And that isn’t even the half of it. Dreaming is a feature of life, it seems. Just like teeth, they grow inside our heads when we’re young, changing with time and what we consume. Some fall out. Some new ones come in. Some fall out and never come back. Some get holes full of pain. Some darken and die. Many are crooked. Some are manufactured. Some are chemically or mechanically assisted. Dreams can come when we’re sleeping, or not at all. Or they may be manifested in the form of hopes and flights of fancy as we wake. Whatever the method of delivery, dreams can bite into our lives… hard. In this issue we’ve got a selection of hard biting fiction and toothsome art. Or maybe dreamy visuals and chilling nightmare tales is more apt. However you slice it, this issue’s contributors have once again given their all and provided some amazing work. It is, as always, an honor to publish it, and I hope you enjoy it too, dear readers. GHN 12/04/14
F EATURING Bloom
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Zachariah Brown
The Essay- The Peace and The Violence
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Amy KS
Untitled
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Heather Chen
Herald the Day
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Charlie DioBrando
Content Warnings: Fire, death
Artist in Solitude Sunburst
Content warnings: Domestic violence/abuse
5-6 Szabo Eduard Dragomir 7
Jillelaine Condon
I Burned the Bridges to Heaven 8-12 Weasel
Ableist language use
Cold of Goyt 13-14 Eleanor Leonne Bennett Nightmare 15-19 Chris Baird Using Dreams 20-21 Jay Allen
Content warning: Addiction, Drugs/Alcohol
Spacefriend
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Jillelaine Condon
Cycle
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Zachariah Brown
Cover: 10 AM
Credits Pages: 25-26
By Charlie DioBrando
Support: 27
[Buy Print]
Outro: 28
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T HE E SSAY - T HE P EACE AND T HE V IOLENCE By Amy KS
I think teeth-dreams are for lovers, lovers fighting. I think that lovers fight for their hearts to stay in, fight forward to molt the darkness off, to shed into new hopes. To ward the giggling coyotes, those bastard wolves. Fight the darkness with me or we will all be toothless and sorry in the deep, dark heart of the new citadel. The new world, the get on a train with me and we will go far. Teeth are for the taking-in, the energy of your regular breath and its beingness, placeness with relation and with its relationships. Ships and seas. Seize me deep, now. The Stone Age, most deaths were from teeth infections. My old-manfriend says that most Stone Age deaths were from dentists. Ha-ha, yeah, I think, that's the right answer. But I'm floral-infatuated with flossing. I feel my waking and my new and old ideas with each pluck of the deeper-in and the sliding (you have to get both sides of the gum). The newer the soul becomes, the less and the more she does get tied in the old crackers, snaps of the ages. I carry floss in my pocket and it brings up my mood, brings the right vibe to the room. My heart is here to carry mindfulness of input and output. My heart is here to carry the truth behind each piece of left-over wax we melt into new candles. We take from her The Earth, and she gives us back, background. Dammers, but if this isn't getting knotty. Naughty me, mixing all around. Clarity is there, any which way you spin it. I'm a damn witch, alchemist soul to explode bridges and build riverfords from the rubble. ddgfgddsssss
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Herald the Day
Charlie DioBrando
[Buy Print]
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A RTIST IN S OLITUDE
Content Warnings: Fire, death
By Szabo Eduard Dragomir
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own the streets aroused by the cold puddles of water oozed by a climax of rain and coloured by the dashing light movements engaging in ardent waltzes of light, pushing the dreary, weary swarthy night into neglect as its stars pale in humility, lies a building like any other, a trunk of boulders that adds to the concrete jungle, a building, however, whose dilapidated garret houses an individual of a remarkable uniqueness. Should common acumen fail to perceive the obvious and render it as a difficult conundrum, the individual is in fact an artist. Indeed, he caresses the proficiency of artistry with his mere existence as he executes art in a curious, perhaps even transcendental fashion as he plunders every artistic territory mastered by man. His hands arouse the lyra strings like slender, velvet robes as they gratify the fragile feminine skin only to commute the climax of his ordeal to the vacua stretched on his several sheets of paper, ejaculating through his instrument, the raven fluid of his endeavour, breeding colossal paragraphs of stupendous grandeur as they are animated by their labyrinthine entrails of mellifluous, harmonically resonant words that mute the chirping sounds of his lyra in contrast. And when his ordeal has long passed, with a lecherous hunger still unquenched, this Pan of arts moves to queer the virginity of the ghastly, ephemeral scrolls as he erects various constructs of otherworldly origins as conundrums undress themselves of the habiliment that’s his mind and ingress upon the pallid sheet, making it convey fabrics and architectural eminences kidnapped from
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the metaphysical plains of the artist’s cognitive entrails. And such would be the daily routine of this certain artist who brings his ruined, dreary garret back to temporary spurts of light with the liveliness and magnificence of his works. However, it is a singular and indubitable truth that an artist of such gallant proportions need not waste his life in claustrophobic ruins where his art is obscured from the even more claustrophobic and prosaic minds of the plebian masses who, through their insatiable consumption of what is mediatized, breed the blood that courses through the vein of not only the society, but also through the passion of every person who wants to lusciously bite the peachy hips of prosperity by pursuing their dreams. Our artist, by misfortune, does not benefit from such a fortune but logical questioning would make us wonder whether we should exert mercy or compassion for him considering that this is solely a self-induced suffering caused by his sense of modesty and solitude. Despite his talent, his only companion is the audient void, a void as cold and muffled as the claustrophobic isolation confined within the garret that came to evolve into his own prison. During the days when the sun would shine proudly above the empyrean sky, where no foamy cloud would dare make his entry, the artist would wander the streets of his town searing his eyes with repulse at the various displays of superficiality and abhorrence that his society exudes at every step it makes by unleashing spoiled art rushed and made to please greed and influx of monetary resources, not
the seeds of passion or ambition, uneducated plebes who find solace in whatever is pitted in front of them, whether it be a pile of scatological manure or a book they cannot read. His garret is always met as an escapade from the insular ludicrousness of the society, leaving him discouraged against the idea of sharing his progeny with a world that does not deserve it. With passiveness ignited by repugnance, he proliferates the status quo where society feasts on superficiality, the only nourishment it is provided. Diversity makes for a healthy diet and society could gladly indulge upon the talented and novel if only such gold embroidered items would surface upon the rotten corpses it’s forced to eat incessantly. Our artist, however, ignores the thousand beseeches thrown into his direction and the direction of many others alike him as he allowed himself bewildered by merely the tip of the iceberg, discouraged enough to fear looking what would like in the cold void underneath the watery surface. In a display of arrogance catalyzed by fear and his sickened modesty, he keeps the results of his own artistic excruciation to himself only, in a staunch opposition against any initiative of sharing it with the world. Friends of his would often inquire for a justification as to why he perpetuates this illogical choice of his and refuses to strike a profit through his passion. The artist would only reply that he is afraid to compete with the wildness of the world and he fears what pride would do to him. Their retort would be complimenting, gratifying that masterwork he makes and encouraging him to take pride in his work, assuring him that the only loss lies in his passiveness. But the artist refuses to listen to the words of his friends, dismissing them one by one and locking himself in his sanctuary. Years pass and he struggles from one day to another in an attempt to seek sustenance, trying job after job and failing perpetually. He finds escapade from his suffering in his art, but his art does nothing but prolong his
suffering, a cure administrated wrongly as he rejects the cure to heal him completely. He fears the outside world and he fears the possibility of his art to be tainted by it, yet salvation is so close to him but he pushes it far. One day, the self-obscured artist was attempting to fix his own oven that has divulged the signs of old age that corroded it. A two day old soup was patiently waiting at the table nearby for the fiery flames to ignite its bottom and boil the content inside, soothing it with delectable warmth that would return the delicious splendour to it. As he finished meddling with the oven, the artist turned it on and with that singular ignition, a spark jumped amok out of its inferno and into the material realm. And from that spark, a fire emerged engulfing the garret in its molten flames. In a flash of a few seconds, the flames spread to the artist, swallowing it inside its gaping, infernal jaws and extinguishing life out of him by every terrorizing scream of torment he lashed in agonizing pain. In time, the garret was devoured, with all that it confined, even the various artistic creations the artist held so preciously. They simply disappeared, vanished into the nothingness of the void as they are neither alive, nor remembered by anyone, and the artist died shackled, unrecognized. Above all, he was obscured, passing away as just another plebeian who suffered an unfortunate accident. Not even the newspapers deemed his existence as worthy enough to fit his death inside their bowels. To the eyes of society, he was simply nonexistent, a state he induced upon himself. However, in the last dying breath that he couldn’t even murmur throughout the choking flames, the artist would realize the mistake that he had done and he would realize that were he to heed to ambition, sacrifice modesty and go out in the world, his faith now would be different but the only thing he has learned now was that talent hidden is nothing more than talent non-existent. ---
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Content warnings: Domestic violence/abuse Ableist language use
By Weasel The room was filled with the smell of cakes and pastries, as well as coffee. Plates and silverware clanked together voraciously as the people around them ate their sweets and discussed the normal politics of the day. “Bachman said what? Still they protest? We should be thankful for what?” The bakery was practically a historical monument of its own sitting through all the historical changes that have happened in its tiny block. It has seen marches and influential people plow through; People protested then, much like they protest right now. Of course, it was never New York, but each state “must be occupied” as they said on the news and internet podcasts. Nevertheless, The Modern Day Delilah has lived, and it continues to breathe as much life into the cracks of that corner as much as the influential gods of television. Social politics grew and changed over the years, some people never did but there are always a few who never return. Her tables never empty and her customers rarely denied her the grace of attention. There were her regulars, the lovers in a turbulent world; the spiteful in a lovesick world—they rarely mingled amongst each other. Special tables were set up for special customers, and the bakery loved its modern regulars such as the singer. Her voice never left the walls of her favorite morning delight. So remembered by the staff they gave her a special on the menu. The Modern Day Delilah will be hushed the day she never returns. But her voice will never leave, as much as her elegance which always matched the words she sang daily.
How it lavished in the lines she sang as they graced the walls and the ears of the people. Such a world would never be the same without them—without her! Such is the life, and somehow the bakery knew its old regulars would return in some way. It would just have to be a surprise, much like the special of the day, which was never a standard delight. Delilah knew her share of love. From the first timers, the know-it-alls, the together forever but tomorrow forever ends groups all loved the bakery, and frankly Delilah loved them. They were her own soap opera, only a better deal than the sleazy television nonsense she had to make her customers sit through sometimes. She has heard and seen everything there is to world of love and then watched it create a new world in a rapture it has not yet experienced. “Larry was nothing more than an invalid dear. He had no style, no sense in this world at all. He was nothing like you, Derrick” the words rolled viciously from the squirrel’s tongue. Jay carried a black shine to his coat of fur, and from his chin to the neck of his shirt one could tell he had a blue under belly. His hazel eyes grew into the usual dreamy “I love you more than the world” look as his hands wrapped around the black hands of the raccoon sitting across from him. They slid up to Derricks auburn arms for a moment and he let out a faint smile.
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Source: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Sciuridae#mediaviewer/File:WoolySquirrelLyd.jpg
Jay was never the one. In fact, to Derrick, Jay presented himself to be sort of creepy. He was the kind of clingy guy who would follow your every footstep like a ninja at night, waiting for you to come home and becoming jealous of any single person who looked their way. He attached himself to the raccoon as he rubbed Derrick’s arm for a moment. Derrick’s body began to tense up as he realized the situation could get much worse, maybe not at that moment, but progressively worse if given the time. He could just imagine the squirrel’s lovesick eyes darting at every scrap of fur he left behind, and here at this coffee table, it needed to end. Jay was like all the rest he had met, and Derrick still holds the scars from a couple of mistakes. He inched back a little bit and diverted his eyes to the table top thinking of how Jay was going to react when he gave him the message to go away. His hands had never been touched so gently before. Derrick could almost feel the love pouring through Jay’s fingers as they rocked back and forth. It took him back to Andre, a wolf who had left so many bruises on the raccoon’s past that Derrick had forgotten that the sun also rises. Jay’s touch brought back the smell of sterilized hospital rooms. The beeping of the monitors synchronized with the clanking of the silverware. He could hear the machine now, making sucking noises as it pumped air. Derrick closed his eyes and he was back in the bed, waking up to find a silver and white wolf staring at him. It held nothing; Andre’s eyes were empty as they watched Derrick slowly wake. “Thought I had lost you,” the wolf said as he laid his hands on the raccoon’s, the same loving touch as the squirrel. “Derrick?” his name echoed in the room but no one was speaking. The wolf was silent. “Derrick? Are you okay?” The raccoon blinked once and he was back at The Modern Day Delilah, Jay sitting in front of him though only holding a small card. “Listen, I have to leave now, but maybe we can do
this again sometime. Here’s my number,” the squirrel said nervously as he dropped it on the table. From his pocket Jay’s phone began to ring and he flung it out while walking towards the door. Derrick sat back in his chair and watched the squirrel jump out into the winter weather falling from the sky. From outside you could hear people singing Silent Night, their notes swept across the sidewalk as they heaved their voices through the cold. The Christmas month had begun. The carolers were out, on time as usual on the first of December. The raccoon’s coffee was getting cold now. He left some money on the table and slid on his grey hooded sweatshirt, walking out into the snow. He looked up at the sky for a moment, and then began walking up the street. Away from Andre, he had hoped. This was New Jerusalem for the raccoon. His freedom, his escape—everything he could hope for all bunched into one small rubber ball, bouncing up and down. And still the ever growing need to look behind him, over his shoulder in fear of the past, which had vanished years ago, would be standing right there as if to say, “How’s the patient today?” There were no angels there, and he never achieved such a holy status. He was merely a mediocre thirst to be called on whenever he was needed. That was all the past now, a photograph he could look back at and smile, or weep as he put it back in a box closest to his heart because one day Derrick will open it, and everything he saw then, sees now and may see soon will have changed. But the spirits will twist in his stomach until then. They will sing, and dance as he moans to forget that he was never born until he left the cage of a thirst. Spirits are never a matter of forgetting, nor are they a matter of remembrance. They’ve no memory in this life, or even the next. It is only the ones they haunt that the remembrance of the past is given to them.
Background Source: http://www.dfw.state.or.us/images/photo_gallery/wolves_in_the_news/ content/130627_OR11_odfw_large.html
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His legs felt damp for a moment. They were cold and swishing around as if he were in a pool. His body quivered as he stood there in the darkness, legs cold and wet. His hands dropped down to feel what it was that covered him, and as if his hand was lashed by the cold force he snapped it back and waited for the pain to numb away. It was liquid he felt, as if it were an ice cube melting in his hands, the water swishing in his palms, and he was immersed in it. Derrick placed his hand along his front pocket. The raccoon rubbed his thumb along the outline of what is a small tin box. The box was everything to him. He carried it wherever he went, taking in life 11
with it, only taking what he needed—never indulging in any more than necessary. He stole a bit of life every day, and felt that maybe he’d learn that it was more precious tomorrow than it was the moment he picked it up. He rubbed his thumb along the outline as the liquid around him began to rise, slowly starting to drown his waist and soon the box in his hands. Derrick pulled it out, stared at it, and opened it up. When he looked up from the box he saw he was standing in water, a cold stream sloshing around his legs. There was a mild confusion inside him, but it was subsided by the box as he looked at it again. As if he were holding his own child he cradled it in the palms of his hands. He didn’t move in the water, just stood still and facing its current.
Source: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Raccoon_face_close_up_procyon_lotor.jpg
He took his fingers and reached inside the box, lifting something out. It was thin like a sheet of paper, folded neatly and slightly faded yellow. He began to open it, seeing a small bit of ink. A smile trudged across the raccoon’s face as he began to remember what the ink was.
scars, pulled his fingers along the branches of his back, how they sprawled out and consumed his fur! It was his curse, carrying the weight from seeds he never wanted planted in him, but was forced on him. A dreamer can only bear so much pain before they collapse.
“Where’ve you been?” a voice interrupted him. His body began to tense up, afraid of the voice. It held in it a small piece of spite, its tongue lashing out with chains. “I asked you a question, where have you been?” Derrick flashed his head around the area, the water no longer surrounding him. It was his apartment that held him captive as he stood there silently watching a speck of fur appear. It was Andre! The past stood right there in front and there was no angel to save him in this cage. The raccoon could not move; only stand in the quiet of the room, fearful of what Andre would do to him.
Derrick walked away as the pain lingered among him. He entered the solemnity of his home once again, hoping it would stay as such. Peace is a gift he had always longed for, but it was too pricey for him to hold, even for a small time. Andre was gone now he told himself. He was gone, and he could never plant another seed in him. Derrick cradled his box again, held it close to his chest as he poured himself onto the couch, laying his head backwards and closing his eyes. “I burned the bridges to Heaven,” he murmured softy as he drifted away.
The wolf jumped at Derrick pinning him up against the wall. The raccoon winced as he felt his fur being pulled out of him, his feet could no longer reach the ground as Andre lifted him up. “I expect answers when I ask questions,” His voice began to get louder, his anger could not be subsided any longer as he balled one hand into a fist and thrust it into Derricks stomach. The raccoon cried out as the force shot through his body. Andre smiled and then dropped his victim, “you’ll do better next time.”
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He lay on the ground coughing and cradling, but when he looked up Andre was gone. Slowly the pain he held in his stomach whilst his attacker stood before him, washed away, going back into the waters it came. The marks that should have been there never appeared, only the old remained. The raccoon picked himself up, still wanting to feel the pain as he cradled upward like an elderly man in the snow. His feet rushed towards the bathroom; he felt sick, nearly deathly in the darkness. Tearing off his shirt he saw the Source: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Museum_Wilhelmsbau_FEBRERO_Schimmelpenninck_cigars_tin_box.JPG
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Taken on a very c ol d d ay in t h e wi l d s of D erbyshire. 13
CAMERA: Panasonic DMC-FZ38 ISO: 80 APERTURE: f/3.6 EXPOSURE: 1/60th FOCAL LENGTH: 24mm
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Content warning: Addiction Drugs/Alcohol
By Jay Allen
"I dreamed about getting high last night, like getting super crazy fucked up." Jeff said. "I mean, I got like a year and a half. I should have this, man. I woke up and I was crazy. I got up and said, 'I gotta get my ass to an AA meeting.' So here I am." He slumped back in the couch, dejected. Sometimes I lead AA meetings at the 9 a.m. open meeting at a nice club near my house. (I have another club where I'm on the schedule every week to lead at 11 p.m. on Tuesdays - one thing AA tells you is to pick a home group, in addition to sampling around.) The morning place is a good club, well organized with a lot of folks with sober time to grab newcomers and get them going in The Program. The evening place is a little hole in the wall that looks like a dive bar. I need them both so I go to both. The thing about AA meetings is you're asking neurodivergent people to speak on a suggested topic, and you never know what will come out of a person's mouth, including your own, which is, of course, the point. "Meeting makers make it," my first sponsor told me. "If you are offered a chance to lead a meeting, do it." So I do. Another guy, Roger, that goes to the 9 had talked about his cocaine and crack dreams in lurid detail, his face contorted as he described dreaming of the sharp smell, blue flames, and the cravings it had awakened. He's been clean for 10 months. A secret of AA: I am almost constantly aware in a non-judgmental way of how much time people have, and whether they're working their Program. Roger is doing the deal, as we say. His daughter is in Al-Anon and comes in sometimes to the open meetings, and my heart breaks for her as she smiles at her struggling dad. 20
As Jeff shifted uneasily in the couch, I leaned forward and put my elbows on the plastic folding table. I twirled my hands around and twisted my head like the giant oracular owl in The Secret of Nimh, to indicate I was thinking hard, deliberately inserting ums and uhs to make it sound less like a command. "I'm gonna, uh, break with protocol a little here. I don't see people do this much in meetings. You don't have to if you don't want to, but, hey, everyone who's had a using dream, raise your hand." I pointed my gaze at the ceiling and swung my hand up without making eye contact with anyone. As my hand was going up, every single person in the folding chairs in the middle, every single person in the overstuffed chairs along the back, and every single person in the couches, also swung their hands up quickly and without hesitation. Of the twenty people in front of me, none had kept a hand down. Caustic old-timer Jimmy F. quickly read the situation and swung his left hand up to match his right, grinning like a madman, and giving me a go-ahead nod. There was murmuring across the room. Terry, four months clean and born in 1993, had read the opening statement from the chair next to me. I heard a thump as he leaned back with his shit-kicker boots. He blurted out, "I never have." He tipped his cowboy hat back with a sickly grin. Without missing a beat, I dismissed him with a low-but-audible "Keep comin' back." I sat straight up and theatrically announced, "Oooooooooh. Okay. So I didn't know that." I told Jeff about my drinking nightmares, and the terror I felt in between sleep and full waking. As I stopped, a shy, soft-spoken Hispanic woman immediately launched into her own account of drug dreams, and sometime during her share, Jeff straightened his shoulders and relaxed. After the meeting, Jimmy F. did something he'd never done before in my 4 years of sobriety. He shook my hand and said solemnly, "Good meeting today."
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Charlie DioBrando Gender? I hardly even know'er!
Zachariah Brown Art: zozxox.tumblr.com Comics: bitchimananime.tumblr.com
Society6
Zine: tookawaiitodie.tumblr.com
PrintAllOver.me
Etsy
Heather Chen Amy KS Amy is a journalist. She is in talks with bugs and the birds who eat them.
Prism Info @placethyme
Szabo Eduard Dragomir
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Artist and illustrator that likes ocean things and also admires anyone who has ever tried to figure out life. Almost 30 years old and almost ready to start living.
@oceana1009 Tumblr
aims to provide an introspective into the unexpected and the intriguing, the bewildering and obfuscating through the literary works he weaves by indulging any reader's naked ocular appendages with meticulously carved paragraphs that conceal the proverbial coup de grace underneath. He expresses delight in sculpting dark chambers presenting an infinity of doors waiting to be opened, waiting for their guests, the readers, to walk through them. His affinity for the execution of literature has given him an ever insatiable desire for participating in such an endeavour. One of his, at this moment, more significant works is "Ideological Pandemonium" under the publisher "Weasel Press". His drive is harvested from his fascination for the unknown, for the void, and anything that would titillate the human's core in inconceivable mannerisms.
Jillelaine Condon
was born in Presque Isle, Maine. After many adventures, she has settled down (so to speak) in Sanford, Maine and enjoys the company of a dude, many dogs, a small grey tiger, an enlightened turtle, and what is almost certainly a powerful space being masquerading as a small daughter.
Facebook | Society6
Eleanor Leonne Bennett I am an internationally award winning photographer and visual artist. I am the CIWEM Young Environmental Photographer of The Year 2013 and I have also won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography and The National Trust to name only a few. eleanor.ellieonline@gmail.com eleanorleonnebennett.com
Chris Baird once beat a mirror in a staring contest. Now he makes comix.
Tumblr
Weasel
is essentially a writer and overall degenerate poet. He received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature at the University of Houston-Clear Lake, and started up a publisher called Weasel Press. The vagabond poet released a full length poetry collection titled Ashes to Burn; picked up by Transcendent Zero Press. He has also selfpublished a small chapbook titled Y’all Muthafucka’s Need Jesus. His writing has been accepted in many publications, some of which include: Houston’s Harbinger Asylum, San Jacinto College’s Threshold, Permian Basin Beyond 2014, Hunger For Peace, Di-Verse-City from the 2012, 2013, & 2014 Austin International Poetry Festival. Weasel also appeared in a small documentary about art titled Something Out of Nothing (S.O.O.N) directed by Mitchell Dudley. You can find more of Weasel’s work at the website listed. ——————
systmaticwzl.tumblr.com WeaselPress.com
Jay Allen
is the pseudonym for another contributor to Earth Is Huge And We Are All On It. He lives in the southwestern US. 26
S UPPORT T HE C REATORS
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Amy KS — Two ebooks published with more to come. Keep an eye on this space.
sept(2014) Kindle ebook; poetry chapbook
lavendernovember Kindle ebook; poetry chapbook
Weasel — Author and head of independent publishing organization Weasel Press.
http://www.weaselpress.com/ Home to multiple book and magazine projects.
http://systmaticwzl.wix.com/hauntedtraveler Horror/sci-fi magazine released twice yearly. Please donate or purchase copies.
Y’all Muthafucka’s Need Jesus paperback chapbook poetry
Szabo Eduard Dragomir — Has one book published through Weasel Press.
Ideological Pandemonium Kindle ebook & paperback
Charlie DioBrando — Offers art prints, mugs, phone cases, clothing, and handmade goods.
http://society6.com/cannibalkisses prints, pillows, phone cases, totes, mugs, etc
10AM featured in this issue, cover art
Herald The Day featured in this issue, page 4
http://printallover.me/collections/urgoodpal shirts, dresses, swimsuits, ties, & hoodies
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http://society6.com/giania prints, mugs, phone cases, laptop skins
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W i sh L i st | Pa y Pa l | G u m ro a d
That’s it for our Teeth and extravaganza. Time to wake up!
Dreams
Many warm and dear thanks to everyone who contributed. It is always a joy to publish friends and new faces as well. Onward and upward, we’re into December now and approaching a brand new year and our 7th issue! Since it’s our 7th issue, and 7 is widely considered a lucky number, let’s up the ante on creative prompts a little by doubling the number of creative prompts from the two-fer offered during the issue 6 submission period. Luck - What’s luck and what’s not? Is it superstition only or is there a case for it outside RPG stats? Does the idea of luck obscure our ability to clearly value our efforts and the privileges conferred on us by others? Do you have any lucky items or rituals? Fate - Similar to luck in that it’s an intangible quality that’s pervaded culture for ages and is an arbiter of outcomes. Fate seems to carry more gravitas than luck, though. It’s felt to be inescapable—good or bad. If fate is real, can we change it? How do you define fate? Birds - “If the foo shits, wear it”, “the bluebird of happiness”, birds of wisdom and birds of doom. Birds as messengers. Birds as pets. Birds as memes. Birds birds birds! Harbingers/Monsters - The root of the word “monster” is in omens and warnings. We simultaneously revile and root for monsters. Harbingers are similar, being signs of things to come. Monster art definitely very welcome for this concept. If you count harbingers and monsters as separate, then we technically have five creative prompts [fnord].
As with every issue’s creative prompts, these exist to provide a creative jump point you can use if you want to create something new. Or perhaps they might inspire you to dig into your archives and dust off a piece you liked, but didn’t get much exposure. I’m looking forward to what comes next, both for 2015 and issue #7. Color me superstitious, but things are going to turn out just fine, I can feel it. ~ GHN 12/11/14
Img Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Little_Nemo_1905-10-15.jpg
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Back cover: Zachariah Brown
Earth is Huge and We Are All On It is an online zine that intends to publish monthly. Fiction, non-fiction, poetry, comics, stand -alone visual art, and anything that can be put on a page is welcome here. We seek to create space for all sorts of ideas and all sorts of people, and in particular want to create a welcoming environment for those who find themselves existing in the margins of society. Any brief study of historical texts will show that marginalia is where all the really interesting stuff lives. Visit us on tumblr for updates, calls for submissions, progress reports, and more: earth-is-huge-mag.tumblr.com You can also like the zine on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EarthIsHugeMag Or follow on Twitter: @EarthIsHugeZine
Email: giania+zine@gmail.com
Earth Is Huge And We Are All On It by http://earth-is-huge-mag.tumblr.com/ is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. All works in this publication are subject to this license except where otherwise specified.