A SyFy techno-thriller about time, space, and the enduring truth of love-by Patricia L. Meek.
The White Rabbit: A.I. Art by Patricia L. Meek.
“No one anticipated how many virtual adventurers would resonate with the Victorian tale of a young girl who falls down a rabbit hole and enters a fanciful dis-reality about time. Five hundred million members have docked at our VR ports, paid their data coin, and have slid down the rabbit hole into Wonderworld.”
–Alyson Keane, world builder, and creator of Wonderworld. From Wonderworld: The Valley of Lost Souls, a novel by Patricia L. Meek, seeking representation.
“The Queen Mother peers at the bird with her splendid and awful countenance. She smiles, and her teeth are like perfect pearls. When she turns to gaze upon me again, her pupils split wide, revealing her yellow-green snake eyes. She is an alien, the Anu Monarch AbysssX, mistress of Multiverses. I lower my gaze, harboring disdain for my cowardice. I have no choice. I have heard the rumors she can turn one to stone,” Ryone Roberts.
Patricia L. Meek from Wonderworld: The Valley of Lost Souls. (All A.I. Artwork By Patricia L. Meek).
Alyson Keane is the heroine and creator of a massive multi-player game called Wonderworld. The VR game is based on the Victorian novel of Alice in Wonderland. But something is terribly wrong with the software. Gamers have disappeared.
“I saw a brown-eyed girl with blue rings around her irises like rings around a distant planet that felt like home.”
Ryone Roberts: From Wonderworld: The Valley of Lost Souls by Patricia L Meek.
Uli, a goddess and Earth protector. The mother of us all.
“Uli is the protector of this planet. She is creation and destruction, a force to be reckoned with,” Queen Mother AbysssX to Ryone Roberts.
The Starman, Ryone Roberts
“I met Ryone Roberts, who is different enough to be intriguing. If anyone is a hybrid-alien, it would have to be him. “
Alyson Keane, from Wonderworld: The Valley of Lost Souls.
Traceson. Alyson’s ex-boyfriend and world renowned hacker.
“I need a Wetware hacker, and Traceson is the best.” Alyson Keane.
Alyson’s best friend, Marika.
“Marika’s face floats in the window above her text. She is a beauty with her curly auburn-cherry hair, coco lowlights, and latte-toned skin. I asked her to be discreet in our communication as it is a small town, and I’d like to keep my comings and goings as private as possible.”
I drove a hundred miles in the rain to see the earth breathe. I drove a hundred miles in the rain to see the earth breathe. In that moment in the woods, when the rain had turned the path into what looked like wet ashes, I met myself meeting God. I stood ankle-deep in wet ashes barefoot. I drove a hundred miles in the rain to meet myself meeting God. In that single moment in the rain, I saw the earth breathe. My feet were bare. I was cold. I held on tight to a cypress knee. I was barefoot when the entire planet inhaled. In that breath, in that breath I knew I was alive.
I’m pleased to announce that my poetry video, Dialogue with Georgia O’Keeffe I: Chimney Rock was accepted into the 2020 Film and Video Poetry Symposium, in Los Angeles, California.
Honored that my video poem, “Dialogue with Georgia O’ Keeffe I: Chimney Rock” will be screened at Rabbit Heart Poetry Film Festival. Thank You, Rabbit Heart!!
Chimney Rock: Dialogue with Georgia O’Keeffe I written by Patricia L. Meek and produced by Jack Rabbit Hollow productions has made another year of being long-listed. Thank you, Rabbit Heart!!! Please read the announcement below.
Mary Ellen Stahl sat in the back of the old Lincoln, watching the silver Airstream follow behind, quietly pounding her chest so her grandparents wouldn’t hear the sound over the country music station. Of course, they’d already discovered her secret. It was the reason they’d decided to take the long trip from Pine Grove, Texas, to Hot Springs, South Dakota, to cure what they called an infliction with the healing powers of the water there.
The day after Mary Ellen had turned thirteen, she decided she would not grow breasts. Like many of her past birthdays, she celebrated by blowing out the multicolored candles on her frosted cake and by opening her gift. This year, she’d gotten a blue sweater, dotted with tiny rosebuds; “perfect for church” was what Grandmother Kay had said. The next morning while she was still lying in bed, she looked at the sweater draped over the chair and thought about the present her mother would have picked. If it had been a sweater, her mother would have picked red—something tight and fuzzy. She would have said something like: “The more plush, the better to hug,” or “Little Miss Mary, you just wait. You’ll have those boys admiring that figure of yours before too long.”
Mary Ellen was what her mother had affectionately called a late bloomer. Only recently had she noticed that her chest, which had been as flat as a boy’s, was beginning to grow, forming what looked like robin’s eggs. Mary Ellen had stared at the sweater, a size too big, when she imagined the rosebuds forming into a pattern, then swirling into a pool of colors. She’d cried then, and a few minutes later, she’d made a fist and brought it squarely down on her chest, hoping that her shells would crack. Although she knew there wasn’t much hope, she’d imagined that with time, and a little patience and determination, she could retard the growth and—with a little luck—avoid puberty.
Mary Ellen struck herself again and looked over at the front seat. She had to make sure that she would not be discovered. She knew all too well her grandparents’ response.
We’re parked in the middle of a snow-packed lane where treetops threaten telephone lines. Branches on both sides of the truck are knuckle-twisted and braided in ice. The headlights cushion my father’s draped body, but somewhere down the dark road, light, trees, and wire disappear. It’s midnight and Dad is taking pictures. He’s buried under a darkcloth as if that were enough to keep him warm.
Mom keeps track of time, and worries. The Ford pickup has gone dead before, so she hastily looks over to the dash as the light dims, then revives—bright, yellow, and safe. This is Utah and it’s cold in winter, especially winter at midnight. Even I know how fast a person can die from exposure and I’m just a kid. The heater doesn’t work so well, and the passenger side window has a crack in the glass, big enough to hear the mournful wind whistle. I am mostly warm except for my feet—which I’ve given up on—and my face, which I can sink into Mom’s lap anytime. She is not patient and firmly presses my shoulder back toward the seat so I’ll go to sleep. I get bored, pop up. She warns me with a clamped-jaw sigh, an airy whistle from her nose, and I lie down to be good. I stare at the pedals, which I know are dirty from my father’s boot. I am restless and can’t help myself: Pop-goes-the-weasel.
Thank you for your submission to Rabbit Heart Poetry Film Festival this year. We received a ton of wonderful entries from all over the world this year, and yours was among them.
It is with great pleasure that I write to inform you that your film, Ghost Ranch, was chosen to be a selection in our Showcase Matinee!
The Showcase Matinee will be here in Worcester, MA at Nick’s Bar on Saturday, October 21st, and of course you’re invited to see your film screened among the good work! Seating will be tight that afternoon; if you would like to attend, please let me know before October 9th so I can send you a pair of tickets to the event and save your seats.
To see the full listing of finalists and find out the good company you’re in, please visit www.doublebunnypress.com, and choose 2017 Shortlists from the dropdown menu under Rabbit Heart Poetry Film Festival.