The Gaia Proposition

By David Landrum

The stage was set for a battle over Monteef Hills, and Winona Baker found herself in the forefront on the opposition side. The area had been a nature preserve but, as urban sprawl brought the city closer to the protected area, development companies began looking for options on the land that adjoined it. Ecology groups went into action to stop the development companies. The crux of the controversy was not over the preserve but over the land surrounding it.

A corridor of land ringed the preserve. Houses, a few farms, one or two small businesses lodge there. Houses, a few farms, one or two small businesses lodged there. Isolated and unobtrusive, hardly anyone even noticed them. Developers, however, began offering large sums of money for the properties, bought out one of the farms and several houses with substantial property attached to them, and drew up plans to construct a housing area that would ring the preserve with up to 500 units. Winona Baker stepped up to lead the fight against the development. Besides being an ecological activist, she led a weekly gathering that some said she constituted a worship service for Gaia.

Continue reading

Spirit of the Stars

By Nicholas McKay

If I was to be executed by the aliens after
been aggressively held prisoner on their mother vessel, I
would happily walk the plank once instructed if it meant I would
see my darling Earth again. Her blue and green beauty would shine out
like a star upon the pitch coloured atmosphere that surrounds me
so, as I look towards her sector of space before stepping off
into the abyss beyond. I would float out into the empty void
and for a second feel light-hearted, before my blood boiled beneath my
flesh and the freezing touch of the bitter cold of space held me in its
vice. I would be frozen stiff before this sentence was even writ,
and the icicle that was once my body would explode into a
thousand pieces once connecting with a tiny fragment floating by
the mortal coils that once contained my soul. With my body all but gone,
my spirit would float soundlessly into the depths of the universe
to join the other unnamed dead, and together we will gaze upon
our home worlds and dream of the lives that were removed from us the moment
the aliens stole our future. But this be not the end, but
the very beginning of something new, for never was there
anything more beautiful than the very universe itself,
that I now forever more have the opportunity to gaze
upon, until a super nova eviscerates my soul.

Continue reading

Tonight’s Night Terror is Tomorrow’s Reality

By Nicholas McKay

Like a terrified child who be a victim of
much trauma, every night before I lay my head
down and let sleep take me, I raise the side of the
duvet that hangs all the way down towards the floor,
and look beneath my bed to see if I may spot
the Boogeyman. Am I too old to fear a myth;
a legend; a superstition; a child’s bedtime
story, that has been given life by the minds of
parents who desperately wanted to get some
shut eye and so decided to scare their children
straight to sleep before the devil even knew that
they were wandering through their dreams; their dreams that had
now become nightmares fraught with the vile machinations
of a creature that dared to smuggle children out
from their rooms in the dead of night and take them to
a place that even God wouldn’t dare descend into. Continue reading

The Cloud

by Michael C. Keith

Ye can discern the face of the sky
–– St. Mathew

It had been there for most of his thirty-seven years. A small cloud had appeared in the sky directly above Dennis Moore when he was little more than a toddler. At first, he didn’t question why the same white puff was always hovering above him. But when he was about to enter kindergarten, he asked his mother what it was. She looked up to where her son was pointing and said, “What, you mean the sun? You shouldn’t look directly at it, honey? It can damage you eyes.”
Continue reading

Thank you

Thank You my dear Flickr friends

(Photo credit: maher berro)

To you beautiful and generous souls that donated your hard-earned dollars to help save Jennifer’s finger, your free copies of The Left Hand of Light are now in the mail. We cannot thank you enough for your kindness and your willingness to reach out and help this loving healer.

The latest news is that Jennifer has healed up nicely and has been back to work since late summer, as strong as ever. She sends her love, her light and her gratitude.

Enhanced by Zemanta

Our Own Bodies

By Nicholas McKay

I want to undress myself
for you, but relieving my
body of clothes is not
enough. I want to slip
my skin and remove my
body’s birthday suit. Shed your
hair, your flesh, your fingernails,
and embrace the body that
lies beneath. This skin had
purpose once when I was
younger, for it held all
of me in place. But now,
what was necessary has become
a constrictive burden which I
want to remove, like an
outfit that no longer quite
fits me the way it
used to. The grotesque malice
of the aging canopy that
coverts my bones prohibits the
vitality in my heart from
flowing forth to my hands
that are destined to hold
onto your own. Relieved of
this Caucasian coloured surface, for
colour isn’t everything, my bloodied
hands will touch your own,
and trail across every surface
of your bleeding muscles until
they find your heart. I
shall gently rub this mandatory
muscle of yours and make
certain that every palpitation coincides
with the drum roll thundering
inside my chest every time
my eyes wander across your
seductive figure. My dream tonight
is to become the colour
we all are when the
fleshy condiment no longer contains
our mortal frame; red; an
endless supply of arterial colouration
that stretches across the mannequin
that is our birthright. This
automated ventriloquist figure that I
occupy is yours if you
shall have it willingly; may
yours be mine as well?
I am no toy soldier
and so need to be
plucked from the field of
life and granted the option
of spending an eternity with
you, my one paramour. I
want to strip down until
I am but blood and
bone and lay down beside
your skinless figure as our
muscles become intertwined. Our veins
shall twist, turn and wrap
themselves around our arteries more
times than a boa constrictor,
and your blood and mine
will become one to such
an extent that you will
taste the bitterness of my
red fluid travelling throughout
your pores. I don’t want
you to just feel my heartbeat
encased within a prison built
from an endless yard of
bones, but to live with
my affectionate organ; to have
every part of me inside
of you, for I cannot
stand being separated and must
become one with your heartbeat.
I wish to taste your
feelings for me as though
they are my own, to
know this romance is as
real as the night and
is not some fairytale, flawed
and feeble, destined to fail
magnificently. My heart, the centrepiece
of my endless courage and
emotion shall pour forth the
love that it has contained
in through your ventricle, and
the delicious flavour of my
desire for you, infinite in
its worship of your beauty,
will deliver unto your tastebuds
a story so sweet that
you shall never again read
the verses of any other
tale but ours. Originally separate,
our two hearts shall unanimously
beat as one. With our
shared grey matter, our brain
cells interconnected, your memories will
not only pass over your
tongue and beyond your lips
but through the tubes connecting
my consciousness to yours. I
have wanted this for longer
than I could possibly fathom,
just as you have wanted
me, and the only way
to know for sure that
we are destined to belong
together, as though our fate
was prophesised a millennia before
time even existed, is to
become one with our own
bodies. Togetherness however does not
always conclude happily, and if
our insides were visible to
the world’s naked eye, not
a single soul uncorrupted by
pure love would condone the
horror of a vicious creature;
a devourer of flesh setting
upon our ripe features. Its
gnashing teeth would pulverise that
which we need to survive,
and by day’s end a
hundred orifices or more would
have sprung forth across our
bodies from where its mouth
had lain. This needn’t be
the end of what was
our relationship, for there are
other finales still because true
love was never destined to
last forever across time’s infinitely
vast oceans. The skin walking
automatons of society would surely
not appreciate the nakedness of
our flesh and would be
glad to see us gone,
but what punishment could they
inflict upon our bodies that
we could not cast upon
ourselves? Once our bodies (dried
and cracked like lizard skin
under the desert sun, flayed
by temperatures exceeding safe levels)
are stuck together for too
long, bound we shall be,
like prisoners, until our arterial
chains are broken. Reduced we
will be to cadavers when
trying to relinquish our lips
from the other’s kiss after
attempting to pluck the taste
of sweet affection like a
rose gently billowing in the
meadow. Our arms, wrapped around
ourselves like a bow will be
ripped from their sockets the
moment that we pull away.
Our bloodied bodies, set like
concrete will snap, tear and
shatter as we break apart,
expelling our internal fluids to
the surface. Like an unsolvable
jigsaw, we shall shatter into
dozens of infinitesimal pieces, until
there is nothing left of
us but a puddle where
once we stood caressing our
many, now melted, features.

Continue reading

Just say it

Never be afraid to say how a poem made you feel.

To all you wonderful readers out there, know that poets and writers could not exist without you. Worthy poets and writers recognize this and thank you sincerely everyday for your participation in their art.

The only thing worse for a writer than a critical review of their work is silence. Silence is the real enemy of the artist. Artists want to know if they made an impact, positive or negative, in the lives, worlds and perceptions of those that they touch.

So readers, to help an artist out, if I may play on the immortal words of the Department of Homeland Security, if you see something, say something. If something moves you, tell a friend, respond with a comment, or at the very least, like a post.

A few words by a thoughtful reader inspire writers to do what they do. Most writers just want to know they their voice has been heard, even if the reader does not agree or did not like what was said.

Most importantly, being a vocal reader means having the courage to say that a piece made us angry, or happy, or brought us to tears, as so many great artists have done for us. This is the substance of the artist’s life. The more we feed them, the greater they create.