to illustrate or donate a picture for next issue's cover! Choose one of the seven sins (or all of them) for inspiration.
- Calling all writers! Did you like what you read? Think you can do better? Don't delay, submit today! Guidelines can be found under the first post of the Press Headquarters.
- Like to critique? Love to write? Is Gaia like your second home? Get a job at the Press! Applications are found in the first post of the Press Headquarters.
- Editor's Note: And so ends the first issue of The Gaian Press! Thank you very much to everyone that made this project possible. I was met with some doubters when I first posted this idea onto the forum, but I think the dreamer in all of us won in spite of everything. I'm very excited to see Gaia's future for writers, and I ask you, dear reader, to stay tuned until our next meeting. The second issue of the Press is due out March 1, 2005, so I promise that this is only the end of a beautiful beginning!
- Special Thank You's: Serieve, Dragon Lilly, and peiormentis for signing up from the start, and sticking by the Press ever since. Dev Kimiko, for designing all the gorgeous banners you see titling each section. And, of course, all the talented writers and staff members who lent their voice and credibility to this fledgling 'zine!
We find the best so you don't have to.
IN THIS ISSUE...
1. The Neighborhood Watch - A quick look around the world of Gaia
2. Honorable Mentions - Poetry and fiction submitted and scouted by the best
3. Goad the Goat - Musings from a homo-intellectus
4. Do Not Eat This Column - Even if it makes you hungry
5. Best of Issue - As voted by the members of the Press
6. Critic's Corner - What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
7. Writer's Aide - Help is just a click away
8. The Afterthought - A short overview of our next issue and other upcoming Press events
peiormentis reports...
- Gaian Homes Preview. Le Gasp! Homes for our wonderful little avis? What ingenious things will they think up next?
- Gaia Naked Day, February 12-14. Hmph. Do what you wish. I, for one, will be keeping my clothes on.
Kraeela reports...
- Some fellow Gaians (with the help of mod VO) are attempting to collaborate on an RP style story of Gaia. Writers, click here for more information.
- Gaia's 2nd Anniversary Ball took place Friday 18th. Hope everyone had a good time in spite of the lag!
alicemae reports...
- In honor of Valentine's Day, everyone received a box of Valentine chocolates to give to that special someone. For those who missed this chance in receiving chocolates, don't worry! They're still available in the jewlery store in Barton Town for 100g per box.
- Gaia is currently working on a new one-on-one chat system called Hangouts! Stay tuned as it develops.
Serieve reports...
- Going Postal! Have you donated lately? Sent in a drawn picture with it by any chance? Gaia shows its gratitude with Going Postal! All pictures sent in by donators are displayed for the world to see.
The Nakie Day Controversy: For, or Against?
Many of us on February 12, 2005, went around posting in the forums with our avatars bare and naked for the world to see. However, many of us did not. Which were you?
Supporters say it shows unity as well as equality. No more envying the wealthier member's avatars, or having newbies flamed for something they've done. Who's to say which is which on Nakie Day? Others did it just to go with the flow, or to show how sexy they could be beneath their layers of clothing. On the other hand, some members had no choice.
MinaMouse
Well, I'm in my undies. I think this is a great idea, since it puts everyone on the same level and you don't have to be intimidated because you see that somebody has this super-rare item. You can just strike a conversation with anybody.
Plus it makes my 13-year-old mind giggle insanely. Hehe naked.
Plus it makes my 13-year-old mind giggle insanely. Hehe naked.
Those who were against Nakie Day say that Gaia is where it is today because of its unique avatars. We show unity already simply by all being here and dressing our lovable little representatives. Several members dressed in as many layers as they could, calling it Absurdly Overdress Your Avatar Day (AOA), or Wear As Many Layers As Possible Day (WAMLAPD).
Lucedes
WAMLAP DAY.
because Gaia's items are what keeps it apart from any other forum.
without items, I'd be so gone it wouldn't even be funny.
because Gaia's items are what keeps it apart from any other forum.
without items, I'd be so gone it wouldn't even be funny.
Then there are those who were neutral to the whole situation. Many were amused at the ongoing fight, though they took little to no part in it. Whether or not the neutral members dressed or undressed was solely their decision, however, and many stayed as they had always been.
Calica
~sigh~ Nakie day was created so people could have fun. So I say just let them have fun. They are not doing anything to hurt or insult you.
PART I. Poetry
Listed in alphbetical order.
Cartwheeling Gourd Munchers
by Pi
A monstrous mash lay seeding on the lawn,
whistling to forget it was
chiseled to smile. (Smashing, really.)
It may have been lit from within, but
not even tea candles could temper
the splattered obit.
Like a note dropped in the hall between
classes, or a carnival game
carelessly shattering glasses,
it lost its eyesight to prankish misery.
(And just when the optometrist had
sent the bill.)
Even a head made of
straw knits
tighter
memories than a cavity of
lightbulbs.
Choice
by Morgan-Le D.
In the darkness
Tears had formed
Death...he had mourned
Out of darkness came a light
Shining there,
Beautiful, bright
Loving voices from afar,
But the darkness stood
Black as tar
Out of darkness came a light
Shining there
Mysterious, Bright
Crowds of people, leisures, love
In the darkness, there it stood
But the light from above...
It grew brighter, as it should
Beating, beating
Hearts were beating
Smiling, loving, yet very needing
Faces smiling, laughing, loving
Even brighter the light grew shining
In between,
Love and Death
In between,
Fright and happiness
Turning from each side to another
He held his cross,
He closed his eyes
Taking no steps
Making not a noise
Out of the light a voice whispered 'die.'
Still standing there,
Still closing his eyes
Still holding his cross
Still not making a noise
Out of darkness a voice whispered 'die.'
The path chosen
The path taken
Needs no explanation
Smiling faces turn to frowns
That way...they stay frozen.
Circles
by Ivy Black
twenty-seven lines
of dry words,
like ill-formed autumn leaves
they will return,
full-circle,
to spring, she believes.
twenty-seven buds
in spring,
fed on the dead,
their lost brethren--
all those words
waiting to be read.
twenty-seven circles:
trunks, crowns, lives,
in the tired trees
she harvests,
each autumn,
for what she thinks she sees.
twenty-seven dreams,
of trees, and leaves,
and mere humanity
but these are only words,
these dreams,
are only vanity.
twenty-seven lines,
each one trying
to be wise.
Order of Society
by the.god.of.ice
Convention and convictions
Connived corellation of constructions
Simply in society an existence subliminal
Perhaps ethical but never rational
Intelligent invocations of interests concerned
Viceral victims of victorious capitalists
Dictations of directors directed to devulge
Dogmatic drivel to drive the simple mind
Sold out slaved sardonic saviors of society
So said, so lived, the order, we, state.
Sanctimonia
by Zimsky
It isn't any compromise
keeping me awake
only those dying eyes
perhaps it's my mistake
p***k your finger on the spinning wheel
now it is time to sleep
forgot to feed the muse again
beyond the window creep
hold out your palm
for blood to spill
into the casket wide
peek into the velvet slumber
get up and crawl inside
illusion in the corner eye
forget the image there
mystic in simplicity
people begin to stare
possibility fused to moral
a hard key to uphold
but with this key
open the door
to greatness
brave and bold
casket closed
fate decide
your choice plated for bliss
only god
knows what's in store
of an entity like this.
Vulture spottin'
by The Rebel prince!
Far from merry weather,
jazzin' in a 'super' kind of
busied basket.
[a central park of sorts]
towers and prison guards
bring such champagne faces to...
alcoholic mothers...
and their paper rollers?
This vault notion turns me on
like sun keepin' his distance.
(no way I'm screwin' you, he says)
'the boys' on their monday machines
swirlin' and twirlin'
who knows what
pirate plunder are going to be committed?
Shadows make the best friends
while you dance and hop rope,
inside an eye of a hurlin' hurricane.
I'm looking out the stained glass.
it hurts, singin' this garden song.
Sights of fast; past romances
stringed by a wired wire puller.
Yeah, it's sorta depressing and (reminiscing),
but I'll breathe in, and labor out
inside this golden feathered graveyard.
PART II. Fiction
Listed in alphbetical order.
It Comes Away Red
by DispatchNA
The smoke sets off an alarm in my mind, a warning to run from the unclean jazz bar into the bright, frighteningly real city of Paris. Shoulders tensed and jaws clenched in an effort to control myself, I stiffly turn to my right and encounter a freshly exhaled cloud of smoke.
My eyes burn as a reminder to blink. Through the green-grey pollution, past the sweetly intense saxophone solo across the room, a boulder of a man looks me right in the eye. The smoke is pouring out of his mouth. He's like a ******** train. Lethargically, he scratches his chin, covered in stubble and sweat. His movements are slow and calculated, but not once do they lose their arrogance.
"Do you mind?" I ask, knowing that most likely he does and I'm playing right into his hands. Surprisingly, the man only throws the offending cigarette on the floor and mashes it in with his heel. I'm tempted to argue the sanitation issue, but hold my tongue for fear of my sanity.
I do my best to ignore him as I continue to listen to the band play a nostalgic piece. I hold my beer at the bottom of the neck, as do half the occupants of the room; my stance is casual, and my clothes are meant to blend in. So why the hell is Goliath still glaring at me?
I smooth down my shirt in an attempt to calm myself. I have been so good for so long? This is not the time to start again. I don't want to move again.
And yet, at the first sign of advancement from him, I move. I leave, holding tight to the neck of the beer bottle. I can't tell who's watching; I can't remember the difference between red and green, door and window, danger from safety.
And then I'm outside, and it's a lovely spring night; a night for lovers. And I'm standing in the middle of a breeze, shivering from my sudden and sickening paranoia, holding a near-empty beer bottle in front of a prosperous bar. The man's no where in sight as I do my damnedest to figure out what's a taxi and what's an actual car.
I feel something on my arm and - ********, it's just like in the movies - I turn around, and there he is. He's lit up a fresh cigarette, as if to taunt me. He smiles around the cancer, his eyes unreadable. He's leading me, taking me from my post on the curb. Where?
Where else? Where do men take people like me? What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to act? I love this s**t.
I'm led around the walled-in jazz music, to where a grey garbage can slumps in a rather forlorn fashion. And the dirty deed is done.
He doesn't make a sound as I pierce his belly with a shard from my beloved beer bottle. Only looks down in fragile awe, as if the scent and glitter of the blood is not enough to convince him that this is more than just a movie. Delicately he reaches down and dips a finger in the steadily pouring stream. It comes away red, a red that cackles in the spring night meant for lovers. I am silent, standing away from his, extra glass crying to me from the ground. I bend down and pick up a piece, twirling it in my hands. His eyes widen in fright as I lean forward and carefully, with the detail of an artist, paint a taut tight-rope across his neck. The glass comes away red.
*
"We had to drug her."
"It was that bad?"
"Nightmares again."
The Badger Brigade
Chapter One: It Starts
by Hemp Fandango
"World serves its own needs,
Listen to your heart bleed,
Dummy with a rapture and the revered and the right, right.
You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light,
Feeling pretty psyched." - "It's the End of The World as We Know it" by REM.
Sara Marigold stared up at the magically enchanted ceiling in the great hall of Hogwarts. The sky was littered with large, black thunderheads and a storm was inevitable. She amused herself by trying to work out where lightning actually came from while Professor McGonagall continued to read out the names of first year students waiting to be sorted.
"Larger lot than usual, isn't it?" said friend and fellow Hufflepuff fifth year, Elizabeth Gould.
"It'd be because of Dumbledore," Alex Worth said knowingly. "What with the rise of you-know-who, parents are anxious to send their kiddies to Dumbledore's protection."
"I wish they'd all just hurry up already," Sara muttered to her friends as they applauded yet another newly sorted Gryffindor. "I'm hungry."
"Oh, relax, Sara," Alex said, stretching her arms and indulging in her irritating habit of cracking her neck. "McGonagal's almost finished."
"Oi, you lot," hissed seventh year Beth Harris down the table. "Keep quiet until the sorting's finished."
"What is she going on about?" Alex whispered when Beth had turned away. "Since when were we not aloud to talk-"
"We're not going to tell you twice," Ernie Macmillain snapped from further along the table.
"Oh, stuff it Ernie." Alex muttered sulkily.
"Doesn't matter," Sara whispered. "They're done, see?"
Indeed it looked as if the last student had been sorted and now McGonagall walked forward but stopped, startled, when Dumbledore stood up suddenly.
"We are not finished sorting just yet, Professor McGonagall." he said, his eyes a-twinkling. "We have a new student this year, a transfer from America. She will be entering her sixth year. Please welcome, Miss Polaris Riddle!"
There was scattered applause as a young woman of about 16 strode into the hall. Her waist length onyx black hair was streaked with blood red highlights. She wore a black Good Charlotte shirt with a pleated, short skirt, which clearly displayed her long, shapely legs and spiked wristbands. Her many facial piercings glinted in the candle light, as did her amethyst eyes.
"Hold on," Elizabeth said, sounding annoyed. "Since when did we no longer have to wear our school uniforms?"
"Yeah," Sara agreed, frowning. "And since when could we have piercings and hair streaks without McGonagall pitching a fit?"
Elizabeth shrugged and glanced at McGonagall. She was amused to see the teacher's lips thin and her eyes narrow. Her amusement turned to disbelief when the newcomer came up and ripped the sorting hat right out of McGonagall's grasp and put it on her head.
"Bloody hell," Sara breathed, gaping at the student. "What an idiot."
The hat sat silent on the girl's head for some time. Polaris kept making faces beneath it and she kept muttering things like "...I'll hex you if you try..."
"Wait, is she threatening the hat?" Hannah Abbot asked incredulously. "The bloody Sorting Hat? Who does that?"
"The same kind of genius who annoys McGonagall," Zacharias Smith answered from further down the row. "And be quiet."
Finally, after about ten minutes of debating, the hat shouted out: "SLYTHERIN!" and there was much applause.
"Finally," Sara said. "Now we can-"
SLAM! went the doors of the Great Hall. Every head in the hall swiveled in its direction as, on cue, lightning struck impressively, outlining a very female figure.
The figure, clad in a large cloak with the hood hiding her face, strode directly up to the teacher's table. She pulled off her hood, revealing a very beautiful face. She shook out her mane of platinum blond hair, which flashed in the candle light. Her crystal blue eyes surveyed the hall with a curious look. She turned to Dumbledore and had a hushed conversation with him.
"Students," he said when they had finished. "May I introduce another student joining this year, Miss Serena Greenleaf. She comes to us from the distant land of elves." The beautiful woman bowed her head demurely.
""Distant land of elves"? I thought they worked in the kitchens?" Sara asked.
"She doesn't look like a house elf." Alex said, tilting her head from side to side. "From any angle."
Serena took the hat from a confused looking McGonagall's hands and sat primly on the stool. Another long stretch of silence followed as the hat sat in deep thought on her head.
The assorted Hufflepuff's all began to fidget and shuffle nervously. Some engaged others in quiet conversation. Sara couldn't help but notice that theirs was the only house not staring in rapt attention at the "elf". She glanced around and saw that Zacharias was also giving the other houses a shrewd stare.
Finally the hat shouted out "GRYFFINDOR!" and all was well again. Although Sara couldn't help but notice how enthusiastic the Gryffindors had become. They were practically wetting themselves with joy.
"About damn time," Alex muttered folding her napkin into her lap expectantly. "I'm starvi-"
SLAM! went the Great Hall doors. Again.
"Oh, come on!" Alex shouted, earning a round of "shh"s from her house mates.
"There, there, Alex," Elizabeth said, patting Alex on the back. "How much longer could this go on?"
***
Over two hours, apparently.
As the doors slammed open once more, Alex stared intently at her plate, her brow furrowed.
"No food's going to appear no matter how long you stare at it," Elizabeth said as she filed her nails.
"Actually," Alex said not looking up, "I'm trying to decide whether I should eat it or kill myself with it."
"Tough choice, that," Elizabeth admitted. "Better flip a coin."
Many of the Hufflepuff's had lost interest in the Sorting Ceremony. Those that hadn't were running bets on just how long it would continue for. Many others had fallen asleep, started a game of cards, and others, like Alex, were seriously considering eating their plates/robes/mates/all three/etc.
"Strange," Sara mumbled.
"What, is there another winged one?" Elizabeth asked dryly without looking up.
"Well, er, this one has cat ears and a tail," she admitted. "But that's not what I was talking about. Have you guys noticed that none of them have been sorted into Hufflepuff? I mean, they've gone into every other house but ours."
Alex looked up and saw that, indeed, the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables were practically bursting with new transfer students, and even Ravenclaw had increased its numbers. Hufflepuff, on the other hand, had been spared. Not a single multi coloured head sat at their table. She also couldn't help but notice that even though the ceremony was dragging on into the wee morning hours, every single person in the other houses still applauded like mad whenever a new student was sorted.
Alex moaned and rested her head on her plate. "Nuts to this," she proclaimed. "Let's just go to bed. I doubt any of the teachers are going to notice."
Sara had to admit she was likely right. Each teacher's look varied from bemused to brain dead. With two notable exceptions; McGonagall, who looked as if she was struggling between displaying the same brain dead look as her colleagues and Snape, who had a vein throbbing on his temple was currently leaving the land of "furious" to "bloody livid" as yet another punk American was sorted into his house. Sara imagined the fact that the student had the last name "Snape" added to his fury.
"I had no idea Snape had kids," Sara said. "Poor things." she added as an after thought.
"Yeah, well," Elizabeth said, returning to her nails. "I didn't know Potter had so many twin sisters. You learn something new every day."
"Death is welcome," Alex muttered from her plate.
"Alright, alright, let's go," Elizabeth said, getting up. As she did so, a few others followed her, including Ernie and his crew. They sidled quietly from the hall, missing the dark looks being shot at them from the assorted transfer students.
"Bloody hell!" Alex shouted, throwing up her hands dramatically as the started up the stairs. "That was amazingly stupid."
"No kidding," Susan Bones said, slouching dejectedly behind Ernie. "I thought I was going to die from boredom."
"Really? I thought hunger would do me in first." Alex groused rubbing her stomach. "I hate going to bed hungry. I should've eaten my plate when I had the chance!"
They arrived to their common room and Ernie spoke the password ("Bubotuber!" wink . When they entered they saw that they were not the only students to escape. Sitting by the fire was a seventh year boy, named Conrad Coates. He was bent over the table, writing intently on a scrap of parchment. He turned to see them standing in the entrance way and quickly stuffed the parchment into his robes.
"Hallo Conrad," Hannah said before yawning.
"What are you up to, Coates?" Ernie said suspiciously.
"Writing to my mum." he said, smiling cheerfully.
"Before the first day of classes?" Ernie asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"She worries, my mum," Conrad said smoothly as he stood up. "There's no reason to take such a tone with me." he said, sounding wounded.
Ernie snorted. "I take a tone with you, Coates, because you are a prefect's nightmare. I do remember confiscating more than thirty galleons worth of rubbish from you."
"I don't remember you confiscating rubbish, Ern," he said, his cheerful tone never faltering, even at Ernie's bristling. "I do remember you unfairly stealing Terrick's Terrifick line of cosmetics. The finest of the fine." he added.
"That's the stuff that gave me a rash! All over my face." Elizabeth exclaimed. "It was awful. I broke out in red blotches and everything."
"Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back," Conrad said smoothly. Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak again. "For thirty days," he added quickly. Elizabeth huffed and folded her arms over her chest.
Ernie sighed and headed upstairs into the boys' dorms. Hannah and Susan soon followed.
"Now that they're gone," Conrad said quietly after the sound of foot steps faded. "May I interest you ladies in some food?" he reached into his robes and pulled out a loaf of bread and some apples.
Alex reached out hungrily but was stopped when Sara grabbed her wrist.
"How much?" she asked flatly.
"I'm wounded. What makes you think I wouldn't just help out my fellow house mates in times of need?"
"Because you're Conrad Coates." Elizabeth said from behind Sara.
"How much?" Sara repeated.
"2 galleons per apple, 5 per loaf of bread." he said crisply over the sound of Alex choking.
"5 galleons? That's daylight robbery!" she said after she recovered.
Conrad shrugged. "Take it or leave it." 15 galleons were produced, with much mutinous muttering from the girls. They took their bread and padded up the stairs.
After they had settled down for sleep, Sara stared long and hard at the ceiling. All these new students, she thought. I wonder where they all come from. Sighing, she turned over and fell into a light sleep.
Untitled
by goatcreature__MAGNUM
Welcome to The Gaian Press in the Writer's Forum, we wish it the best! As an introduction to what we hope will be a lasting attraction, it becomes important to explain the purpose of this column entry. This will be a post-up dedicated towards the aid and advice that can be offered to the Gaians of the Writer's Forum. With a forenote of summary over the recent events or highlighted threads in the WF, it will be followed by a piece of writing advice for those endeavoring writers out there. It would be much appreciated, if there is a question or some form of help we can offer, to PM it directly to goatcreature__MAGNUM whereon he may best help or answer questions to the utmost of his abilities. And who knows, addressing issues openly may help more than one person out there with similar problems. A second submission may be added with a brief post-up from a friendly WF regular, who may be familiar to those who frequent the WF. And that's all folks! Hope to keep the topic on current WF events and to see that this thread flourishes well!
On the note of posting a first entry, we will cover a simple topic that I cannot stress enough. Please, people, before you post, read the stickies or back-log a few pages to see if the topic you're deciding to submit hasn't already been done before. Checking back four pages or so really isn't that difficult a task. And for reading the stickies, believe us, there is nothing more frustrating than seeing work submissions being entered in the WF and neglecting to notice or submit them properly in their designated sub-forums. Really, let's make an effort and reduce littering in the beautiful WF, land of the free and home of the endangered "homo-intellectus."
You Are Not A Critic
Why some critics could use criticism themselves.
by Bane is on Fire!
A routine sweep of the Prose and Poetry forums will reveal several things to most discerning readers - low quality poems and stories, blind praise being dolled out arbitrarily, author hissy fits and the occasional criticism.
When I first joined Gaia in late 2003, the Prose forum was an oasis for snarky and harsh critics. Critics like January, Puchiko, Jahoclave and clarion savaged poorly written prose with wit and style. Most of these people have either left Gaia or have stopped critiquing, though, and they've given way to a new breed of critics - critics who don't have a clue what they're talking about.
I've always been a proponent of jagged reviews - when you're critiquing, there's no point in sugar-coating and sparing the author's feelings. They're posting their work on the internet to improve, so you've got to show them where they're bad so it will stand out in their mind where to improve.
But recent criticisms I've seen strike me as being without any real substance. A lot of critics have gotten the idea that giving a few lines about how the poem/story sucks and maybe throw in a personal insult or two will make them cool and edgy on the forum. Guess what? It doesn't make you cool or edgy.
I don't have a problem with snarking in a review. What I do have a problem with is when the review looks less like a critique and more like a couple of snappy one-liners that'll look good if someone sig-quotes you.
I'm also a firm believer that critics need to know what the ******** they're talking about. If you're critiquing someone on their rhyme scheme, you've got to know the poetic flow. If you're critiquing someone on their vocabulary in a story, be sure you know what the words mean and how they're used. And so on and so forth.
So why do we have so many critics running around these days who don't seem to understand the works they're critiquing? Most reviewers seem to be so vague it hurts these days...why are people suddenly so adverse to giving specifics? I really do think this proves one thing, that many critics on Gaia don't have any idea what they're talking about and so they stick to throwing out vague comments on why a story or a poem sucks.
There are still plenty of good critics on Gaia, ones that are specific and knowledgeable, and still manage to get a few witty comments in there. But they're a dying breed, being knocked-out by the aforementioned critics who seem to enjoy notoriety more than anything.
A few suggestions to the critics, from me to you:
- Be Specific: I may have already mentioned this, but it bears repeating. Instead of saying "Your vocab sucks. Use a thesaurus," use examples of how the poem would work better with different vocabulary used.
- Review The Poem, Not The Author: Why bother attacking the author? In your initial review, saying things like "Oh, you whiny baby. You're not really suicidal, so get over it. Go to hell, a*****e!" is not being a critic at all. Your job is not to make assumptions about the author's mental state, your job is to review the work they've produced. Ad hominem attacks will never make your critique anything but a load of "controversial" bullshit.
- Defense =/= Hissy Fit: When an author replies to your review and defends their work without saying anything like "You suck!" or "Your review is s**t! Go to hell!" - they are not throwing a hissy fit. They are reasonably disagreeing with your review. Remember, the critic isn't always right, and the author doesn't have to take every word the critic says with a bowed head.
- When In Doubt, Say So: If you're not sure about how a word or something else is misused, say something like "I'm not sure, but I think this is misused," rather than "this is misused." It'll be a lot less embarrassing if you're wrong.
So those are some little suggestions to critics on how to prevent from being a "notorious" critic like I have talked about for this column.
Socio-Political (De)volution
by The Mad Poet of Ishtar
With dust for fingers
we trace lines in the clean
white
signature of God
(or your highest power of choice)
and dream it stays.
The grey streaks,
the amber waves of
brain
burned out on too much television.
Which does not rot your heart,
surveys say. Light up for a
Thrill ride,
on the musical edge.
Songs used to be written in
His Name
but these days just
spit it out like a curse.
Could be worse. Never better though, and
if you vote for me I'll make your piss
Rainbows. Yes.
And s**t gold. I have a plan!
To make everything sharp and clean
and right
in these childish scrawls of
grit, cheap grime painted glitz.
Just don't mention where,
too loud.
With dust for fingers
we paint lies in the buried name
of God
(or your new-age substitute of choice)
and forget who made hands
in the first place.
- Dragon Lilly comments: Socio-Political (De)volution I also liked. It is quite interesting and I don't believe that I've ever seen that point made before. It seems at least a bit true, unfortunately. I don't like some of the word choices, the curse words in it but they do get the point across. Some of the lines seems to be divided up in strange places but all in all, it's good.
- peiormentis critiques: It Comes Away Red
DispatchNA
The smoke sets off an alarm in my mind, a warning to run from the unclean jazz bar into the bright, frighteningly real city of Paris. Shoulders tensed and jaws clenched in an effort to control myself, I stiffly turn to my right and encounter a freshly exhaled cloud of smoke.
Maybe the tenses need to be cleaned up a bit in the second sentence. I love the first sentence. It appeals to me in some strange sort of way. There is an invisible rhythmn between its lines.
DispatchNA
My eyes burn as a reminder to blink. Through the green-grey pollution, past the sweetly intense saxophone solo across the room, a boulder of a man looks me right in the eye. The smoke is pouring out of his mouth. He's like a ******** train. Lethargically, he scratches his chin, covered in stubble and sweat. His movements are slow and calculated, but not once do they lose their arrogance.
Pass means to go by. Past means a preceeding time. Pass would be more fitting. The swearing doesn't seem like a must, but it appears to be in character so I won't complain. The imagery of the man is very well done. You didn't seem to put much into it, but I still have a very clear image of him.
DispatchNA
"Do you mind?" I ask, knowing that most likely he does and I'm playing right into his hands. Surprisingly, the man only throws the offending cigarette on the floor and mashes it in with his heel. I'm tempted to argue the sanitation issue, but hold my tongue for fear of my sanity.
I do my best to ignore him as I continue to listen to the band play a nostalgic piece. I hold my beer at the bottom of the neck, as do half the occupants of the room; my stance is casual, and my clothes are meant to blend in. So why the hell is Goliath still glaring at me?
I do my best to ignore him as I continue to listen to the band play a nostalgic piece. I hold my beer at the bottom of the neck, as do half the occupants of the room; my stance is casual, and my clothes are meant to blend in. So why the hell is Goliath still glaring at me?
Dun Dun Duuuun. So many questions. The narrator seems to have an unexplained pent up anger. Has she been holding in her emotions for too long? Hmm?
DispatchNA
I smooth down my shirt in an attempt to calm myself. I have been so good for so long. This is not the time to start again. I don't want to move again.
She says she been good for so long, but she seems to be bringing the trouble upon herself by "playing right into his hands". Maybe she does want to move again.
And yet, at the first sign of advancement from him, I move. I leave, holding tight to the neck of the beer bottle. I can't tell who's watching; I can't remember the difference between red and green, door and window, danger from safety.
She says she been good for so long, but she seems to be bringing the trouble upon herself by "playing right into his hands". Maybe she does want to move again.
And yet, at the first sign of advancement from him, I move. I leave, holding tight to the neck of the beer bottle. I can't tell who's watching; I can't remember the difference between red and green, door and window, danger from safety.
Why is she so unhinged? She played into hands. She wanted the attention and now she's running away. Maybe she has already lost her sanity. It's a very good description of how she's feeling though. A whirlwind of color flashes through my mind as she runs away.
DispatchNA
And then I'm outside, and it's a lovely spring night; a night for lovers. And I'm standing in the middle of a breeze, shivering from my sudden and sickening paranoia, holding a near-empty beer bottle in front of a prosperous bar. The man's no where in sight as I do my damnedest to figure out what's a taxi and what's an actual car.
I feel something on my arm and - ********, it's just like in the movies - I turn around, and there he is. He's lit up a fresh cigarette, as if to taunt me. He smiles around the cancer, his eyes unreadable. He's leading me, taking me from my post on the curb. Where?
Where else? Where do men take people like me? What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to act? I love this s**t.
I feel something on my arm and - ********, it's just like in the movies - I turn around, and there he is. He's lit up a fresh cigarette, as if to taunt me. He smiles around the cancer, his eyes unreadable. He's leading me, taking me from my post on the curb. Where?
Where else? Where do men take people like me? What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to act? I love this s**t.
She played into his hands, then ran away, and now she tells us that she loves it. She wants the attention or maybe your trying to confuse us on purpose. Sometimes confusion makes for a good writing style. This could be one of those times with a little more clarity. How oxymoronic.
DispatchNA
I'm led around the walled-in jazz music, to where a grey garbage can slumps in a rather forlorn fashion. And the dirty deed is done.
He doesn't make a sound as I pierce his belly with a shard from my beloved beer bottle. Only looks down in fragile awe, as if the scent and glitter of the blood is not enough to convince him that this is more than just a movie. Delicately he reaches down and dips a finger in the steadily pouring stream. It comes away red, a red that cackles in the spring night meant for lovers. I am silent, standing away from his, extra glass crying to me from the ground. I bend down and pick up a piece, twirling it in my hands. His eyes widen in fright as I lean forward and carefully, with the detail of an artist, paint a taut tight-rope across his neck. The glass comes away red.
He doesn't make a sound as I pierce his belly with a shard from my beloved beer bottle. Only looks down in fragile awe, as if the scent and glitter of the blood is not enough to convince him that this is more than just a movie. Delicately he reaches down and dips a finger in the steadily pouring stream. It comes away red, a red that cackles in the spring night meant for lovers. I am silent, standing away from his, extra glass crying to me from the ground. I bend down and pick up a piece, twirling it in my hands. His eyes widen in fright as I lean forward and carefully, with the detail of an artist, paint a taut tight-rope across his neck. The glass comes away red.
Irresistable imagery. Delicious descrption. Excellent elaboration. You have traveled the path to my heart many times now with your wonderful way of showing her every move. You might want to edit the first and second sentences. I think the second might be a fragment without the help of the first. The sentence, "I am silent, standing away from his, extra glass crying to from the ground." might have too many commas, but I'm weak in the grammar department. I could be wrong. It doesn't seem to make much sense the way it is, though.
DispatchNA
*
"We had to drug her."
"It was that bad?"
"Nightmares again."
"We had to drug her."
"It was that bad?"
"Nightmares again."
I must say this is a wonderful ending. It wraps it all up very quickly without much need for explanation. No need for the public to be wary of a murderer.
Here are some helpful links that the lovely Serieve put together. Enjoy!
- www.positiveteenmag.com
- www.teenwritersdream.com
- www.upwordspoetry.com
- www.bartleby.com
- www.rhymezone.com
- Look forward to the Seven Deadly Sins Writing Project. Headed by Serieve and backed by seven talented writers, watch as Pride, Envy, Rage, Sloth, Greed, Gluttony, and Lust take on poetic form!
- We're currently scouting for a gifted artist to illustrate or donate a picture for next issue's cover! Choose one of the seven sins (or all of them) for inspiration.
- Calling all writers! Did you like what you read? Think you can do better? Don't delay, submit today! Guidelines can be found under the first post of the Press Headquarters.
- Like to critique? Love to write? Is Gaia like your second home? Get a job at the Press! Applications are found in the first post of the Press Headquarters.
- Editor's Note: And so ends the first issue of The Gaian Press! Thank you very much to everyone that made this project possible. I was met with some doubters when I first posted this idea onto the forum, but I think the dreamer in all of us won in spite of everything. I'm very excited to see Gaia's future for writers, and I ask you, dear reader, to stay tuned until our next meeting. The second issue of the Press is due out March 1, 2005, so I promise that this is only the end of a beautiful beginning!
- Special Thank You's: Serieve, Dragon Lilly, and peiormentis for signing up from the start, and sticking by the Press ever since. Dev Kimiko, for designing all the gorgeous banners you see titling each section. And, of course, all the talented writers and staff members who lent their voice and credibility to this fledgling 'zine!
