TOUGH LIT III

Special Issue

June – August 2011 PRICE: $8.50

IdeaGems Publications presents:

We ain’t pretty but we’re good and gritty with…

Crime Mystery Suspense Prison Grit WARNING: Some stories deal with strong themes using strong language. Not for the weak of heart… or bladder.

Inside this Issue

Going into its 7th year now, IdeaGems Publications has been a stepping stone for writers on the arduous climb up the steep path to publication. It has been our honor and privilege to be the first opportunity for many writers to get their start as well as to help promote the books of up-and-coming writers.

Although we are but a small piece in the publishing puzzle, we have contributed to the careers of dozens of writers to date.

We’re always looking for stories, articles, poetry, and artwork for upcoming issues. So send us your submissions now and get published very soon! (For guidelines, go to www.IdeaGems.com.)

OUR STAFF

Laurie E. Notch, Managing Editor In charge of stories, articles, poems To contact, email: ideagems@aol.com

Elizabeth Wyrwicz, Graphic Artist and Layout Editor In charge of art, photography, and graphics To contact, email: glowcatstudio@gmail.com

3

Songs of the Sea

5

Communion

7

Season of Sorrow

8

Maria

8

Ocean Wave

9

Oprah to the Rescue

10

Expansion

10

Kelsey’s Kids

11

The Cherokee Saint

14

The Great Molasses Disaster

15

January Thaw

16

Litso

19

Sullen

21

Baby X

21

Tea Time

22

Lost Loves, Broken Dreams

22

Mother of the Year

23

Perceptions

24

The Little Girl

24

Live Another Day

25

Heirs of Justice, Pt 3

26

Little Boxes, Pt 2

30

The Eternal Nocturne, Pt 3

32

Poetry From Prison

35

From Us to You…

Mary Regan, Public Relations In charge of advertising and promotions To contact, email: meregan4@gmail.com Special thanks to our contributing editors: Claudia Aragon Marcelline Jenny © JUNE 2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. THE UNAUTHORIZED DUPLICATION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

2

The Intruder

TOUGH LIT. III

You asked for it and you got it! The third in a series of the SPECIAL TOUGH LIT SERIES crammed to the brim with true crime, crime drama, political suspense, stories from prison, edgy literature and poetry.

We are always pleased receive more and more submissions from talented writers and artists and are proud to offer many of them their first crack at getting published.

To do this, we continually need your continued support in purchasing of our magazine in print, PDF download, or Kindle™ and in passing the good word for others to do the same.

We hope to make TOUGH LIT a regular event . If you have a story, poem, photography or artwork to contribute, please submit it to: ideagems@aol.com.

As always, thanks for reading!

-- Laurie Notch, Managing Editor

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

The Intruder

by Claudia Aragon I always hate coming home alone, especially at night. As I walk along, I hear the rapping of my heels along the pavement. The echoes of my steps surrounding me, teasing me, as I’m reminded how truly alone I am. I pick up my pace, and as I do, so does the rapping of my heels, like a machine gun riveting the night.

The silhouette of my shadow billows against the sidewalk and surrounding buildings, cascading, hovering about me like a demon.

Clutching at my purse with the grip of death, I pull my coat tightly about me.

Breathing quickens as my eyes dart back and forth for unseen and unknown dangers.

Finally I’m home. I’m momentarily distracted as I look about, all the while fumbling for my beloved keys. Finally, the key hits the target and I’m inside. I know it’s insane to feel this way, but now I suddenly feel trapped. As though, I’m a caged animal inside a small space and not feeling safe within the confines of my own home.

“Torino, here boy.”

That’s funny. Where’s the dog? Why hasn’t he come to meet me at the door?

I search for the lamp in the dark and finally turn it on. I stare ahead in shock, in fear and in denial.

“Hello, Julia.”

I don’t move. I dare not speak. Torino, my dear sweet Torino, like a broken doll, lay limp and lifeless in his hands. My mind spins with unspoken questions.

How did he get into my apartment? How did he find out where I live? How does he know my name?

He makes a move to get up and my anxiety and apprehension rise to volcanic levels. I now have humiliation on top of my fear...I’ve just urinated on myself. Feeling the warmth, as it drifts slowly down my legs, I struggle to regain and maintain my self control.

He laughs loudly and joyously as he says, “What’s the matter, Julia? Didn’t you go before you left work?”

Suddenly I recognize him and realize where I’ve seen him. He’s the bartender at Marconi’s. I remember the night we went there. It was to be a girl’s night out, just the three of us, Lorna, Cynthia and me. Lorna was laughing and flirting with him, leaning over the bar as she tousled his hair. She even talked about his dark and intense good looks.

Seeing him now, as he makes a move to sit once more, it’s hard to believe it was only last week. We had never been to Marconi’s before, but they had advertised a unique and splendid happy hour experience, so we went.

I still don’t speak. My mind is spinning with a mixture of questions and possible escape plans. I’m still trying to figure out how he knows my name and where I live. I’ve never spoken to him before.

I decide it’s better to focus my energy on my escape. After all, who knows my apartment better than me? The kitchen is too obvious. He’d expect me to try that. There’s a can of ant spray in the bathroom. I have a chance if he allows me to go and clean myself. If not, I’ll have to make a mad dash for it and hope I get to the ant spray before he can get to me.

“Where are all your friends tonight? Did they desert you?”

Come to think of it, I wasn’t able to reach Lorna or Cynthia for the last four days. It’s out of character for them not to return a phone call.

Oh, my God! What if he’s been to their apartments as well?

My eyes scan the apartment looking for how he entered. The curtains by the balcony catch my attention as they billow slightly with the night breeze. I watch them cantering slowly in and out of the dining room.

Weeks ago, I told the super I was having a problem with the balcony door lock. He simply blew me off.

“I’ll get to it, Miss Julia. Besides, how long has it been like that and you ain’t had no problems yet.”

“That isn’t what’s relevant Stanley. I feel I have a security issue regarding my apartment and want it addressed right away.”

“Okay, Miss Julia. I’ll get right on it.”

Well, so much for promises and promptness. That was two weeks ago. I remember talking to Lorna about it while we were having a drink at Marconi’s.

“Do you believe how he just blew me off about it?”

“Well, can’t you just prop a broomstick or something in the track until he gets it fixed?", asked Lorna.

“I guess so, but he just ticks me off. Is it too much to ask to be a person of your word and follow through?”

“I know Julia. Stanley doesn’t appear to be the reliable type. Until he gets it fixed you can always come, stay at my place.”

“Thanks Lorna. It won’t be necessary.”

“Well, if you change your mind, I keep a spare key under the planter on the VOL 6, ISSUE 4

porch.”

“You have to be kidding! Aren’t you afraid someone will see where you put it?”

“No, not really. Besides you’ve seen my porch. No one can see my door from the street, so how can they see me hiding the key? Excuse me, may I get another?” She waved her glass at the bartender. “Thanks,” she said smiling, bending over to show him the crest of her ample bosom.

The bastard stood there the whole time. He listened to our whole conversation while he cleaned the glasses!

Now a tightness born of fear grips my chest as I realize he had to have gone to Lorna’s. He must have followed her home, or she could have simply asked him over for a drink. Either way, he knew where she kept the key.

The last time I spoke to either Cynthia or Lorna was on Saturday. They were going to have a movie and pizza night at Lorna’s and wanted to know if I was up for it. Normally I would jump at the opportunity, but I had a budget analysis report to finish by Sunday and begged off. That was the last time I spoke to either of them.

“Come on Julia. It’s Top Gun. You love that movie. The sex scene and Tom Cruise is so smokin’ hot. Come on, let work go.”

“Yeah, come on,” piped in Cynthia. “I ordered the pizza from Rocco’s. Thirty inches of pure sin: the works-4 cheeses, every meat imaginable and every type of vegetable you can grow. Can’t you just smell how good it is? Of course, Lorna’s anchovies and pineapple will be on the side.”

“Really, you guys, I can’t. If this report isn’t perfect and done on time, it’s my ass. I would love to be there. Maybe next time.”

“Okay, but it takes three of us to do justice to a pizza that big,” said Lorna.

“I’ll call you guys on Monday and let’s just plan on getting together later in the week. Love you guys. Bye.” “We love you too,” they shouted in unison. “Bye!” I finally decide to speak and make my move.

“May I go to the bathroom to clean myself?”

He looks at me with a satisfied smirk and I want nothing more than to knock that smugness off his face.

"Yeah, but leave the door open.”

As I begin to walk toward the bathroom, I realize I have the makings for the perfect arsenal there. There are bottles of ammonia, bleach and toilet bowl cleaner, as well as hair spray, a lighter and the ant spray. I may not take him out completely, but I sure as hell can make him miserable. He decides to engage me in conversation, so I go along trying to buy myself some time.

“Aren’t you curious how I found you?”

“Yes, I’ve been trying to figure it out. I only saw you the one time at Marconi’s and we never even spoke.”

“Your lovely blond friend is responsible. She was so easy to tempt and trap. We went out for coffee and she had me over.”

“Did you hurt her, you bastard?”

“Not yet. I used her and your other friend…to get to you.”

“What do you mean? Why me?” ”Look at you. You’re beautiful and smart. Not a little bubble-headed party girl like your friends. You intrigue me.”

“Where are my friends? What have you done with them?”

“All in good time. No need to rush. They aren’t going anywhere.”

“Why do I intrigue you? I’m nothing special.”

“You are a curiosity. Why are you friends with Lorna and Cynthia? What’s the attraction? I’m really trying to understand.”

“The three of us grew up together. We’ve been friends since we were five.”

“When your friend Lorna called me Saturday, she said they needed another person to help eat the pizza, since you bailed.”

The vise grip on my chest is unbearable. He was with them Saturday! That’s the last time I spoke to either of them. No wonder they never returned any of my calls. I pray they are alive.

“When you finish,we’ll leave so you can be re-united with your friends. They’re dying to see you.”

He laughs loudly, finding humor in his tasteless statement. Now I realize that if they are alive I have to revise my plan for escape. If I hurt him, I may never find them. Yet, if I go with him, none of us may get out of this alive.

Making sure he can’t see me, I put the lighter in my bra. Any aerosol can is a potential torch. I also place a metal nail file in my shoe. I walk out of the bathroom toward an unknown future and possible annihilation.

I see him going through my purse. Well, so much for my pepper spray. He takes the metal nail file out of my purse as well. I laugh to myself at the irony in this. I look toward the coffee table. There are two books of matches, a metal nail file, my pepper spray, and an aerosol hair spray—all taken from my purse. He’s taken the liberty of removing anything he felt could be a potential weapon. Little does he know or realize that I’ve got an arsenal of would be weapons stuffed into my bra and shoe.

“Take a jacket. I can’t have you catching a cold now, can I? Where did you put

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

3

your cell phone?”

“It’s on the small table in the foyer. I always place my keys and phone there. Most of my calls after five are work related, so I never answer it.”

“Good. That’s where it can stay. Grab your purse and your keys. When we get out in the hall you better remember your place. If you ever want to see your two friends alive, don’t be stupid.”

He speaks with so much coldness. I’m trying to decide if the confidence he displays is real or imagined on his part. I cast one more glance at my beloved little Torino, tossed into the corner, lost to me forever, and then I walk out the door towards an unknown future.

We get into a car I’ve never seen before, and he puts a blindfold on me and ties my hands. After securing my seatbelt, he gets in and starts the car. I made sure I paid attention to the direction the car was facing before we left. My intuition and my senses are all that I have now.

I dare not engage in any conversation. I need to be fully alert. I take in all the sounds and smells to not only get, but keep my bearings.

He pulls away from the curb and continues straight. The street has seven stop signs. We turn left after the third stop and are now heading west. I always made jokes to Lorna that I could find my way around my neighborhood blindfolded. Little did I know that one day I was going to get the chance to put that statement to the test.

We pass over the tracks and from the muffled sound of passing cars we must have gone through a tunnel also. He turns the car back to the right and now we are heading north again. I smell dust and wet earth as the road starts to get a little rough. There is a wide, unpaved, dirt service road that runs parallel to the tracks.

This road becomes a dead end at the rock quarry. God, I hate that expression.

Dead End. It sounds especially morbid today, as unknown and untold horrors await me. The car careens to the left and stops.

The car engine is silenced. The driver’s side door opens and slams shut. I can hear the gravel grinding into the ground as his shoes force each pebble into submission. My door is opened, the seatbelt removed, yet my hands remain tied and the blindfold holds tight, forbidding my eyes any visitation of light.

He grasps my arm to help lift me from the car. His hand is warm to the touch and slimy with sweat. My senses are heightened with the addition of the blindfold, as I hear the tempo of his breathing increase and I smell the fear in his sweat. I can tell he’s not as confident as he would have me believe. His movements in this close proximity are hesitant and unsure. I can feel and sense his apprehension.

For the first time tonight I feel mentally superior to this cretin that calls himself a man. I listen intently for more clues. I can’t help wondering if we are indeed alone, or if he may have an accomplice. I hear no other voices. I am left standing alone as I hear the mournful cry of the hinges as he opens a door.

Standing alone blindfolded and tied, I feel helpless, like a lamb just before the slaughter. I am led through a door, down some steps and across a concrete floor. I hear the rapping of my footsteps, just like when I came home earlier. Echoing off the walls of what must surely be a warehouse of some kind.

The air is heavy with the smell of fear, sweat and urine. I am almost afraid of what I’m going to see when he removes the blindfold and I am grateful that I can’t sense or smell death. Finally, he takes the blindfold off and the shock of the florescent lights hurt my eyes to the point of pain. I still remain trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, as he forces me to sit down.

Looking forward I see Lorna gagged and tied to a post. Cynthia, not fairing much better, is tied to a post across the room from Lorna, Yin and Yang. As I scan my surroundings, I notice there are probably fifteen to twenty posts visible within the warehouse. I become sadly aware of the fact there is a woman bound to almost every single post.

Tear stained faces, hair in disarray, signs of apparent struggle marring their clothes and their bodies. All heads turn toward me, eyes filled with fear. I look at both Cynthia and Lorna, tears streaming down their faces. I could never imagine in my worst nightmare what might possibly happen next.

“Look at me, all you bubble-headed twits. This is what a real woman looks like. She embodies beauty and grace. She is intelligent and poised. Compared with her, you are all filth, trash, useless little sluts and whores.”

I become frightened again as he seems to regain his confidence. I may only have a very small window of opportunity with which to act. I was worried when I only had three of us to save. Now I must somehow save fifteen to twenty and I don’t know how I’m going to do it.

I look at Lorna and follow her eyes. She looks over to a CD player on the counter. She winks, gives her head a little nod and looks back at my intruder. I understand her message and begin to play a dangerous game of cat and mouse.

“Will you play some music and dance with me? I want to show these bitches just how good I am. Make it a nice slow song.”

He looks at me with a hunger in his eyes that makes me want to puke. I give him my sexiest smile and most seductive body posture. Not easy considering I’m sitting in a chair and my hands are still bound. I keep reminding myself not to let my 4

emotions show on my face. It could make the difference between life and death, not only for me, but for us all.

He walks over to the CD player, stops, hesitates for just a moment, looks back at me, smiles and then starts to look for the perfect song. He has to find the ultimate song that will show everyone including me how perfect we are and how much we belong together.

I take this moment to look around the room at all the other women, to see if there is a common thread running through this crazy quilt. I instantly realize there is and I am frightened at the prospect of both what it is and what it means. With the exception of Lorna who’s blond and Cynthia who has coal black hair, every other woman tethered to the posts is a redhead…like me.

They all appear to be my height, weight and body style. Is he looking for some ideal and if so, did all these women tied to the posts somehow let him down? I now know I need to play him like a finely tuned instrument. I cannot afford to disappoint him on any level. I have to engage him in conversation to find a chink in his armor. Finding the true nature of his weakness, while finding a way to suppress his strengths, could spell the end for us all if I’m not perfect in my execution. There is no room for error or mistakes . Otherwise, I could end up being tethered to the posts as well.

His voice shatters the silence and I am startled upright in my chair. “Son of a bitch! The song I want isn’t here.”

“You can always play that song for me another time. I won’t mind waiting. In the meantime is there a slow and sexy song we can dance to? I want to feel the strength of your arms around me, holding me, guiding me while we dance.”

He takes the bait, and looks through the stack of CDs again, choosing “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers. I laugh to myself at the irony in the songs name, for he has to unchain me, by untying me, so we can dance.

The song starts. He comes to me. His hands shake as he unties the rope. He offers me his outstretched hand to lift me from the chair. I’m pulled tightly into him and the heat of his body is overwhelming. His right arm encircles my waist and his left hand holds my right. Closing my eyes, head against his chest and allow him to guide me across the floor.

I force myself to relax by thinking of other dances, other men. I can feel his growing interest in me and use my free hand to caress his back. He responds by stroking my back and pulling me into him more. He’s trembling and his breath is hot against my ear and as the tempo of his breathing increases, so does the level of his erection.

The song ends and he rushes me back to the chair, quickly binds me to the frame, running out of the room before I can catch my breath. When he reenters the room, his face is flushed, the erection is gone and there is a small wet spot to the side of his zipper. I can only hope I’m heading in the right direction with him and that I didn’t just make a major mistake.

He walks over to me, gently kisses my cheek and says, “I’m so sorry to push you into the chair so roughly. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Are you okay? You left me so quickly.”

“I’m fine.” He averts his glance from me, crimson rising in his cheeks. “Well, it’s time to feed all the bitches and give them something to drink. Tonight you can help me to take care of them. It will make the chore go by so much faster. Then we can dance, play chess, or just read while we listen to some smooth jazz. I won’t be gone long.”

“Hurry back. I can’t wait to feel the strength of your arms around me again.”

My words have the desired effect. He stands straighter and gives me a killer smile, before leaving by a different door.

I decide to seize this opportunity to question some of the women. Only a rare few are gagged, like Lorna and Cynthia. Before I can speak a whispered voice breaks the silence.

“He’ll be gone for almost an hour. There are so many of us now, it takes him a lot longer to go get food. He usually goes to McDonalds, because it’s so cheap. My name is Margaret. I was the first. What is your name?”

“My name is Julia. How long have you been here?”

“I’m trying to remember. I think about three months. Are you local?”

“Yes, I’m from this area. Where are you from?”

“Tulsa. None of us even know where we are. He never has on a TV or the radio. The only music we hear is if he plays a CD while we eat. What town and state are we in?”

“We’re in San Diego, California. Quickly, before he gets back, let’s start on the left side of the building by the counter. Tell me your names and where you are from and where you were when you were taken. I’ll ask more after I get a clearer picture of exactly how wide spread we are.”

“I’m Jan, from Sacramento. I was at a gas station in Phoenix.”

“Chanelle, from Cincinnati. I was at the San Antonio airport.”

“Toni, from San Antonio. I was in the mall parking lot in San Antonio.”

“Gretchen, from Phoenix. I was at the mall in Flagstaff.”

“Joyce, from Prescott, Arizona. I was at the Grand Canyon.”

(Cont’d. on p. 33)

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

Songs of the Sea

by Bill Finnegan I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

T.S. Elliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” As was usual at breakfast time, the Spinnaker Diner was crowded, noisy and redolent of bacon, eggs, and coffee. The Seal Isle Police Department occupied the corner both, which was reserved for them every morning. The Department’s staff consisted, in its entirety, of Captain Buddy Clogg and Officers Athena Bickford and Paul Gallant. The Captain was 61 years old and had headed the Department for as long as anyone could remember. Athena, 28 and divorced, had studied criminal justice at a community college and considered herself a career law enforcer. Paul, a chaste 24-year old, was the Department’s latest acquisition. He was an exseminarian who had interrupted his studies in order to support a widowed sister and her young children. He had been a year from ordination and planned to return to the seminary as soon as his sister could work full-time.

Paul and Athena found one another attractive but realized a divorced police officer would be an unsuitable wife for an Episcopal priest. So they kept their relationship comradely, lighthearted, and platonic.

The Captain’s cell phone rang with the tone he assigned to calls forwarded from the station house, and he hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of omelet.

“Police Department, Clogg speaking.” After listening for several minutes, he said, “Sure Jens I’ll do that. We’ll tell him. Yep, today. The crew and I are in the middle of breakfast but as soon as we’re done I’ll send Paul over to the Cove.

You’re welcome Jens. Bye” Athena smiled. “Let me guess. Some guy rented the Conway house and Jens wants you to warn him about the big Squid.”

“You got it,” said Clogg resignedly. He took a sip of coffee and turned to Paul.

“You recall the death of guy named Conroy couple of years ago over at Lobster Cove? “ “Yeah. I was at the seminary but my sister told me about it. He owned the house there.”

“Right. He used it on weekends as a love nest. Seemed like a different woman every time.

“A regular Don Juan or maybe Marquis De Sade for all we know,” Athena interjected.

“Then this one weekend he comes up alone, and doesn’t show up at his office the following Monday. Athena and I went out to the house and didn’t find anything odd except for an overturned beach chair and some churned-up sand just above the high tide line. His car was in the driveway, and his wallet and keys were in the house. Couple of days later a fisherman found his body wedged between some rocks a quarter mile off-shore. The autopsy showed death by loss of blood and shock, not drowning. All of his internal organs had been removed through a hole chewed in his abdomen while he was still alive.”

“Eels?” Paul asked with a grimace.

“No. The kinds we have around here don’t attack the living. Anyway, this all rang a bell with Jens Nilsson at the tackle shop. He did some computer research on people who have gone missing off the Maine coast, and found reports that some of the recovered bodies had been disemboweled. Jens is convinced Conroy and the others were snatched and sucked dry by a Kraken.”

“Kraken?”

“It’s a legendary Scandinavian sea monster with a taste for human innards. I never heard of it either. Jens made such a fuss I looked it up on Wikipedia.”

“Athena mentioned a squid.”

“Wikipedia says mariners’ myths always have a basis in reality. Sailors once believed in sea serpents because so many real things look like them--porpoises swimming one behind the other, large masses of floating kelp half awash.

Columbus wrote in a log book during his second voyage that he saw mermaids, which we can safely assume were manatees. In the case of the Kraken, scholars attribute the legend to sightings of giant squids by Vikings and other early seafarers.”

“So,” Athena added with a grin, “Scotland has the Loch Ness monster and Seal Isle has a giant gut- sucking squid, which, unfortunately, isn’t as good for tourism.”

Paul laughed and then said, “You know there’s a Biblical side to sea monsters. At the time the Book of Genesis was written there was an ancient tale about Yahweh having to defeat a sea dragon in order to create the Cosmos. Since it wasn’t included in the biblical account of Creation it looks like there were monster skeptics even back then.”

Athena smirked. “Thanks for the sermon, Father Paul, but how about giving theology a rest when you’re on duty. The Township isn’t paying you to save souls.”

“You’re right as usual, Officer Bickford,” Paul said good-naturedly. “More to the VOL 6, ISSUE 4

point, a Kraken supposedly looks like a giant squid and, none, as far as I know, has ever been sighted in our waters.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing,” Athena said ominously with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Remember all the victims were alone. And though I didn’t see anything when I scuba dived around the Cove looking for Conroy, I felt I was being watched the whole time.”

The Captain laughed. “After listening to Jens you can’t help being a little spooked.”

“What do you think happened to Conroy and the other guys, Cap?” Paul asked.

“No idea. The sea’s full of things that can kill you--rip tides, rogue waves, poisonous jellyfish, sharks, orcas. Or Conroy could’ve been murdered on shore and had his body dumped in the sea afterwards, though that seems unlikely. His family and friends knew of no enemies, and there are no signs of a mutilating madman being on the loose. Anyway, when we’re done here, Paul, you need to drive out to the Cove. Jens already warned the renter, but said the guy’s a know-it-all and thought it was funny.”

“He’ll laugh at me too.”

“Not if you leave out the Kraken nonsense and stick to the facts. Just tell him about Conroy and suggest he be careful and keep his eyes open when he’s near the water. Jens said his name is ‘Harris.’” * * * As Paul left the Diner for Lobster Cove, Professor of Oceanography Martin Harris was trudging across the sand weighted down by a surfcasting pole, tackle box, cooler, and beach chair. He was heading toward the stone jetty bisecting the Cove which seemed a good place to fish from.

Martin was taking a solitary vacation during spring break so he could think through a knotty personal problem. Last month the college president unexpectedly announced his retirement and Martin was chosen to succeed him next term. This meant that over the next few months he had to end a secret affair with Heather, his teaching assistant. He knew if he did not handle it right the little bitch, as he now thought of her, would ruin him. She had lately become very clingy and would be with him now had she not committed to a Windjammer cruise with a girl friend. Martin sighed, peered out onto the choppy sea, and wondered whether Windjammer cruises were at all dangerous. He had seriously considered hiring an ex-con to take the cruise and arrange a shipboard accident. But then he remembered how people were sometimes arrested by undercover cops posing as hit men. So if there were dirty work to be done he would have to do it himself. But he had resolved not to think about any of this unpleasantness today. He had a whole week to do that, and, for now, he was going to relax and enjoy the ocean.

Although it was a gloomy day, the Cove was sternly beautiful, and he had it all to himself.

Martin’s attention was caught by a flock of gulls circling low and squawking excitedly over a large object in the shallow surf a few hundred feet to his right. The gulls were acting the way they do when hovering over a school of frenzy-feeding bluefish while waiting for scraps of flesh and guts to float to the surface. He grinned, remembering the crazy old Swede babbling about a local sea monster.

Seeing the situation’s potential as an amusing cocktail party story he hurriedly shed his gear, and jogged towards the gulls.

When he was half way to the object in the surf his heart jumped. Partially in and out of the water lay the body of a naked woman wrapped in kelp.

“Heather,” he exclaimed hopefully but saw it was not she when he got closer.

The body was that of beautiful woman with long black hair, small firm breasts, a narrow waist, and extremely white skin. She reminded Martin of Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus,” except for her dark hair.

He knelt in the water and placed a hand on the side of her throat to feel for a pulse and, ever the multitasker, he used his other hand to caress one of her breasts. Suddenly her eyes snapped open, and she smiled at him fondly, as though he were a lover she had been waiting for. Martin quickly recovered from his surprise, withdrew his hands, and smiled back, entranced by her exotic beauty, penetrating black eyes, wide mouth, and the silvery flecks that decorated her skin.

She looked deeply into his eyes and began to vocalize a wordless song, somehow producing both melody and harmony at the same time. It conjured up the roar of the wind and the surging of waves the way Felix Mendelssohn’s Hebrides Overture did. It drew Martin in and transported him far out onto the ocean. He loved sea birds and now he was one of them, a large Shearwater gliding effortlessly over the waves for miles and miles. He had never been so happy and felt so free. He wanted it to go on forever.

The song stopped, and Martin found himself lying in the shallows with his limbs numb and the woman’s hand around his wrist. He saw that her fingers were webbed, and felt her grip to be surprisingly strong. Her mouth had shed its gentle, coquettish smile and become a lamprey’s mouth, round and full of small serrated teeth. With a series of powerful undulating thrusts she shook off the kelp and began to slide into the bay, while Martin, struggling in vain to pull free, screamed in terror.

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

5

* * * Two hours later Captain Clogg phoned the tackle shop from the house at Lobster Cove.

“Jens, I’ve got a problem. Harris’ car is in the driveway, but he’s not in the house or on the beach. We found a sandal near a large clump of seaweed and a lot of churned-up sand. It looks like he was dragged into the water. Yeah, like with Conroy. Now, I’m not jumping to any conclusions but suppose, for the sake of argument, it is a Kraken or some other sea monster that’s snatching these guys.

What would it take to catch and kill it?”

Jens gave an angry response, and the Captain said soothingly, “Okay, okay. I know you’re not a monster expert, and that what works against one won’t work against all. Suppose you just tell me how to kill a Kraken.”

He listened intently to Jens’ lengthy reply and then summed it up.

“You’re saying he waits for the Kraken alone without a weapon, and when it attacks he pulls it out of the water onto the beach with his bare hands. Shit, Jens, even if I believed that would work, how the hell would I find a ‘hero with a pure heart’ to do it?”

Jens answered, and the Captain chuckled, thanked him, and hung up. He stood there for several minutes thinking about the media army that would soon invade Seal Isle and how incompetent they would make him look. His investigation of the Conroy case had been perfunctory because he had assumed that unusual natural causes that wouldn’t be repeated were at play. But that seemed ridiculous now that a second man had disappeared the same way from the same beach. The only thing that would save his reputation and job would be to solve the Harris case and do it quickly. No stone should be left unturned.

He went out the back door and walked to where Paul was photographing the crime scene.

“Hey Paul, we need to talk.” * * * As it turned out, Clogg need not have worried about the media. Once they got wind of Jens Kraken theory, it became the focal point of their coverage. A typical headline reporting the finding of Harris body read: “Professor of Oceanography Eviscerated by Mysterious Sea Creature.”

And better yet, a flattering video clip of Clogg had appeared on national television. It had a pretty cable newswoman asking the Captain whether he believed in sea monsters, and him answering, with a sly country boy smile, “Katie honey, I’m sure you can ‘preciate why I can’t share the details of an ongoin’ investigation. But I will say we’ve thrown out a really wide net that’s plenty big enough to catch any Kraken that maybe lurkin’ out there.”

The last of the out-of-town reporters had finally left, and Clogg planned to drive to the Cove after lunch and end Paul’s three week stake-out. Jens had recommended at least three weeks so the Kraken would have time to digest Harris’ innards and become hungry again. * * * It was a foggy day at Lobster Cove with rain expected in the late afternoon. Out on the beach Paul lay on a chaise lounge reading a novel Athena had lent him about an idealistic and high-principled husband and his resourceful and courageous wife who struggle against a never ending stream of calamities. Reading while on stake-out was okay, Jens said, because the water around a submerged Kraken omitted such a horrible odor that you always smelled one before you saw it. And Jens had no objection to Paul wearing his service pistol, provided he left it behind when he went to fight the Kraken mano y mano. This was all nonsense to Paul, but it was what the Captain wanted and the most pleasant assignment he had ever had.

He felt hungry and checked his watch. Twenty more minutes and he would head back to the beach house where Athena would be meeting him with lunch from the Diner. The food she brought was always delicious and was paid for by the Department because of the stake-out.

Knowing Athena would want to discuss the novel over lunch, he dutifully opened it and resumed reading. He had covered only half a page when his attention was caught by the cries of gulls circling something in the surf.

He sniffed the air and smiled. “No stench, no Kraken,” he said to himself, and headed towards the object, walking at first and then running when he saw it was a body. It was that of a slender woman, lying half out of the water with arms by her sides and long black hair spread out on the damp sand. Her upper torso was naked and the lower was wrapped in kelp.

“Lord, she’s exquisite, like a Renaissance painting,” he thought.

He averted his eyes from her bare breasts, squatted in the water, and felt her throat for a pulse. Now up close, he saw that her skin was covered with silvery flecks and her mouth was unusually wide.

He was not finding a heartbeat, so, when she opened her eyes and smiled, he was startled and toppled backwards to a sitting position in the shallow water.

“You’re alive! Are you okay?” he asked, returning her smile.

6

Her answer was to look deeply into his eyes and begin vocalizing something that reminded him of Gregorian chant. He loved church music and tried to mentally visualize the notes she was making. Suddenly he found himself clothed in gorgeous priestly vestments and giving a sermon from the pulpit of a vast cathedral filled with worshippers who were spellbound by his eloquence. He was dimly aware that he was on duty and should not be daydreaming, and wanted to stop. He wanted to stand but his legs and arms felt leaden and he was fading fast. But he found he could summon his voice and he began to sing the first thing that came to mind, which was a famous eighteenth century Protestant hymn.

“Oh, God, our help in ages past, our hope in years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast and….”

His strength began to return, and the woman look worried. She changed to a seductively throbbing and Middle Eastern vocalization, and pulled away some of the kelp covering her lower body. This revealed more nakedness and a pair of graceful thighs that began to bend at the knees and spread.

Paul was overcome by a potent lust that made copulating with her a dire necessity. With his heart racing he stopped singing and crawled to her side. But just as she reached out to guide him onto her, he was jolted out of the spell by a powerful impact that hurled him away from her and up onto the beach. He had been hit by a five-foot wall of water, the first in a train of swells to arrive at the Cove from a storm raging thousands of miles away off the coast of Africa.

“Thank God,” he said, while making the sign of the cross. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed the woman’s arms, and dragged her up onto the sand. The remaining kelp fell away, and he saw that her feet pointed sideways and were fused at the heels to form a caudal fin.

“You’re not human. You’re a monster!” he exclaimed. She looked terrified and began omitting a piteous keening sound. Paul drew his pistol and tried to aim it between her eyes but, affected by her lament, he could not keep the sight on target. He changed to a two-handed grip which worked, but then found he could not bring himself to pull the trigger. Inhuman though she might be, she was too beautiful a creature to destroy, he thought. And, after all, he was there to kill a Kraken, not a sea siren--maybe the last one left on Earth. Sure she was a seductress, but that did not warrant a death sentence. He recalled that Jesus befriended Mary Magdalene, who had been a whore according to some of the church fathers. No, he would spare her, put her back in the sea.

He lifted the creature from the sand and carried her toward the jetty. Her body was cool, light, and motionless in his arms, and her face serene. She began to hum again, softly and tenderly. The gulls were back now, circling and crying overhead.

Paul felt his attraction to her growing with every step he took. He climbed onto the jetty and gingerly made his way over the rocks to its tip, where he stood holding her in his arms for half a minute while trying to think of a way he could keep her.

But he realized it could not be done. He would put her back and let her come to him again, if she chose. He would return that night after dark and bring her food.

As though reading his mind, she turned her face to him, smiled, and gently draped an arm over his shoulder. Her touch thrilled him. At that moment he loved her unconditionally.

He stepped to the end of the jetty, slowly went down to his knees, kissed her forehead, and let her fall a short distance to the sea, not realizing she had a tight grip on his collar. This pulled him off balance and toppled him into the bay after her. He popped to the surface smiling at her playfulness, and stood in the shoulder deep water waiting for her to appear. Instead, she wrapped her arms tightly around his hips, fastened her lamprey mouth on his abdomen, and began rapidly chewing through his clothing.

“Stop! Stop!” he screamed, managing to hold her head inches away from his body by pushing with all his might. She responded by surfacing, wrapping her arms around his neck, and forcing him off his feet and backwards under the water. He held his breath and struggled to break free but it seemed hopeless. The creature was powerful and they were now entirely in her element. The exertion of struggling quickly consumed his oxygen and he was on the verge of losing consciousness when he heard a muffled thump, felt her release him, and saw her dart away toward deeper water. He pushed to the surface gasping for air and blinking to clear his eyes. There he found policewoman Athena Bickford, pistol in hand, standing at the edge of the jetty like an avenging angel… his avenging angel.

A regular contributor, Bill Finnegan reports that his short stories are finally bringing in some revenue. He has accepted cash offers from Sam’s Dot Publishing for Reciprocity, a cautionary horror story that will appear in an issue of Cover of Darkness later this year. Check out Bill Finnegan’s ebook on Amazon.com!

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

Communion

by J.E. Harris “Darling.”

“Did I wake you?” In the dark, under covers, the old man is nearly invisible to his wife. She strokes a hand along his back, comforting him.

“You were crying.”

“I dreamt of her. I haven’t dreamt of her in years.” He knows the mention of her makes his wife angry. But he is too old, too tired, too sad after his dream to have the energy for pretense.

“Go back to sleep, darling. There’s nothing you can do.”

“If only I knew what happened. Closure. Isn’t that what people say in court rooms when the TV reporters hold the mike in front of them? They want closure?

I never had closure.”

“Hush, dear. It’s been so long. She fell in love, maybe. She ran away. She…who knows? We have each other.”

“I can’t sleep.” He rolls onto his side, his back to his wife, tears sliding down his cheeks. “If she’s alive, why wouldn’t she tell me? If she’s dead, why hasn’t she been found? Why does God torture me, all these years, with not knowing?” His voice quavers.

“Do you think Kathryn knows something? Do you think she could have kept the truth from everyone?” It’s a horrible thought, that his ex-wife could lie about such a thing, but speaking it gives him hope and the pleasure of pinning a terrible thing on the woman he associates with his most intimate and excruciating pains.

“Her grief seemed real,” his wife says to him. They are back-to-back in the bed now.

“But she was the last to see Annie. How could no one know what happened to her? Twenty years! Twenty years it’s been, and nothing! How could her own mother not know something?”

“Pray for her, then. You taught me the power of prayer. Pray, and then sleep.”

“I can’t pray. When I close my eyes I see her face. My only daughter! Gone twenty years! It is more than my heart can stand.”

“Don’t close your eyes, then. Look at me.” She reaches over to her night stand, picks up a fire stick and pulls the trigger. The tip bursts into flame, and she touches it to the candle wicks in the votive glasses beside the bed. “Look at me and remember the good things. Look around. Look at all our wonderful memories.”

He turns toward her, placing a hand on the inward curve between her ribs and her hip.

“Look at the reflection of the candles in the copper plate.”

His old eyes know where on the wall to find the artifact from Istanbul. He can make out the flickering reflection, like gold light on an ocean surface.

“Remember the castle on the Bosphorus where we stayed?”

He remembered, almost enough to bring a smile to his lips.

“And the Pyrennes. Remember the Pyrennes?”

“But Annie,” he says, growing angry. “She was going to be married.”

“Yes,” his wife says. “But in our sorrow, God gave us hope. Terrible that she could not enjoy the wedding we’d planned. But we comforted each other, remember. We had our own wedding… even while we mourned her.”

“Too soon,” he says bitterly. “We should have waited.

“Go to sleep. Tomorrow’s church. No one knows anything. She probably changed her name. She’s probably sunning herself in Costa Rica.”

“Because of us.”

“Because of us?” She blows out the candles. “Go to sleep. Lots of twenty-year olds have stepmothers. Lots of them get used to the idea. It wasn’t because of us.”

“I should pray… Bring her back,” he whispers, childlike. “Please, God. Bring her back, just for a little while, before it’s time for me to die.”

In the morning, he makes Linette coffee with sugar and cream. He brings it to her in a Victorian tea cup with roses painted on the sides.

“Coffee, Annie,” he says.

“Linette.” Her eyes focus downward as she sips. “Your wife. Not your daughter.”

“Oh, yes. Oh…” * * * Linette is younger. Some years back, she took over the driving. At the curb in front of the church, the car idles while she sits behind the wheel. He gets out, his feet testing the ground before he shifts his weight. She parks the car and walks briskly to join him at the door, her heels clicking along the pavement and up the steps.

In the Narthex, the parishioners gather, wearing jeans and sneakers. Only Linette, younger than him but older than most of the others, continues the traditions of the past, wearing a lemon-yellow dress, nylons, and heels.

Kathryn stands surrounded, as always, by a clan of gray haired, bright-eyed men.

VOL 6, ISSUE 4

She chats and laughs with them, continuing, after all these years to dole out small doses of revenge on him. On him and Linette.

Ordinarily, he would avert his eyes.

Kathryn ignores his gaze.

“I had a dream,” he says in her ear, his face close enough to feel the gentle warmth that emanates from her face, to see the flakes of the mascara beneath her lashes.

“It’s too late.”

“Annie.”

“Annie’s gone.”

“We can’t give up hope.”

“Just take your communion.”

“Annie,” he says.

“Communion.”

“Our daughter…”

Tears flow freely down his cheeks. The dream was so real!

To hide his tears, he makes his way down the stairs to the church basement.

The stairs and the wine cellar are inseparable to him. For years he grew the grapes on the church property. For years he fermented the wine used in communion, saving the church money, garnering praise, and hiding his addiction during the years after Annie disappeared. Finally, Linette took over the work to protect him from temptation while he recovered in A.A. He taught her everything he knew, and he was proud. Everyone in the congregation congratulated him as her teacher, saying the wine was sweeter than ever, attempting to support his recovery with flattery. But then a vote was taken—partly due to him—and wine became a thing of the past. Grape juice, it was decided, was better for the congregation, and the old wine cellar was locked up for good.

“Please,” he prays, wishing for strength but continuing toward the cellar. He takes the key from its hiding place under the rock, knowing which of the many rocks in the garden hides it from thieves, one of the little secrets he and Linette share.

So many years since he has ventured into this place, so dangerous to his soul!

Such an old part of the church he has to leave the current building and enter through another, smaller door like the door to a playhouse. Inside it is dark; there are no electric lights, just the sunshine from the open door lighting the barrels lined up on their sides. Beneath his feet, the floor is dirt, just as it was a hundred years ago in his great grandfather’s time.

His night-time dream clouds over his heart, and the familiar, unbearable pain sinks into his bones all over again after all these years. He touches a forefinger, its nail thick and yellow with age, to the tap.

On the flagstone path behind him, he hears the click of high heels.

“Linette, darling,” he says.

“Still sad?”

He nods.

“No happy memories of this place?”

“It’s hard to remember before her, before her…” His forehead presses On the flagstone path behind him, he hears the click of high heels.

“Linette, darling,” he says.

“Still sad?”

He nods.

“No happy memories of this place?”

“It’s hard to remember before her, before her…” His forehead presses the bone of her shoulder, bowing toward comfort.

“Annie,” she says. “Does it hurt to hear her name? Let me pour a drink for you, darling.”

“But…” “It’s only one. Medicine is all about the dose, you know.”

He takes the cup and empties it.

“Better?” she asked.

“No. Nothing, nothing fills the …

“Void? Not even me? Here dear. Have another.”

Organ music plays above them. He doesn’t recognize it. His vision is blurring.

Annie’s face, in his imagination, is brighter and clearer than the wine cellar, which seems to darken around him as though he’s in a movie theater, and Annie, dear Annie, is the star.

“Empty again? Oh my. But you’ve been good for so long. It will help the pain.”

Yes, he thinks. Yes, it will help the pain.

Even in the darkness, he is aware that Linette is on all fours, as if she’s lost an earring. “Just after we decided to get married. Isn’t that when Annie disappeared?

She was feisty, wasn’t she? Yelling and screaming. It was too bad she found out before Kathryn. Such a shame. And the things she said to you! As though a daughter should tell her father how to behave, going on and on about honesty and choice and integrity. You certainly could tell she’d been raised in this place.”

Even in his drunkenness, he realizes it wasn’t like Linette to get her clothes dirty.

(Cont’d. on p. 34)

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

7

Season of Sorrow

by Gillian Scott The fragrant scent of freshly cut grass wafted in through the kitchen window. It was a beautiful afternoon, the sun casting shadows across the perfectly manicured lawn, its borders a commanding kaleidoscope of colorful plants; brilliant yellow Sunflowers, African Violets, Hibiscus and of course my absolute favorite, Orchids. A heady perfume lingered in the afternoon air, filling the house with a profusion of intoxicating aromas. A sprinkling of rose petals lay beneath the lone Weeping Willow having been softly blown by the beginnings of a mere whisper of a breeze.

It was almost the end of another glorious summer.

It had been a special summer with much to celebrate. Our daughter had recently left for College and our son was about to start Junior High. With one child out of the house and the other on the way, I was anticipating with unadulterated glee redecorating the entire house (although I hadn't yet mentioned this to my husband).

The telephone startled me from my reverie and I scrambled to locate it amongst all the clutter scattered on the floor. I had been emptying out drawers, and had a habit of placing the phone down inevitably forgetting where I put it. The phone call was from my Mother and it wasn't good news. Dad had apparently been diagnosed with congenital heart disease and mum was understandably, terribly upset. I spent the next thirty minutes attempting to calm her down whilst she simultaneously berated him for getting sick to lapsing into floods of tears of how could she possibly live without him! Eventually, she composed herself and asked when I would be home just in case he should die. I was unprepared for what she was implying. I replaced the receiver feeling utterly dazed. Having spoken to dad just two weeks ago, he had seemed perfectly fine. He hadn't mentioned anything about feeling unwell. In fact, he hadn't mentioned any health issues at all. A barrage of thoughts ran rampant through my mind and I suddenly found myself pondering my own mortality. I had never been a particularly spiritual person, my religious education was limited to the monotonous school assemblies that every student was obliged to attend. I wondered upon reflection if I had missed out on some sort of religious enlightenment. During my college days, I had come across students who had regaled me (on cold winter nights) with stories of their gap year travels to such exotic places as Thailand and Indonesia in search of some spiritually symbolic meaning to life. But for some reason, that had never quite been my thing. Anyway, I'd never particularly felt any need of guidance from some celestial supreme being.

Collecting my thoughts I returned to my mother's words, "Dad has congenital heart disease". What exactly did that mean? Was he really going to die? Could he be cured? At this point, I had no idea all I knew was that I couldn't imagine my life without dad. Practicing my yoga breathing, (extremely helpful when stressed) I called my husband, who is the epitome of calmness. Richard entered my world twenty years ago and has been my rock ever since. He was as upset as I but promised me, that he would make the necessary phone calls to get me on a flight for the following day. My mind was a-buzz. I attempted to focus on what I would need: my passport and some sort of apparel for the cold, crappy weather of the U.K. I pulled pants, skirts and sweaters from the closet throwing them randomly into a battered old suitcase like some crazed person! I then did what the majority of Brits do in a crisis. I made myself a cup of tea taking comfort from the hot brownish liquid that English people consider a cure for any distressful situation. * * * Richard dropped me at the airport the following afternoon. I pushed my luggage cart through to check-in. This was no easy feat, as I wished to go one way and the wheels of the archaic contraption another! At passport control (that’s always a pleasant experience), I was politely asked to step aside where I was frisked down like some sort of fiendish terrorist. (Most embarrassing.) Reclaiming my stuff from the conveyor belt, I circled the Duty Free stores a couple of times finally deciding that a bottle of Jack Daniels was in order (firmly believing I would need it on arrival) and proceeded through to the departure lounge. While waiting to board my flight, my thoughts drifted back to England and my long ago and somewhat, forgotten youth which did seem a lifetime away. It was several hours later that we made our descent into the busiest airport in the United Kingdom.

Greeted by a cold crisp October morning had me snuggling inside my coat with my Rupert Bear scarf wrapped several times around my neck in vain effort to fight off the shivering temperatures of my birth country. Joining the throng of people waiting patiently outside the terminal to hop in one of our famous black English cabs, I came to the conclusion that airports and train stations really are the best locales for quick cab service, for as one departs another magically appears. I was pretty apprehensive concerning the situation at home, and when the cab pulled up outside, I let out a deep sigh not of relief but of what awaited me. My mother with her usual uncanny sense of timing was already at the door. Her appearance spoke volumes. Generally a petite woman with an amazing figure (most women half her 8

age, including me, would be envious), she had lost an amazing amount of weight.

Her clothes hung loosely on her diminutive frame and her usually bright eyes, which were generally full of mischief, now appeared sunken pools of sorrow. She looked so frail that I had to pull back from scooping her up in my arms and hightailing it back to the airport and jumping the next flight home.

The house looked pretty as a picture. Mum had always been a wonderful homemaker. The house consistently smelled of home-baked cookies or freshbaked apple pie straight from the oven. Lugging my suitcase into the hallway I was careful not to collide with the thousand and one treasures, trinkets and photographs that dotted practically every flat surface in the house. Thankfully, managing not to either break anything or knock it over, I followed mum through to the large open-plan kitchen where dad was sitting in his oversized, overstuffed tattered leather chair. He looked extremely poorly but attempted a quirky smile extending long spindly arms for our customary hug. My emotions got the better of me, and my eyes watered up. A painful lump lodged in my throat as we embraced.

I felt the outline of ribs through his thick winter sweater, and once pulling away, launched into details of what was happening back home. It was hard not to crumble, looking at this skeletal body sitting amid an abundance of pillows wrapped in a fluffy chair rug. What had become of my Father, my knight in shining armor, the man who used to pick me up as a child and twirl me above his head?

This was not him. It couldn't be. He was barely recognizable!

Initially, I had had no idea how long I would stay, but as I looked at the tired and weary people who were my parents, I realized that I could not leave any time soon.

A couple of weeks later, dad's condition took a turn for the worse, and it seemed as though we were constantly on the telephone asking one doctor or another for guidance or at least some sort of reassurance. He experienced horrendous nose bleeds that could last for up to a couple of hours at a time. We took turns in sitting with him plugging his nose while attempting to provide the little comfort we could.

Watching someone you love gradually fade and diminish is a dreadful ordeal leaving you feeling useless, powerless and ultimately angry. Mum would not even consider hospice. She said that leaving his home was simply unthinkable. Dad had worked hard all his life. He was a man of simple needs, never one to complain or whine about anything. He was a man with a lot of dignity and pride. He believed you took what was dished out on the chin, and you certainly didn't complain. Upon retirement, all he had wanted was to kick back and enjoy the simplicities of life. He loved tending to his garden and prized rose bushes, sipping an occasional warm beer (the way the English preferred) on a summer’s evening—not really, in the light of day, that much to ask at the end of a lifetime of labor. However, life being what it is, Dad would have said, "You don't always get what you want and learning to cope with adversity is all part and parcel of life".

Dad passed away on November 18th, 2010 from the heart disease compounded by complications. I still struggle to come to terms with it. Mum and I did our best to get through the holiday period. We even put up a tree and hung the decorations. The holidays came and went. On January 19th, 2011, I flew back to the States with Mum. What I learnt from this emotionally distressing time is that life is short and unpredictable. Never take loved ones for granted and make the most of every day enjoying family, embracing life, and never at the end of a phone call forget to tell your loved ones how much they mean to you!

Gillian Scott was born in the United Kingdom and emigrated to the United States in 1981. She currently resides in Tamarac, South Florida where she is married to local attorney Richard Entin. She has one daughter Farrah who currently attends University majoring in Criminal Justice. Gillian’s book, Island People can be found here:http://www.publishamerica.net/product91624.html

TOUGH LIT. III

Maria

by Eve Rifkah Captain Krake of Engine 7 plunges his arms into the sick stream grabbing the golden hair of Maria Di Stasipo caught collecting firewood under the tracks where the el grumbled overhead over her head bitter molasses bitter end Captain Krake cradles her eel slippery body now both coated in yellowbrown there is no heaviness like this sweetness unto death he laid her in the waiting wagon wipes her face nearly clear Maria’s golden hair treacle streaked A bent stick still clutched In her fist IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

Ocean Wave

by Gaye Buzzo Dunn Not again. Another Mr. Right had gone wrong. Lydia Craig never saw it coming.

The blow knocked Lydia to the floor. Her head grazed the kitchen tile before she could stop the fall. Surprise turned to rage while she scrabbled to her feet.

How dare he… how dare he strike her.

The steam iron flew through the air finding its target with a thud, a hand reached out, and then came the crash when the kitchen table fell on its side. Adrenalin and fear subsided. Lydia’s fastidious side took over. She couldn’t stand a mess.

Later, her forehead pulsing, she headed for the shower and scrubbed with her antibiotic soap. Steaming water flowed over her head and hair, her brows furrowed in irritation. Resentment flowed through her when she thought of Drew.

Introduced by Judy, her sister-in-law, she and Drew hit it off from the start, became a couple almost overnight. Such a sweet guy: good looking, attentive, always neat and clean. This time she knew she had found Mr. Right.

But it wasn’t long before Drew showed his true colors. He called two to three times a day, showed up at the most inconvenient times. Feeling smothered, Lydia tried to avoid his constant attention. Worse, he turned out to be a scuba-diver and fisherman mirroring her twin brother, Max’s, love of the ocean. Despite refusing the water sports dates, Drew buzzed around her like an annoying fly begging for a swat with a newspaper. Yes, a good swat. Lost in thought, Lydia stared at the shower head.

Lydia stepped from the tub touching the welt on her forehead. Toweling dry she admitted that she picked another loser. Drew got on her nerves until she broke out in the worst case of hives in years. She wished now she hadn’t accepted the date to meet Max and Judy at Ft. Lauderdale Beach this Saturday. Max had hounded her; she caved. Now she had to go. She’d tend to this Drew situation somehow. But this was the last time. * * * Sandals shuffling in the beach sand, Lydia walked up to Max and Judy’s beach chairs.

“Where’s Drew?” Max said.

“Don’t know. Good riddance. I hope he got the hint and found himself a beach bunny.” Lydia opened her chair and plopped next to Judy.

“Thanks for coming Lyd, I know you don’t like the ocean. But you need to get over it. Come on in, the water’s great.”

“Sure, in a bit.” Her heart filled with love as she watched Max head for the water.

Fraternal twins and best buds, Max put up with her little quirks because of the twin bond shared since they were tots. It was scary how they could almost read each other’s minds.

“For Pete’s sake Lydia, go for it. It’s the same as hopping in a bathtub.” Max waded and dove in.

“I’m going. It’s cold. It just takes me a few minutes.” Lydia shouted at his retreating back.

She gazed down at the slimy, green seaweed that flapped at her ankle and clung to her big toe while she stood at the shoreline. Bright red toenails curled and gripped the soft sand while she swirled her other foot in the water. She thought how much gunk floated around and couldn’t forget that movie “Castaway” when a waterlogged Fed Ex package washed ashore. Ugh. She didn’t want to think about it or she’d never go in the water.

Lydia made a good show of enjoying the water for Max’s sake, waded in up to her neck, bobbled up and down her arms swirling waves in the water. But about twenty minutes later, a sudden screech startled her. Lydia turned toward a stout grey-haired woman in a purple bathing suit.

“There’s something floating in the water.” Loose flab swung from the woman’s arm as she pointed at something dipping up and down between her and Lydia. “It’s over there. It’s over there.”

Beachgoers gathered to see what the commotion was all about. Lydia pushed through the water to shore. That’s it. I’m done. When she reached the sand, she called to Max. “That lady over there freaked out over something in the water.”

“For heaven sake, Lydia, relax. There’s always seaweed and small fish floating around. It’s probably nothing, but I’ll go look.”

Lydia watched Max re-enter the ocean reading his thoughts, recognizing the look—the furrowed brows and mouth set in a thin line. He was pissed. Too bad.

She wasn’t going back in the water.

Max returned to shore. She noticed he held something slimy in his fingers.

“What is it?” Judy said, hovering over the thing with beachgoers crowding around for a better look.

“Whatever it is, throw it back. It’s disgusting. ” Lydia said.

“It’s gross but it looks kind of strange. I’ll run it up to the lifeguard station and let the lifeguard dispose of it. I just can’t leave it here.” Max said.

VOL 6, ISSUE 4

The drama over, beachgoers dispersed, Max and Judy went swimming. Lydia, slathered with sunscreen from head to toe, dropped back in the beach chair and relaxed for the first time since she left the house that morning.

A while later, sunlight reflecting off a white car caught her eye. A patrol car was parked by the lifeguard station. After the officer spoke with the lifeguard he stumbled through the beach sand in shiny black cordovans to her chair.

Tipping his hat he said, “Ma’am, I understand you folks found debris in the water and gave it to the lifeguard.”

Lydia eyed the broad chest, blue eyes, tan skin, of the good looking cop standing by her side. “Some lady saw a rotted fish or something, got freaked out and caused a ruckus.” My brother dove in, found something floating and brought it to the lifeguard station. Is anything wrong sheriff?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. Just routine. The debris was hard to identify; we’ll send it to the lab just as a precaution. I’ll just need your phone numbers should we want to speak with you folks again. Thank you Ma’am.”

Lydia stifled a laugh when she watched the sheriff struggle back to his car his good shoes filling with sand.

When Max returned, Lydia mentioned the sheriff’s visit. “I gave him our telephone numbers in case he needs to contact us. They’re sending the thing to the lab.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing Lyd. Let’s take another dip. The water’s beautiful.”

“No more today, Max, I’ve had enough. Let’s call it a day.”

Packing up their stuff, Lydia hugged Max and Judy goodbye. “Thanks for the invite you two. I’m glad we had a chance to get together. See you again soon.”

Lydia called over her shoulder and trudged back to her car. * * * Relieved to be home, she dropped the beach bag on the floor and peeled off her bathing suit on the way to the bathroom. She hated the feel of gritty sand sticking to her body and itching between her toes. Humming while warm water sluiced over her skin, Lydia remained under the steady stream until every inch of her body felt clean again. Afterward, she poured a brandy on the rocks while her brain gnawed at the day’s events. Adding another dollop of brandy, she flipped on the TV and settled on the couch to watch her favorite show, Jeopardy. Taking a big swallow of brandy, she thought. What the hell. I’ll worry about the kitchen floor tomorrow. No rush. It’ll get done.

The next night returning home from work, Lydia spotted the good-looking cop from the beach on her front porch. He walked down the steps to her car.

“Evenin’, ma’am.”

“Well hello there. What brings you here sheriff--you still chasing down beach debris? Is this a business or personal call?”

His face a dull red, he said, “Ma’am, we found a vacant car in a remote area of the Everglades that belongs to a Drew Canfield. I understand you knew him?”

“Yes, I knew Drew. What happened?”

“He’s missing, Ma’am. His company reported it when he didn’t call or show up for work last week.

“Really, though I’m not surprised. Drew spends a lot of time on the water. He’s into all kinds of boating and stuff. My brother Max and his wife Judy introduced us awhile back. We dated a few times, but I’m not into water sports. He’ll show up soon enough. Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure, I have a few more questions,” his cop-hard eyes riveted on Lydia’s face.

“Come in. My friends call me Lydia.” Looking at the sheriff’s badge pinned on his shirt, “May I call you John?”

“Sure. You might be interested to know Lydia, that the debris that washed up near shore was identified as human remains.”

“Gross. It’s like I keep telling Max, the ocean is full of sharks and junk. I rarely go to the beach, only once in awhile to please Max.” Pouring the coffee, Lydia cut a couple of pieces of apple pie, pulled her chair closer to his and sat down. Brushing his hand with her fingertips, she said, “Not to worry, most likely Drew will show up with a snared alligator or big catch.”

“How long did you know Drew? Did you have a relationship?”

“Drew and I did date for a bit, but we had nothing in common.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I think it was just over a week ago. He had a bad habit of stopping by without an invite. When he did that I usually told him I was busy. He was supposed to join us at the beach Saturday but never showed.”

Finishing his pie, John walked to the front door a pensive look on his face.

“Thanks for your time Ms. Craig. I’ll be in touch.”

When John left Lydia watched the car back out. He looked like a big catch too.

Smiling, she pulled the mop and Clorox from the broom closet. Time to disinfect the kitchen floor.

The next few days followed routinely. Lydia worked, stopped for dinner with friends. Max called and said that the sheriff stopped by his place too. “Lydia, I’m worried about Drew. What the heck was he doing in the Everglades? And that debris, they’re trying to lift DNA from it. I know he could be a royal pain in the ass,

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

9

but are you sure he didn’t say anything the last time you spoke to him?”

“No, he didn’t. He was always out on the water, could be he had an accident in the glades. I’m sure they must be scouring the area. I hope he’s alright but you know Drew and I were not dating anymore.”

“Okay. I just wanted to check. Let me know if the sheriff calls again.”

“Will do. But I don’t expect to hear from him.”

Hanging up, Lydia thought about her and Max; remembered the incident a day after they turned thirteen. She’d never forget it, the day bully, Will Crounse, called her “Chubby Cheeks,” chased her into the county park, grabbed her butt and pushed his snotty nose smack in her face. Outraged, she kicked, tripped and pushed him over the steep bank breaking his neck. Max saw the whole thing and told everyone Will fell —a terrible accident. Sweet Max, he was always there for her, but she was a big girl now. She could take care of herself.

After Max’s call Lydia walked out on the porch, thought again about Drew.

Nausea crept up her throat. How could she have known that awful remnant would wash up on the beach after she pitched it from the pre-dawn ferry? The fickle ocean betrayed her. Her brain worked on overdrive while she contemplated what needed to be done. But just as she settled herself on the porch a car pulled into the driveway. Crap—it was the sheriff again.

Lydia walked down the porch steps to greet him. “Hi John, what brings you back again?” her face close to his through the open car window. “Got time for coffee?”

“Just a few more questions. Coffee’s fine.”

John sauntered around the kitchen looking here and there then sat down at the table while the coffee brewed. “Nice place you have here. Did Drew spend much time with you here at the house?”

Lydia paused, poured the coffee, brushed his shoulder with her own while she set the cup on the table. “No, other than when he picked me up the few times we dated. What’s this all about John?”

“Just trying to find out what happened to him. We still haven’t found him.”

“I’m sorry. But as I mentioned before, water buffalos aren’t my type. A provocative smile curved Lydia’s lips, “I like tall, blue-eyed men; professional men like you. How about more coffee?”

John turned toward Lydia and stared into her eyes. “Sure, why not?” while Lydia moved closer to his side holding the steaming decanter. * * * Still upset from John’s last visit, Lydia took a tranquilizer before getting on the cruise ship. Her stomach heaved, she hated boats, she loathed the ocean, but she had to make this trip. The ocean breeze lifted her hair when she walked up the gangplank. A private balcony outside an airy stateroom awaited her. She took a deep, cool breath of air, steadied herself while she gripped the balcony rail. Lydia scoured the area to see if anyone roamed about. Confident she was alone her unsteady hands opened the large, freezer-wrapped package revealing the partially unthawed contents. Icky to the touch, she shook it from the opened wrap dropping it over the rail. A splash and it disappeared in the ship’s wake.

This last unpleasant task behind her, Lydia relaxed for the first time in weeks. The hot sun overhead soothed her mind while its rays lifted her spirits. Maybe this boat trip wasn’t so bad after all. She might even meet Mr. Right on board. She strolled up to the deck a new book tucked under her arm; sank into an already sun-warmed lounge, the recent ordeals already an unpleasant memory. A steward appeared at her elbow before she cracked the book’s cover. A tall, cold Chardonnay materialized within minutes. Music drifted up from somewhere below. It sounded like that old song, “I Shot the Sheriff.”

Gaye Buzzo Dunn is a retired Director of Human Resources and business management professional previously employed by large and small, public and private corporations. She is an alumnus of The College of St. Rose located in Albany, New York. A free-lance writer, mother of three, grandmother of seven, she resides in upstate New York. A work in progress, .her writer’s blog and website are pending.

Expansion

by Eve Rifkah The tank filled to the brim when cold now 43 degrees men take off their jackets have lunch outside faces turn towards the sun relief after weeks of freeze one man leans against the warm steel of the tank rising 58 feet above his head

10

Oprah to the Rescue

by Joanne Jagoda My impulsive streak can get me in trouble. Inspired by a cool layout I saw in a magazine, I decided to do a spur of the moment make-over of my living room. I moved my couch—pulling and pushing it—dragged the arm chairs, switched the side tables, and played around with accessories. Pleased with the new look, which did not cost any money, I excitedly surprised my husband when he came home from work. He was impressed and the room looked great, but the next morning my back ached in a painful spasm. I could barely roll out of bed. I had wrenched it in a minor car accident six months earlier and foolishly should not have attempted moving the furniture myself.

My husband, though annoyed, did not have the heart to stay angry when he saw how I was hurting. Looking up from the morning paper as I slowly maneuvered around the kitchen getting my coffee, he gently offered, “Nancy, next time you want to move anything, please wait for me to help. Call Doctor Stemer and try to get an appointment for today, and let me know if you need a ride. I can come home early to take you.”

I was grateful he did not make me feel worse. “Thanks, honey. I’ll let you know.”

My daughter, Leanne, a sophomore in high school, came flying into the kitchen and grabbed her usual bowl of cereal which she eats standing up at the counter.

“Mom, dance practice after school but I’ll be home around five. Math midterm tomorrow. Sorry you tweaked your back. I’m outta here.”

“Thanks, Lee. I’ll be okay in a few days. Have a good day.”

After a hot soak in the tub, not feeling any better, I reluctantly called the orthopedic office. They managed to squeeze me in at 4 PM. I did not want to bother my husband, even though he gallantly offered to drive me, so I gingerly got in my car with a pillow supporting my back and took myself to the appointment.

Doctor Stemer, who is adored by his patients for being so caring, has a bustling practice and was running late as usual. After nearly an hour of waiting and having gone through a stack of magazines, I impatiently squirmed on the hard chairs.

I already knew what he was going to say: “Nancy, you have a nasty strain. This can happen easily with your back already compromised from the accident and not fully healed. I want you to rest a few days, take a muscle relaxant every four hours, and I’m giving you a prescription for physical therapy. And no more moving furniture!” Staying home a few days wasn’t so awful because as a free-lance writer I could work from my bed with my laptop and watch old movies.

“Thanks, Dr. Stemer.” I took the prescriptions, carefully put on my jacket, and headed out… the last patient to leave. The receptionist, clearing her cluttered desk, was wrapping up for the day.

“Good night, Mrs. Becker. Take care now.”

“Good night, Jackie. Dr. Stemer said to call if I need a follow up, but hopefully I won’t.”

It was 5:45 PM. Through the tall windows at the end of the hall, the sky was heavy with the darkness of early November. The glittering lights of San Francisco were flickering to the west. I love the view but that night I didn’t hesitate at the windows as I felt strangely anxious to get home to my family.

The hall was quiet, and I was alone. I entered the elevator, and just as the door was closing, a burly young man forced it open and came in. I wasn’t sure where he came from. We were on the 16th floor, and it was just the two of us. I did the typical elevator routine of staring at the numbers as we started to descend.

I had my cell phone out, stuck to my hand where it usually sits. I stayed in touch with my daughters—Debbie, away in college, and Leanne—with short texts. They preferred texting to talking on the phone, and I’d become pretty good at it. My husband and I still chat the old-fashioned way several times a day, even if it is just a quick hello. I was about to call Leanne, hopefully immersed in her calculus but more likely texting with her boyfriend Jimmy, to let her know I was running late and to start a salad and put on water for spaghetti. Their favorite spaghetti sauce, my attempt at Nana’s yummy recipe, was defrosting on the counter and only needed to be heated.

A sudden chill ran up the back of my neck and I felt my arm hairs stand up. I became aware of the sour odor of an unwashed body which was noticeable in this small space. A sharp memory of an Oprah show from a few months ago, when she had a safety expert as a guest, slammed into my consciousness: If you feel scared, trust your instincts. Oprah reiterated this message throughout the program. My instincts were screaming at me to bolt out of this elevator, but it was rapidly descending. I was frozen.

I took a quick sideways glance. He was studying the floor numbers as though he was thinking about something. He muttered to himself. He was big—over 200 pounds—in his mid-thirties, wearing scruffy jeans, a worn black parka, and heavy boots. His longish brown hair was tied with a cheap red rubber band in a pony tail.

He had dirty fingernails. I hate dirty fingernails! I noticed them holding a large manila envelope. Oh, how dumb am I! I chastised my paranoid self. Of course, that

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

envelope held X-rays! He must be a messenger. This was an 18-floor medical building after all. I let my breath out.

Then a new ripple of jittery nerves crawled up my arms. I clutched the phone and automatically hit the number two to speed-dial my husband. I needed to hear his voice. He would tell me everything was alright. The “No Service” message popped up. How could I forget that cell phones wouldn’t work in these elevators? I said a silent prayer, Oh, God. Have somebody get in this elevator, please! We are getting close to the garage floor. I kept thinking there had to be other people in this building.

The door opened at the garage level. Remembering another important lesson from that Oprah show, always have your car keys ready, I was ready to bolt. My keys were in my jacket pocket. I stuck my hand in to grab them. The door opened, and I had one foot out when he grabbed my upper right arm. I was startled to feel his strong grip which pinched through my wool jacket. He dropped the manila envelope and yanked my cell phone out of my hand—all in a matter of seconds. I started to scream but heard his raspy warning, “Shut up, bitch. I have a gun.”

I was flooded with a wave of disbelief and terror. This can’t be happening to me, Nancy Becker, I told myself. I’m a mom. I love my husband and my kids. I pay my taxes. I go to church. I try to live right…! I pulled myself together. I had to keep my head. I remembered more advice screaming in my head from that show: Don’t get in a car with a stranger. Now he was dragging me, holding my arm tightly, and I could feel something hard poking in my back.

“Take me to your car. We are going for a nice ride, lady, and you are going to drive.”

Shaking from head to toe, I breathlessly squeaked out, “Take the car. Here is my purse. I have two Visa cards. Take my wedding ring. I have $80. Just leave me here.

I won’t call the police.”

I’m not going in that car, I told myself again. They say in times like this your life flashes before you. I clearly pictured my husband and my girls. My mind raced: I have to be here to shop for their wedding dresses. I love my husband. We are th planning a party for our 25 anniversary. My family needs me. I’m not going to be a victim here. I will only have one chance… so I have to be prepared.

He dragged me through the garage by my arm. “Where is your car?

“There… over there.” I pointed to my red Toyota Camry twenty feet away, one of the few cars left in the lot. I kept reminding myself: Whatever you do, don’t get in the car.

“Give me the keys.”

I fumbled in my huge purse and pretend they are in there. I always carry big purses. “Mail bags,” my husband calls them. I dropped to my knees and made a show of digging through it. I threw out tissue, lipsticks, bills—all the crap I kept in there— while trying to stall. I desperately prayed that someone would come down the elevator to the garage.

“This is no joke,” he hissed.

My heart jumped. A searing moment of doubt ran through my head.

Who do I think I am…Dirty Harry? Then I re-grouped, and a surge of hot anger swept through me… making me feel bold and determined. I am only fifty years old.

This is my life and I am not about to let some punk decide how it is going to end!

And for sure it is not going to end tonight in the parking garage of 3406 Webster Street or at the bottom of a ravine in the Oakland Hills. I reached in my pocket, while pretending to look in my purse, and took the keys and hurled them as hard as I could to the other side of the garage.

He yanked me up by my hair, which hurt like crazy. He snarled, “Bitch… that was really stupid,” and punched me in the face, catching the top of my left cheekbone and corner of my eye.

Though I was stunned and my face was bursting with pain, I kneed him as hard as I could. (I saw that on TV too.) He was caught off guard by my sudden move.

Cursing me out, he fell to his knees from the pain in his groin. Sometimes it pays to be impulsive!

Ignoring my strained back, I took off and headed toward the door on my right that lead to the building which was up half a flight from the garage floor. I knew this building well as I had visited here often with my injury. Just as I got to the steps, two chattering nurses came out. They heard me scream.

“Call the police! Call 911!” I yelled.

They pulled me in the building to the pharmacy on the main floor, which was still open. We waited for the police. The nurses got ice for my battered face, tended to my eye, and did their best to comfort me. I was pretty hysterical… crying and babbling at first, then I started laughing, overcome with a feeling of euphoria that I had survived this crazy incident and had my wits about me.

When the police arrived, they quickly looked around. My attacker was nowhere to be seen. They asked me for a full description, which I could do pretty well because his miserable face was etched in my memory. I was shivering in shock and worried that I‘d never get him out of my head. They told me I was incredibly brave and did the right thing not to let him take me in the car.

The nurses called my husband. He arrived quickly and frantically ran into through (Cont’d. on p. 35) VOL 6, ISSUE 4

Kelsey’s Kids

by Patricia Hubschman “The kids and I are hanging out here a while longer.” Marco announced easily from behind Kelsey.

Surprised, she turned from the porch rail overlooking the lake. “But we’ve been here six weeks already,” she pleaded. She was homesick. They had come to Tabu, Marco’s native land, a small, remote country in South America, during the summer school break to visit his family. “I have to get back for teachers’ conferences.

School starts in two weeks and the kids have to get back too,” she added. This was the first she’d heard of his idea to prolong their visit here. She tried to be understanding. “I know you miss your family, Marco, but we can come back again next summer.”

He shook his head, “There’s no real rush to get back. It’s nicer here than in Indiana.”

Tabu was exotic and a great place to vacation, especially since there was family here, but, as far as she saw it, their trip was over. She was a Social Studies teacher at their town’s junior high school, Marco was a carpenter. He had come to America ten years before and had done well in the trade. Lately though, business was slow for him and she knew it bothered him not having much work to do outside the home. And her being the family’s primary financial support though it didn’t bother her. “I wouldn’t call a month and half a rushed vacation.’ She did her best to smile. “The kids want to get home and spend time with their friends and I’ve been nervous leaving the house for so long.”

His expression soured, his tone was stern. “I said we’ll be staying for another week or so. You can stay with us if you’d like or go home.”

Ice flooded her veins. She froze, staring at him dumbfounded, unsure what to say. She was annoyed that he’d gone ahead and made other plans about their family without discussing it with her first.

Just as quickly, she chided herself. This was ridiculous. This was his homeland, his parents were here, his friends, and he and he felt more at ease here. It made sense. She sighed heavily. “Okay, I’ll go home, open the house, settle back in, and you and the kids can come back next week.” And we can resume our lives as before. She wasn’t comfortable in Tabu, with his family, feeling like an outsider.

His smile seemed genuine. Slowly, he rose and moved toward her, putting his hand on her elbow. “Good, that’s settled. Now, let’s get you packed and off.” It felt like he was trying to get rid of her, but maybe he just wanted to spend some time alone with their children.

As soon as she stepped off the plane in Indiana, she called Marco. They both had International service on their cell phones. There was no answer. She tried again when she got to the house - still nothing. She left a voicemail, silently telling herself that he was probably out somewhere with the kids and didn’t want to be interrupted. She was still worried.

The house and lawn looked the same as when they left. Her mother had come keeping an eye on the house and their gardener kept the property neat and trimmed. She found a landscaper’s bill in the mailbox. Kelsey winced. She went to the post offic3 and retrieved a month and a half of mail. There was so much of it, it would take hours to sort through, then she stopped at her parents’ house to pick up their dog. Ginger was thrilled to see her. Kelsey felt the same way.

“I missed you, girl,” she knelt on the floor, Ginger licking her face. “Timmy and Denise will be home soon.”

A week went by and Marco didn’t bring the children home, nor did he call.

Kelsey was beside herself, unsure what to do. Three days into the second week, she was tossing around the idea that something was definitely wrong. Finally, by the end of the second week, when she was about ready to hop on a plane and fly back to Tabu, Marco called. “Where the hell have you been?” she shouted into the phone. She was in the grocery store, but didn’t care who heard her. “I’ve been worried sick that something happened to you.” Then it struck her that nothing had happened, so why hadn’t he brought her children home?

His voice was totally calm, frigid almost. “We’re not coming back,” he said bluntly.

Kelsey was speechless, unsure she heard right. “What? Why?” she stammered, bile rising in her throat and choking her.

“It’s much nicer here, safer, better. I’m happier and the children will be too.”

She shook her head frantically. Timmy and Denise were American children, her children. They belonged here. “But this is their home,” she fought back desperately.

“Not anymore,” he replied easily. “You can come back and join us if you want.

We can be a family here.” His tone was anything but warm. He was dictating.

“But if you don’t, you don’t. I can forget you, they can too.”

Tears dripped down her face. This couldn’t be happening. He was taking her children away from her, he already had. That’s why he sent her home so brusquely. He knew she wouldn’t live in Tabu, couldn’t. “I don’t speak a word of

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

11

Spanish,” she spat dumbly.

“You can learn. Timmy and Denise are,” he said confidently.

But she didn’t want to learn. She wanted her children home with her where it was familiar, where they had family and friends… and Ginger. Other thoughts raced through her mind. This kidnapping was destroying her. Her marriage had fallen apart and she hadn’t seen it happening. She felt defeated. “You can’t do this, Marco,” she said through gritted teeth. “Come back and we’ll discuss it.”

He laughed harshly. “You come here and we’ll discuss it, but you’re not taking the children back.” The phone went dead.

Kelsey sank to the floor, clutching the phone and weeping. Ginger came over and licked her face.

“Do you think we should call the police or our lawyer?” Mandy Johnson, Kelsey’s mother, suggested. The three sat in Kelsey’s living room, Ginger curled up at her master’s feet.

Her father, Dan, shook his head. “Marco hasn’t officially done anything yet,” he reasoned.

Kelsey wouldn’t accept that. “He stole my children, Dad. How is that not doing anything?”

Dan leaned forward and patted her knee. “I know it’s hard, princess, but let’s try to think logically. If we go to the police now, Marco can simply tell them that he’s taken the kids on vacation and you decided to go back early.”

She wanted to scream that Marco had sent her back early to get rid of her, but she did her best to keep calm. She knew her parents were only trying to help.

“School starts in a few days. Denise is going to miss her first day of kindergarten.”

And probably a lot more than that, Kelsey added silently.

“Did he mention anything about his plans while you were over there?” her father asked. “Or about divorcing you?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have come home if he had. He has been acting – well – distant lately, before we went away. I just figured he was stressed because the jobs and money weren’t rolling in. I had no idea he would do this.” She was losing the battle to keep from getting excited. “What can we do, Daddy?” She felt helpless. Ginger sat bolt upright, as if startled. Kelsey patted her head. “I’m sorry, girl. Mommy’s here and Timmy and Denise will be too soon.” Too bad she didn’t feel as confident as she tried to sound for the dog’s sake.

Mandy looked at her husband, questioning him with her eyes. Dan thought about it for a long time before responding. “Stall him.” The two women’s heads jerked up, but neither interrupted. “Next time you talk to him, princess,” he said.

“Find out what his intentions are – with the marriage, with schooling the kids…”

“What if he hurts them? Or poisons their minds against me?”

He held up his hand. “He won’t hurt them. He wants the kids with him.”

“So why did he come to America in the first place and meet up with me, so he could steal my children?”

“Hey, hey,” Dan said. “Calm down. Let’s take one step at a time. I don’t think he’ll say anything against you until he knows what you’re going to do.”

“I don’t want to live there,” Kelsey answered defiantly. “This is my home.” She waved her hand around.

“I know,” he replied. “We’ll come up with our own game plan. There are two sides to this.”

Even though her father advised against it, Kelsey went to the police station and reported that her estranged husband had kidnapped their children and taken them to another country. It sounded like a bizarre movie plot that she was stuck in the middle of and couldn’t get free of. And, as her father predicted, the police were no help. It wasn’t a police matter.

“You should go to a lawyer and have him talk to the judge,” the officer she spoke to suggested. “The courts have more clout in family situations like this.”

Frustrated, she left the police station. School had been in session for three days.

She had resumed teaching, but her heart wasn’t in it. Marco called a week later, announcing that he’d met a really great lady who liked the kids. “If you don’t get over here soon, Timmy and Denise might find a new mom,” he half teased, half threatened.

Kelsey cringed. Now she could add adultery to Marco’s list of crimes. She had plenty of grounds for a divorce, but that wouldn’t get her kids back. “What about school?” she finally asked. As an educator herself, that was important to her and a major part of good parenting.

He laughed wickedly. “Term hasn’t started yet down here. Louise will help get the kids enrolled.”

Kelsey wanted to scream. Now she knew her name, Louise, a Spanish woman, no doubt, who Marco could relate to better. “Don’t hurt them, Marco,” she whispered. “We can work this out.”

But he hung up the phone.

She did intend to call her lawyer, but as she stared at the phone, she had second thoughts. A lawyer would get her a divorce, would get her full custody of the children – on paper – but that didn’t guarantee their return to her, and it would take so long. There had to be something else she could do that was more sound.

Then it hit her. Her friend, Mary, was having a messy divorce and had hired a 12

private detective to help her case. When Kelsey first heard about it she hadn’t approved, thinking it dirty, but with her own circumstances as they were, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. What was his name? Mary had told her and said that if Kelsey ever needed any help this guy would be great. And what would she have to provide to assist him - pictures, identification, a full story. That would be easy enough.

Her wedding license said she was Kelsey Johnson married to Marco Scott, but that wasn’t Marco’s real last name. He had changed it when he came to America.

She had always figured that was because he wanted to be more American, but maybe he’d been running from the law in his own country and had to come here and now was in trouble with the law here and went back there. It was an interesting theory, though far-fetched and fantastic, but she wasn’t going to rule it out.

She booted her computer and did a search for PIs specializing in International affairs – if there was such a thing. She came up with a few in the area. Opening her phone, she called the first one on the list – Robert Diaz, and made an appointment.

“My estranged husband kidnapped our children and has them in South America.” It was the same thing she said to the police a few days before, which had fallen on unconcerned ears. While she spoke, the detective glanced down at the papers she had filled out in his reception area giving him the whole story.

He sat back in his chair. “Did you go to the police?” he asked.

Fury filled her. He was wasting time with stupid questions, but then she realized it was a customary one. “Of course, I did. They were useless. Said it wasn’t their jurisdiction – whatever that means.” She waved her hand in the air.

He snorted, smiling slightly. “It means, Mrs. Scott, that taking a child out of the country without the other spouse’s agreement is an International offense and not privy to local law enforcement agencies.”

She swept her hand through the air again. “I got that much, so who handles it FBI, CIA?” He nodded his approval. “Possibly, Interpol too. It says here that your husband’s legal name isn’t Marco Scott.” He began sorting through the papers in the folder.

“Do you know what his birth name is?”

Proudly, she leaned forward and slid Marco’s work visa toward him. After she got off the computer yesterday, she headed into the master bedroom and ripped apart Marco’s bureau and nightstand drawers, looking for anything she could find about him. It didn’t matter what disarray she left his things in. He wouldn’t be back to the house ever. And he hadn’t taken all his important papers with him because, well, possibly he hadn’t counted on keeping the kids in Tabu with him until he got there. “Marco’s real name is Marcolm Christoff Santiago.”

His eyebrow went up approvingly. “You did your homework?”

She slumped down in the visitor’s chair, ignoring his praise.. “So what can we do? I want the children back with me,” she said firmly.

“Are you getting divorced?” he asked off- handedly.

She sucked in a breath. “As far as I know, it hadn’t been on the calendar as things to remember to do. This all comes as a shock to me, but maybe I just wasn’t looking.” That was possible, she would admit it. “Can you get them back for me?

I’m half out of my mind. If Marco is capable of something like this, what else does he have hidden in his closet?”

He smiled. Steepling his hands in front of him, he looked across at her plaintively. “That’s something we’re going to have to look into.” He picked up Marco’s work visa. “It’s not that unusual for a pe4rson to change their name when relocating to this country, but being Mr. Santiago’ s name was a perfectly normal one, easy to spell and say, there doesn’t seem to be a reason for that change. “ Adrenalin raced through her. “So you think he might be involved in drug smuggling or something?” She sat on the edge of the chair.

He held up a hand. “I didn’t say that, Mrs. Scott. We might simply have a case of a husband whisking the children away to start a new life or pick up an old one. If I could give you the statistics on missing children each year who are taken by an estranged spouse to hurt the other one…”

“I know, it’s horrible, Mr. Diaz, but we weren’t in a custody battle. In fact, I didn’t even know we were having marital problems.”

He snorted. “They say the wife is always the last to know. I guess we’ve just proven that.” He stood up and came around the desk, indicating their meeting was over. “Let me make some phone calls, find out what legal standing we have in this and our options. If Mr. Santiago contacts you, keep it cool. Don’t let on what we’re doing. We don’t want him to uproot the children and flee again. We know where they are now.”

Slowly, clutching her purse tightly, Kelsey rose and shook his hand. “Please let me know what you learn,” she whispered.

“Of course,” he replied and she left the office.

Robert called two days later. They agreed to use first names as it would make it easier since they were working together. “He’s clean,” he said without preamble.

Kelsey was crest-fallen. “Are you sure?” She had it all figured out.

“That’s what my sources say. Now I think our best bet is to go to a Federal

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

judge.”

She shook her head. “That would take too long and is only a piece of paper.

Marco isn’t going to give up the children that easily. Why can’t we go in and take them?”

He chuckled. “I could lose my license for that.”

“Does that mean you wouldn’t do it?”

“I didn’t say that. I just wanted to make it clear what the possible penalties to me are.”

“We have to do something,” she fired back. “Can’t your Interpol or FBI people do something?”

“I’m working on it,” he replied. “But there’s a lot of red tape to go through with them and it we pull something like that, it could be dangerous. I’m thinking that the best way might be for you to go in and take the kids.”

She was aghast. “Like Marco’s going to let me do that?”

“I didn’t say you’d be going in alone. Marco said you could join the family… as long as it’s over there.”

She was listening. “What about his girlfriend?”

He snorted. “If he has one, he won’t have time to watch the kids around the clock. The longer he’s there, the more confident he’ll be that he’s won. If you go over there, seemingly alone, it’s doubtful he’ll feel threatened. Play up the docile wife part. Look, I’ll meet you at the airport in two hours.” He gave her the specifics. “I’ll fill you in on the details on the plane. I’ll also have a warrant from a judge, in case he gives us any trouble.”

Her eyes widened. “That fast?”

He chuckled. “It pays to have friends in high places. Now get moving.”

She arrived at the airport ninety minutes later, dropping Ginger at her parents’ house along the way. She didn’t have time to explain, except to say that she was going to get her children home and for them to wish her luck. They both did.

“Got your passport?” he asked.

She patted her purse. “Why can’t he be arrested?” The question was soft.

He put his arm around her shoulder. “That’s up to the South American government, not us. Now, let’s go check in.”

They arrived in Brazil at three in the afternoon and Kelsey was in a taxi headed for her in-laws house soon after. The trip took an hour and Robert stayed behind in town so as not to rouse Marco’s family’s curiosity. Denise and Timmy were on the front porch quietly playing. Kelsey smiled, relieved that both children looked to be all right.

“Mommy,” Denise squealed when Kelsey stepped out of the cab. The little girl raced off the porch into her mother’s waiting arms. Timmy followed close behind.

The front door squeaked open and Marco’s sour-faced mother, Marissa, stepped onto the porch.

“What are you doing here?” the older woman snapped in broken English. She had at least ten years on Kelsey’s mother.

Kelsey didn’t ease her hold on the children. Looking up at her mother-in-law she forced a warm smile. “Marco told me I was welcome to come back. I missed my babies.” She glanced down at the two and swallowed hard. “And Marco too, of course. Where is he? Is he home?”

Marissa glanced at the closed door behind her, then back at Kelsey. “No, him and Louise went on a trip.” It was said easily and cool.

Kelsey felt a stab in her heart and silently cursed her cheating husband. They might have been unofficially separated, by his making, but that didn’t give him the go-ahead to pick up with another woman.

She continued smiling. “Yes, I heard about Louise. She sounds lovely.”

Marissa nodded her agreement and looked visibly relieved. She stepped away from the door. “Would you like to come inside? I can put fresh coffee on.”

At the late hour, Kelsey did not want coffee, but accepted gracefully and followed Marissa into the house. She glanced around, not knowing what to expect, nothing was different, but it had only been a few weeks since she’d last been here.

She had to call, but he said he would be behind her and she had to wait. But I want to take my babies out of here, she pleaded silently. Marissa handed her a mug of thick, black brew, which Kelsey knew would be bitter. She sat down at the table and wrapped both hands around the mug.

“Are the children happy here?” Kelsey asked conversationally. th “We don’t have to start school yet, Mom,” Timmy announced. He’d be in the 6 grade this year.

She smiled to her sandy-topped son., her emotions genuine. She fought off an urge to announce that once they got him home he would return to school. That wasn’t Marco’s plan, though it was hers.

“How long are you staying?” Marissa asked.

Kelsey shrugged. Play it right; play it cool, Robert had advised her. “If it works out, probably a while.”

Marco’s mother looked stricken. “But what about Louise?”

The knife sliced Kelsey’s heart again. Louise, her husband’s mistress, was obviously well-liked and accepted in this house. Kelsey, on the other hand, wasn’t.

She sat chatting with her mother-in-law for twenty minutes then excused herself VOL 6, ISSUE 4

and took her children outside for a walk. She wished she had rented a car in town before coming here, then she could whisk them into it and zip away, but that would have been going against the well- thought-out plan.

Taking both their hands, Kelsey led them along a path and down to the stream.

She knew this area well, having spent six weeks of her summer learning the terrain.

It was always nice to get away from the house and careful watching eyes of Abuela.

“Are we waiting for someone, mommy?” Denise asked suddenly.

Kelsey came up with a start, chiding herself for being too transparent. She shook her head. “No, I’m just happy to be with you and am enjoying the peace and quiet of this lovely place.” Ten minutes later, with no Robert appearing, Kelsey walked back to the house. “Go wash up for dinner. I’ll help Abuela in the kitchen.”

The old woman shot Kelsey a wary look when she entered the room. Kelsey could just bet Marissa thought she’d intended to take the children and run, which she had hoped to do, but it wasn’t time yet.

Later, after putting Timmy and Denise to bed, Kelsey went outside to get one last breath of fresh air. As she turned the corner to the side of the house, a hand came up from behind and clapped over her mouth. She froze.

“Don’t scream. It’s only me,” Robert whispered in her ear.

Kelsey pivoted to face him, throwing her arms around his neck. She was shaking. “Am I happy to see you,” she whispered into his chest.

“Shhh,” he soothed, stroking her smooth hair. “I’m not here.” He held her a little longer then gently moved her away. There were tears in her eyes.

“This feels like a prison, for me and them.”

He nodded. “Is your mother-in-law asleep?”

Kelsey nodded. “She went up to bed after dinner, said she wasn’t feeling well.”

He smiled. So did she. “What about Marco?”

She shook her head. “He went on a trip with his girlfriend. They’re not due back for a few days.”

“Even better. Now, is there a way we can just walk into the house, go upstairs and take Timmy and Denise and be on our way?” he asked casually.

Her mouth dropped open. Could it be that simple? “What about their clothes and toys?”

He shook his head. “They leave this house only with what they have on now.”

His tone was stern and almost frightened her. “The paperwork at the consul is in order. I’ve got new passports for them – Thomas and Deborah Smart.” He held them up. “In case Marco tries anything.” He made a distasteful face. “Security’s on alert, all bases are covered, so we can hop on the next plane out of here.”

She smiled broadly. He had taken care of everything. Now it was time to do her part.

Quietly, she slipped into the house, up the stairs and into the bedroom her two children shared. She put her finger over her lips to hush them, then helped them out of bed, put on their bathrobes and slippers and led them to the door of the room. Holding her breath, she pressed her ear against it and listened. There was no sound in the hall.

“Let’s go and be very quiet,” she whispered. Denise opened her mouth, but before Kelsey could do anything, Timmy stepped over and put his finger to his sister’s lips.

A warm glow passed over her. She could count on her son, he understood. She turned back to the door and, with heart pounding, gingerly opened it. The hall was dark. Pushing them ahead of her, Kelsey slipped out of the room and the three quietly tiptoed down the stairs. Robert was waiting at the front door. He swung Denise up in his arms, Kelsey took Timmy’s hand, and they went out to the waiting car. Robert got in the front seat next to the driver. Kelsey got in back with her two children. “Let’s hit the airport,” Robert said confidently. To Kelsey’s surprise, the escape went smoothly. When they were on the plane, the children fast asleep in the chairs across from hers and Robert’s, she leaned into him. “I don’t know how you pulled that off, Robert,” she said almost dreamily. She was totally worn out.

“But thank you. I’m sure we still have a lot ahead, but this was the first and most important step, to get my kids back with me, next is to make sure I keep them with me.”

He smiled warmly. “I have no doubt that someone as strong and independent as you will be able to pull that off without a hitch,” he whispered. “Kelsey’s kids are very lucky children.”

Very drowsy, she drifted off to sleep with her head on his shoulder, more content than she had been in a very long time.

Patricia Hubschman has had short stories published online and in print magazines. Recently, she has written a children's talking animal book and two young adult books about a time travel and a teenage girl who is psychic. Patricia is multiply handicapped: legally blind, hearing impaired, and physically challenged.

Most of what she has published is handicapped-related. Regaining My Sight appeared in True Confessions Magazine with Between Two Worlds in The Storyteller Magazine a year ago. Patricia lives on Long Island, New York and has been with Romance Writers of America for 12 years, though she doesn't really write romance anymore. She loves writing short stories and shorter fiction.

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

13

The Cherokee Saint

by Dov Silverman 1953 Lights in the Sea Bees' Bar went out. It was 3 a.m. Sarge buttoned his Marine Green jacket, pulled his tie up tight and walked a warped line from the bar to the powerhouse behind St. Albans Naval Hospital. Certain to be put on report by guards at the front gate for being drunk and disorderly, he headed for the coal pile next to the powerhouse. The black anthracite hill spread on both sides and over the top of the security fence. It was closer to his ward than the main gate. There was a crowd of different uniforms at the base of the coal pile. They were all drunk.

O'Brien held a half-gallon jug of wine in his right hand and leaned on both crutches with his other. He had lost the left leg below the knee from a shoe mine in Korea.

Krasewski helped O'B up the coal hill by pushing from behind. Ski pushed with one hand and held his neck brace in the other. His head wobbled like it was on a spring.

Those with casts, bandages and missing limbs helped each up the black hill.

"Ski," Sarge said, "put that damned neck brace on. I'll push O'B." Ski dropped back, screwed the neck brace into place and took a blind guy by the hand. They reached the top of the coal pile and O'Brien passed the jug of wine around.

Sarge took a swig and a woman standing next to him held out her hand.

Stunned, he passed the jug to her. "O'B," He growled, "what's she doing here?"

O'Brien smacked his lips and rested his chin on the top of his crutches, crinkled his pug Irish nose and said, "I want you to meet the Cherokee Saint."

Sarge looked closer. The woman helped the blind guy with the jug. Her large breasts strained the buttons of a green silk blouse. The red skirt revealed well shaped thighs and rounded ass. She smiled and her bright red lips contrasted with her pale skin. She was as unsteady on two feet as O'B was on one. Sarge laughed and his knee gave way. He fell sitting on the black coal.

"And what the hell are you laughing about?" O'B demanded.

Sarge jerked his thumb in the woman’s direction. "Her a saint? She's as drunk as you. If the leprechauns ever heard about this saint, they'd piss all over the Blarney Stone."

O'Brien motioned for the jug, took a drink and handed it down to Sarge. "She's going to be the first American Indian Saint in the world," O’B said, The woman patted her hand over her mouth and started whoopin’ and hollerin’ like an Indian.

"Shush!" Sarge hissed. "Tell her to stop making that noise. The M.P.'s will lock us all up."

"Cherokee," O'Brien said. "Indians are supposed to be quiet. Especially when sneaking over a coal pile with the white men."

She took the jug from Sarge, drained it and flung it away. It shattered at the bottom of the black hill.

Sarge pointed at her, "Do you know that you’re sneaking into a US Naval installation during a time of war?"

She smiled. Sarge waited for her to answer. She didn't. He turned to O'B. "How is she going to become a saint?"

"She's going to heal the sick and make the lame walk! That's what saints do."

"Cut the crap O'B. "You've heard about the laying on of hands and healing people," O'B said. Well Cherokee does what's called the laying on of the body."

"O'B," Sarge growled, “wipe that shit eating grin off your face and tell me what you're talking about."

"She—" O'Brien threw out his right hand to point at the woman and fell.

Sarge looked down at him. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay."

"While you're stabilized on the balls of your ass tell me who did she ever cure?"

"She almost cured me."

Sarge looked down at the trouser leg pinned up to the stump below O'Brien's knee but O'B pointed between his legs. "She made this thing grow so long and so hard, I almost walked on it."

The two men laughed and Cherokee whooped again. "Quiet!" Sarge hissed. And realized they were the only ones left atop the coal pile. He got up and helped O'Brien up whispering, “Really, what the hell are you going to do with her?"

O'B held Sarge's shoulder, "I need your help. You know Bill Fari in the private room?"

"Yeah?"

"Well she's going to lay her healing self on him."

"But he's broken in seven places on one side and five on the other. They got him in a full body cast from nose to toes."

"O'Brien's face became serious and eyes stern, "I know." He made big moon eyes and rolled them saying, "If she screws his ass off, he'll fall apart."

The two of them laughed so hard they both fell. They laughed until tears ran 14

down their cheeks. Sarge gasped, "How's she going to do it with the body cast?"

"That's a problem,” O’B said. “I told her about it and she's willing to give it a try."

Sarge sighed, caught his breath, looked from the woman to his friend and said, "You really want to do this? You want me to help you sneak her into the hospital?"

"All we've go to do is get her to the bottom of this coal pile. From there it's a hop, skip and jump to the ward."

"You can't do any of those."

The two men looked at each other.

"What the hell are we fighting for,” O'Brien said, “Get a little drunk and have a little sex. What else is there?"

Sarge picked up O’B’s crutches, handed them to Cherokee and asked, "Can you carry these down to the bottom without falling?"

She fluttered her false eyelashes and started down the hill digging her high heels into the black coal. Sarge took O'Brien's hand, pulled him upright, and in one motion put him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

O'B yelled, "You can't carry me with that bad knee!"

Sarge laughed and started down the glistening black coal pile saying, "You're much lighter than me, also a foot shorter." They both laughed. "Besides," Sarge said. "I've been goofing off. My knee's pretty good. I just don't want to get shipped out again."

"O'Brien planted a wet sloppy kiss on Sarge's cheek.

"Cut that out!" he said and nodded to Cherokee. "You're girlfriend will get jealous."

In the hospital Regular Navy nurses held responsibility for the wards during the day, Navy corpsmen at night. The corpsmen worked the buddy system with the wounded. If men went AWOL, and stayed out all night, the corpsman would put them on report. If they made it back before seven a.m., they could sign their own bed checks at the nurse’s desk and tear up the report. The nurse's station was in the middle of the ward against the right wall, 10 beds stretched on either side to the ends of the ward and across from the desk, on the far wall was another line of thirty beds all full of wounded sailors and marines. At the entrance to the ward on the left, three private rooms were each attached by a shared bathroom.

"O'Brien peeked into the ward. By the glow of the night-light he saw the corpsman slumped over the desk asleep. O'B backed up, went to the door of the first private room and opened it. A reading light was on over the bed.

"Hey, Fari, you awake?"

"Yeah, who’s that?"

"Shhhh!" O'B hissed and waved Sarge and the woman into the room.

On the bed laid out like an Egyptian mummy, was the twenty-year-old Marine.

The cast went from his neck to his toes. Only his arms moved and he waved them.

"Come closer. I don't see you."

O'Brien swung on his crutches to the bedside. His face crinkled in that broad Irish smile as he pointed behind him. "You're going to be cured."

Cherokee stepped out of the dark and into the circle of light.

"Presenting, the Cherokee Saint!" O'B said. "She's going to heal your sorry, broken ass my brother!"

Sarge saw Fari's eyes open wide and continue to open until he thought they would pop from his head. His mouth made strange noises and his face turned red.

The woman stepped in front of Sarge and smiled down at Bill Fari. Without taking her eyes from his she began undoing the buttons of her blouse. O'Brien swung away from the bed.

She slipped off her blouse. The sound of Fari's heavy breathing kept time with her slow, deliberate motions as she undressed. When her brassiere fell to the floor, Fari moaned. His hands fluttered in the air. His penis stood erect in the center of the hole cut in the body cast. He never took his eyes from her body, the large breasts were firm and the pink nipples erect. The pubic hair was dark and flowing under the soft semi-circle of her stomach. She reached out, took his penis in her right hand, and squeezed. She leaned over, moving Fari's right arm until her breast rested in the palm of his hand. Then she climbed up on the bed, straddling the body cast and lowered her self.

“Ooohh! OOOhh! AAAHHgg!” Fari moaned and began crying. Sarge and O'Brien stepped closer whispering, "What's wrong? Did she hurt you?

Cherokee looked bewildered and shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm not hurt!" Fari said.

“Then why you crying?" O'B asked.

"I came."

"So, why the tears?" Sarge demanded.

"I came but I couldn't get it in. It didn't reach. The cast is too thick."

"Probably a Navy regulation cast to stop this kind of stuff," O'B said. These Navy doctors hate Marines."

Fari sobbed, "I want to put it in. I want to put it in."

"Come on, get down off there." Sarge said to Cherokee. "It's not going to work that way." He helped her off the bed and said to Fari, "Stop that crying crap and

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

answer me. When they give you a bath or alcohol rub, how do they take this thing apart?"

Fari's eyes focused on Sarge, "Yeah, it’s tied in three places and taped around the neck and each foot. The top lifts off."

"Jesus Christ Sarge!" O'B whispered. "Fari, if you start jumping around without this cast, the doctors are going to play Humpty Dumpty with you."

Fari was red in the face. "Get it off! Get it off me! Come on you guys work faster."

"You little feather merchant, keep quiet." O'B said.

Sarge worked to free the cast. "Your a little shit bird from Yammasee the smallest one I ever did see."

"If I ever walk again you'll see how big I really am. Now get this top off me."

Sarge and O'B removed the last restraint then gently lifted the top of the cast off. Sarge held the body cast next to him measuring the size. He put it next to O'B who said, "Fari, you're a tall son of a bitch aren't you?"

"Never mind my damned height. Hurry up."

Sarge felt a soft hand on his arm he smelled Cherokee's femininity as she passed him. Once again she climbed onto the bed and straddled Fari. She kneeled forward, letting her breasts brush his chest and she swayed back and forth. She moved further up the cast until her nipple ride up the curve of his neck, jaw and into his pursed lips. He sucked first one then the other like a greedy pig. Sarge saw a flash of pain flit over Cherokee's face but she didn't cry out. She moved backward over Fari' body and took his erection between her thighs. She lowered her self gently on him and motioned for Sarge to put up both side rails on the bed.

Bracing herself on the side rails with her hands, she raised and lowered her body.

Fari moaned and his arms went straight up in the air.

"Are you alright?" O'B asked.

"It's wonderful, but can't you guys turn your backs when I'm getting laid? It ain't nice to watch."

O'B and Sarge stepped out of the room into the corridor and smoked. The corpsman was still asleep at the desk. O'Brien said, "I got a half gallon of wine in my locker. You want to get it?"

"Better than listening to the nasty pig in there grunting with her."

Sarge returned with the jug, they drank until they heard no sounds and went back inside the room.

The woman was having trouble getting over the guard rail and off the bed. Sarge helped her, took a white doctor's smock hanging on the back of the door and put it over her shoulders. She put it on and went to the bathroom, which was shared with the adjoining private room.

When she opened the door, they all heard a slow, painful crooning, "Ohhhh, my legs… my belly… my chest…" It was repeated in the same dull, slow, pain filled cadence over and over. “Ohhh, my legs… my belly… my chest…”

Sarge whispered to Cherokee, "Don't worry about him. The Deacon does it all the time. Take a quick shower and we'll figure how to get you out of here."

Cherokee started to open the other door and Sarge stopped her. "You don't want to see him. All his skin on the front of his body from the neck to the top of his boots is burned away. He was taking the chocks out from under the wheels of a carrier jet. The pilot switched the engines on too soon. He's only got skin on his face because of the asbestos head cover and where his shoes, shorts and gloves were."

Cherokee's facial expression didn't change but her dark eyes became more intense. She removed Sarge's hand from the doorknob and went inside. The bed had hoops over it to protect the exposed flesh from touching the blankets. There were four bottles of infusion two on each side of the bed hanging on poles. The infusion went into the veins on the tops of his feet. The only light came from a small bulb near the floor. He was singing his song of pain, oblivious to her.

"Ohhhh, my legs… my belly… my chest…"

His left arm bandaged to the hand swung limp at the side of the bed in time to his mournful song. He felt cool fingers take his hand and place it on her soft belly.

She moved his hand around in a circular motion until she brought it to rest in the hairy warmth between her thighs. His fingers searched through the tangle of moist hair opened the lips and entered. He felt a soft breeze over his raw bloody flesh as Cherokee lifted the blanket off the hoops. Her hand slipped over that thin stretch of skin on his hip and brushed his loins. Gently she held his penis. He worked his finger inside her and she stroked him to that rhythm. Sarge returned to help O'B refasten the top of the body cast into place.

"Do you think we should have told her?" O'Brien nodded toward the Deacon’s room.

"You mean that he's Black?" Sarge asked.

Fari yawned. "It won't matter to her. Besides, underneath the skin we all look like the Deacon."

O'Brien put his arm around Sarge's shoulder and said, "Old buddy, you'd better help me to my rack or I'm going to sleep here on the floor."

On the ward, the corpsman slept. Sarge put O'B to bed and placed the crutches at his side. He tore up the report sheet on the corpsman's desk. When he returned VOL 6, ISSUE 4

to Fari's room the young Marine was asleep. Sarge walked quietly through the connecting bathroom and opened the door to the Deacon's room. The sun was beginning to rise and he saw that the blankets had been replaced over the hoops.

The Deacon no longer sang his song of woe but slept peacefully. As the sun's rays entered the room Sarge noticed the open door on the far side of the room. It led to the last private room. She had gone in there. Sarge put his back against the wall and slid down to the floor. He rested his forehead on his bent knees. Smitty was in there. Smitty was a blind, triple amputee with only the thumb and pinkie forming a claw on his right hand. He was the only survivor when his gun tank was bombed by a North Korean MIG. The room became lighter as time passed. Slowly the door opened and Cherokee closed it behind her. She put her back to it and rested. The morning light struck her face. She stood with tears coursing down her cheeks. The white smock hung open. Sarge went to her, closed the smock and lifted her face in his two hands.

Her cheeks were wet, her eyes floated in a tear-filled mist. She pointed to Fari's room and said, "My clothes."

Sarge kissed her forehead and went to fetch her clothes.

At 6 a.m. he led her to a corridor the night shift kitchen workers used to walk out the main exit. He watched her go out with the others. None of them knew they walked with the Cherokee Saint.

Dov Silverman is dyslexic but has become a successful writer, nevertheless. The Cherokee Saint is an example of “faction”—a fictionalized version of a factual event. The Cherokee Saint (published for the first time in this issue) is a true short story Dov picked up as a patient in St. Albans Naval hospital. It is tough and shows the brutality of war and the inner beauty of an ugly-looking woman. Dov lives in Israel where he writes his novels and short stories. To read more of Dov’s works, go to: http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/s/dov-silverman/ or Amazon.com.

The Great Molasses Disaster

by Eve Rifkah Boston, January 17, 1919 Like machinegun fire steel bolts fly like a quake earth bellow and scream A wave of darkness kicks out the legs of the el tears buildings from foundations and fear sweet stifles breath human, horse, dog nothing is said of cat or rat the cries of disbelief the cries of grief A father searches for days finds a red hat there are no words Italian or English to mouth the prayers as candles barely light the chapel shadows years and years sweet scent rises from walls and pavements as ghosts in midsummer heat

Eve Rifkah is co-founder of Poetry Oasis, Inc., a non-profit poetry association dedicated to education and promoting local poets. She is author of Dear Suzanne (WordTech Communications, 2010) and Outcasts: the Penikese Leper Hospital 1905-1921 (Little Pear Press, 2010). Currently she is an adjunct professor with Clark University and WPI. To see more of Eve’s work go to: www.everifkahwriter.com.

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

15

January Thaw

by Amanda Storm I “I lost my job because I stopped taking anti-aging drugs,” Carolyn said. A head and shoulder image of her grandson stared at her from a computer made to appear like an antique television from the Twentieth Century. She shifted on the edge of her wicker chair as the gap of silence in their conversation lengthened.

“Why did you stop your anagathic treatments? Are the doctors giving you any problems?” he asked.

“Just that they want me to go back on Eternity. When you get to be my age, you start looking at things a little differently. I've had a good run and now I want to live, grow old and die, like people did a hundred years ago.”

Whoever invented these virtual online personalities you could talk with as if they were your relatives should be forced to take a long walk off a short pier. They called it “voping” or some such nonsense. Times were getting so you couldn't speak to a real person anymore and playing vop-tag was the modern day equivalent to an actual conversation. When was the last time she had spoken with anyone in the family except through these machines? How could the need for contact, even if just a disembodied but human voice, seem so superfluous to the young?

Morning had a way of playing up every flaw in the linoleum, washed-out tan with flecks of gold, cracked in places and curling where the living room met a short hall leading into the kitchen. None of the furniture matched though it all certainly did appear well-used. Whoever designed this vacation cottage Carolyn spent almost a quarter of her savings to rent for the month of December did a good job of making the place seem period. Fortunately the heating and ventilation systems were modern because she had developed an allergy to dust in the past couple years.

Her grandson murmured something and Carolyn realized he had been speaking for some time. She woke from a daydream of the past, so long ago now, where she had taught the boy how to cut up real apples for pie. Slicing into grainy, white flesh, the sweet tangy smell as amber juice ran down their hands … teaching the boy the safe way to handle a paring knife. No matter how much Carolyn tried she could not get used to the fact that she was speaking to a computer-generated version of her grandson, which was programmed to respond like him. When was he last time she had seen her grandson in person? Thirty years at least.

“Are you listening to me, Gram?” the vop asked.

Sorry, dear. What was your question again?”

“First, I thought everyone got the drug in utero so they didn't have to worry about taking it later on. I guess that isn't really a question,” and after a pause, “So why did they fire you?”

“I was part of the original group and the oldest subject when the immortality tests started about a hundred years ago. Drug companies thought they were developing a cure for cancer, at least at first. It ended badly because most of the adult subjects died before the experiments with fetuses were successful – the famous Levy and von Wyc Breakthrough we teach the kids in school. I was one of the lucky ones. You know, I could be the oldest person in the world.”

Carolyn stopped. Her train of thought was broken by her grandson's chuckle at her use of the anachronism “in the world.” People usually said “in the solar system” now. Or was it “around the sun”?

“Well, at least you can still take the drug and not age, Gram. I know it’s expensive but the Health Service picks up most it don't they? So why'd they fire you?”

“I teach PE. Administration thought my getting older would disturb the children.

I don't know why, they only ever saw me online anyway.”

“People don't waste away right before your eyes, Gram.” He hunched his shoulders and shivered.

Carolyn didn't think of herself as “wasting away.” True, there were crow's feet at the corners of her eyes now and those laugh lines on either side of her mouth had deepened in the five years since she stopped the pills, but Carolyn had always taken care of herself and stayed not simply trim but positively athletic with tennis and golf in the summer and skiing in the winter. She had let her hair go iron-gray with a dusting of white. Yet it was still thick and reached nearly to her low back and the four men, who had come and gone out of her life with the rolling of decades, loved running their hands through her wavy tresses. True, she had worn out three sets of knees and had her left elbow re-grown, but that was wear and not rust. The old girl had a lot of life left in her yet.

“Gram, if you want to, uh … if you decide, you know, they have clinics for that.

It's all painless and dignified. They put you in any online world you want and you don't feel a thing,” he said. “I'm not saying you should do that. I think you should go back on Eternity and get some counseling or something; maybe a new job. Do you need money?” Carolyn's grandson gamboled through this last bit and ended 16

with a mirthless, high-pitched laugh.

“Look, I only called to see how you were. I'm not sure how we got onto my problems but you're crazy if you think I want to lie down and die. I'm a hundred and sixty-two years old and with a bit of luck I can easily expect another forty or fifty good years with all that doctors can do, even without the pills. Two hundred years of life is enough for anyone to ask.” Carolyn pursed her lips and made an effort to take the ice out of her voice. She was tired. “So tell me what you're doing.”

She listened to her grandson's virtual online personality drone on about his job as an advertising executive for Pepsi and how they were working on a campaign to gain market share on Titan, which was where his long-time boyfriend lived.

Carolyn felt absurd, listening to a computer program confide to her. She resisted a growing urge to say something cruel. Carolyn did not want to hurt the man behind the machine. He was a good boy who programmed his vop to leave short messages most holidays and for her birthday. The rest of her family had drifted away one by one over the space of years, which most people would argue was perfectly reasonable. After all, the younger generations had lives of their own and a normal person would just let it go. Just let go.

II Carolyn was in high spirits after two weeks alone at the farm. Taking a month's vacation, which she had to use or lose, up near Houlton along the Maine-New Brunswick border, was a wonderful idea. The property management company's brochures stated that they had rebuilt a family farm to resemble how it looked two hundred years ago. The only fly in the ointment was a couple of interview requests for the “woman who had decided to age herself to death” as they put it. She had no idea how they'd learned either about her or her whereabouts. Then again, these media types made a living ferreting out stories from people who just wanted to be left alone. So Carolyn sent a terse voice mail to the office. The calls stopped.

Each morning she cooked breakfast with her own hands, using an old-fashioned microwave oven. Today it was oatmeal, milk and plenty of fresh strawberries. The berries smelled sweet, with a hint of newly mowed grass. True, the ingredients were probably synthesized out west and perfectly balanced nutritionally, if the ads could be believed, though she had eaten real, organic food on special occasions as a little girl and these meals brought back happy memories. Too bad only rich people could afford that luxury now. She was about to begin her pleasant ritual of doing up the dishes by hand when a low, metallic hum announced the arrival of a ground flier.

There was no way to communicate with whomever was outside save by opening the door and talking. No computer built into the door or anything along those lines. Carolyn walked out onto an enclosed porch and stared out the window at a man, who waved a gloved hand and smiled as he approached. His breath streamed out in clouds of vapor and his cheeks were burnt red by the cold.

“Yes?” She opened the door about half-way, feeling wary and shy at the same time.

The visitor took off a florescent orange hat with flaps that came down past his ears. At six foot and change he was almost a foot taller than most men. People grew smaller every year. His red and gray checked winter jacket and baggy green wool trousers did not hide a lanky yet powerful frame. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short in defiance of the current fashion of braids or ponytails for men.

Carolyn was surprised at a quick shiver that played along the back of her neck when he smiled again, and his brown eyes held a certain generosity yet at the same time there was an undercurrent of sadness. One hardly saw anyone who looked older than thirtyish anymore.

“Good morning, ma'am, my name is Theo. I live just down the road about five kilometers and I thought I'd stop by and say g'morning.”

He shifted back and forth from one foot to the other. Carolyn wasn't sure at first if he was nervous or cold. A blast of wind rattled the door, which she still held in both hands, and drained the warmth from her body.

“Come in.”

“Thank you. I saw you out skiing yesterday when I was riding my fence checking for breaks and coyotes,” adding in response to the worried look on her face, “They don't bother people but I do keep some livestock. I said to myself, 'Theo, you gotta meet that woman because she sure can ski.'”

She laughed and made self-deprecatory noises as she offered him a chair at the round kitchen table, pushed up against one wall. An arrangement of plastic daisies in a heavy square vase of black crystal graced the center of the blue lacquered table and also served to prevent the thick paper tablecloth from sliding around too much. Carolyn was curious about the fact Theo could pass for a vigorous man in his mid-sixties but she was determined not to pry.

“I usually stop in when I know someone is renting the old LeMoine Place. The owners, out of Bangor I think, call it Pine Tree Farm or something?”

“Pine Bluff Farm. I have it until the end of the month.” Carolyn poured coffee

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

her hands around the hot mug of steaming liquid. Its rich, bitter aroma filled the kitchen.

“How you liking it so far?

“So quiet it's noisy,” she said.

“Most of the people from away say that.” His tone sounded slightly teasing and his smile was full of that proprietary pride one often sees with locals who live in vacation spots.

“Oh, I think I could live like this forever. At least for the next two weeks.” Her hot drink had taken the chill away and this unexpected visitor made Carolyn think that the world wasn't such a lonely place after all.

They talked about the weather, how good the economy was lately, and the new season's television shows where they had a good laugh when it became apparent that neither of them kept up with such things. She found herself telling Theo about her decision to stop taking Eternity. His eyes shined as he nodded and leaned toward her, resting his forearms on the table. Carolyn knew at once that she did not need to justify her decision or herself to this man. He just listened. For his part, Theo told her about how his wife had left him nine years ago because she wanted to start a different career and live in New Beijing, which was one of the larger cities on the moon. He grew embarrassed and clammed up. She encouraged Theo with gentle words and smiles and he continued, unsure at first.

He had wanted to follow his now ex-wife but couldn't handle urban life, even a week in Boston. He'd look up at the tall buildings, part of a skyline clawing toward the stars, and feel utterly alone in a sea of careless humanity. Carolyn was amazed when she glanced at a huge clock over the sink where a little deer chased by a hunter popped out one side of the base of the timepiece and disappeared around the other side announcing each new hour. They had sat together most of the morning.

When they finally said their goodbyes, Theo found it tremendously funny when he realized that he'd left his ground car, or pick-up as he called it, running the whole time.

Goodbye led to hello again the next day and the day after that. Carolyn went cross-country skiing each morning as usual and Theo took to riding beside her on his snowmobile that pushed almost silently through the snow and occasionally traversed the rougher patches by hovering over the ground. He carried some sort of disruptor carbine in a scabbard built into his sled, presumably for the coyotes.

Never saw any though. Only a few pug marks and spoor that Theo pointed out to her.

III Each morning with Theo was precious and Carolyn often found herself brooding that in less than a week her vacation would be over. This was a magical time like each year's January thaw. There you would be, right in the middle of winter with snow piling up around your eaves and everyone keeping their fingers crossed against more snow because there was no place left to shovel it, and you'd look outside and there was water everywhere and melting slush running in dirty cataracts down the street. Crushed soda cans, bits of foil from packs of gum, maybe a filthy sneaker were revealed like ancient treasure exhumed from an archaeological dig where little yellow patches of dead lawn poked through the vanishing snow pack. Everyone was laughing and going about their business in shorts and t-shirts. No one expected the warm weather to last and it never did, but why spoil the present by moaning about February blizzards?

Carolyn always began her morning exercise right after dawn because this maximized her time with Theo. She followed a rusted wire fence, which divided the farm from the road and had once been electrified to keep in cattle. Its unpainted wooden posts were sometimes pushed by frost heaves over the years into crazy angles, held up only by three strands of barbed wire pulled taut. Perhaps Theo hovered along on his yellow Polaris snowmobile to save them in the nick of time from a decade-long fall. Thin streaks of dirty pink clouds pushed along a gray sky. Skiing slowly, a nice gentle rhythm one foot ahead of the other in time with her poles, she turned north across a rising field of snow, unbroken up to now except for the track she had made over the past few days. As usual Theo was waiting for her on his idling Polaris “hull down” as he liked to call it on the other side of the rise. He would ride beside her for the rest of the way and then step inside where they would talk and have their coffee ritual.

“Morning.” Theo stood up on his sled and called to her as he waved.

She smiled and put on a burst of speed so that she was standing beside him before he could sit down and close the distance on his machine. Theo grinned and said nothing for a long minute. Carolyn jammed one of her poles into the packed snow and squinted at a distant line of high vegetation, too far to make out individual trees, still green but heavy with snow.

“Want to go for a ride today instead?”

“What about all this?” she asked, holding up her other pole.

“Oh, I have a compartment that opens up in back under the seat. Your gear'll stow VOL 6, ISSUE 4

there fine. Maybe after you're done if you still want to?”

She shook her head and said, “I'd love to go for a ride. In all these years I have never once been on a snowmobile. It'll be fun.”

The Polaris rode pretty much like a regular air cycle except Carolyn was perched behind Theo with her arms wrapped around his waist and pressing herself against his back. One didn't want to fall off. His lean torso felt like spring steel through his quilted snowmobile suit. She rested her chin on his shoulder and looked out across the field toward the tree line, able to pick out individual pine and spruce now, occasional clumps of white birch and other naked trees, which she could not identify, their branches stripped of their leaves by the cold winds of autumn and early winter. Carolyn wondered if being so close made him ache anything like the way she did.

“Faster!” she yelled.

He leaned forward and in response the sled hummed as they punched forward.

Her long hair whipped back in an iron-gray cloud as they tore along with the earth rushing along beneath them. Carolyn could barely see with the icy blast tearing at her face and eyes.

“Into the trees!” Carolyn shouted.

Theo hesitated and said something she didn't quite catch and then glancing back told her to hold on tight. Happy abandonment to the joy of speed was writ over his face as he zoomed forward. In a heartbeat they were in the forest. Trees and brush tore by in flashes of green and brown. Her stomach clenched as they rose up to avoid a stump. He howled as they jinked around a cluster of brambles, then onto a dirt trail where the machine hugged the curves and turns of this narrow path through the woods. Sometimes he leaned the sled over so far Carolyn could have reached out and snagged a handful of dried-out vegetation, remains of last year's undergrowth not quite buried beneath the snow. He let the Polaris's back end slip. They hung suspended for a long moment, only launching forward again as the path straightened. Then the pair was out of the woods as abruptly as they had entered.

He stopped in front of a snow rampart where the tree line demarcated another field. This winter barrier stretched along, rolling with the hill and disappearing down into the horizon. Spring would probably reveal an ancient, low wall of river rock. His face was bright red and glistened with sweat, despite the cold, and he took long breaths with one hand held over his mouth to warm the cold air he sucked deep into his lungs. Theo kicked a leg over the sled and stood up. Carolyn was concerned that he didn't seem well but realized she was mistaken. There was no misinterpreting the desire writ hard over his face as he guided her to her feet.

“Darling,” she whispered.

Theo kissed her. Gently at first, but as her body responded and she pressed against him, he lifted Carolyn with one arm wrapped around her legs, beneath her hips. Theo laced the fingers of his free hand through her hair, like a buccaneer plays with a flashing, silver mound of doubloons. Carolyn ground her lips to his. He shivered as her tongue probed into his mouth. Their hands searched, each of them growing frantic to find an opening in the cold weather jumpsuits that now seemed like unwelcome encumbrances of armor. She moaned as their lips parted … too soon. He gasped and set her down. If this had been say June instead of December they would have ended up making love right there in the field, amongst the daisies and dandelions instead of a snow bank.

Theo guided her onto his snowmobile by one arm, with the careful delicacy of a hero out of some black-and-white Western helping a lady onto the stage, and then steadied himself with one hand on the handlebars. He shot Carolyn a shy grin when he looked down and noticed his snowsuit was unzipped almost to his navel.

There was nothing more to be said. They rode back home with Theo sitting behind her, piloting the sled and embracing her at the same time. Carolyn knew they would soon make love if she had anything to say about how they'd spend the rest of today and maybe tomorrow as well. Maybe even after her vacation was over?

All of Carolyn's amorous thoughts shattered like molten glass thrust into an ice bath. As they approached the little cluster of white and red buildings, which comprised Pine Bluff Farm, she saw a crowd of people filling the gravel driveway.

There was a huge canary yellow truck with a satellite dish on top. Bold, slanting red letters proclaimed, “News First -- All the News Fit to See.” Drones hovered above the scene or flitted like strange, diurnal bats twittering around the edges of a growing throng. An SUHV hovered up the drive, this one was neon blue. Some of the drones were round globes, others had fixed, bird-like wings. A box flew up beside her. There was the head-and-shoulders of a young woman in the view screen facing her. Her teeth were the exact shade of white as an old-style porcelain toilet. There was a wall of screens in the background behind her; silent images from news being made all over the solar system. A banner of rolling text beneath the woman read, “Flash interview with Carolyn Deschaines—the woman who is dying of old age.”

“Good morning, Ms. Deschaines. What does it feel like to wake up each morning

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

17

and know you are one day closer to death?” The interviewer had that bright, insisting electricity of someone trying to sell the latest sports drink.

Theo snarled and gunned his machine forward. The news cube gave chase but was soon left far behind. He skidded to a halt in front of the house. Several people dressed in neon jumpers or parkas, a riot of color with various news logos splashed across them, scattered away from the humming sled. People and glittering machines flowed around them again. There was a babble of questions, chirping mechanical noises, a riot of odors, cologne, the musk of a shower not taken, bacon, ozone, new car smell. Reporters pressed forward, jostling Carolyn and each other.

Everywhere pressing humanity. Theo was screaming and waving his arms. He shook a man who pressed a videophone into his face. There was a quick flash and the satellite atop the yellow truck exploded in a screech of burning metal. People threw themselves onto the ground and more ran away. One man stood alone babbling at a saucer that wavered in front of him, off-kilter like a sinking ship.

There was a low moaning. Carolyn realized that she had somehow gotten a hold of Theo's carbine and had in an insane moment pulled the trigger. A woman tried to grab the barrel and wrest the gun away from her. A fat man waved a portable antenna in front of himself like a sword. Theo punched him hard across the jaw.

Another flash of light from the disruptor and screaming. The reporter, who wrestled with Carolyn, now lay writhing in a slurry of gravel, slushy with her own darkening blood. The woman howled in disbelief. All that was left of her left arm was a few ragged clunks of flesh at her shoulder and the charred edges of her parka. Pink bone, like a joint of ham steaming from the pot in a boiled dinner.

Right before Carolyn fainted, she realized that muffled screaming voice was her own.

IV January for Carolyn was a gray mist spent at the Maine State Prison. She lived in a long, narrow cell with a metal door, heavy with broad rivets like a bulkhead hatch in the bowels of a submarine. Everything was painted tan or forest green. She was allowed to initiate no contact with the outside world as was normal in cases where felony charges had been filed. No news, not even a computer. Every three days there was the obligatory meeting with her court-appointed defense attorney.

“Has there been any word from Theo?” Carolyn asked.

“No, still nothing. Since he was cleared of any felony charges in this case there has been no word from him. As I have explained before, I have contacted his next of kin and they told me through their family lawyer not to speak with them any further.” The attorney gave her a wan smile and patted her hand.

“I see.”

Carolyn had reached out several times in the past weeks toward a final decision, but now resolve crystallized in her mind. Her grandson's vop said that they had clinics but what he was too delicate or maybe too decent to say was that they were suicide clinics. People didn't age anymore. Drugs administered in the cocktail given to babies in their virtual wombs made old age a thing of the past. Unlike Carolyn, people today no longer needed anti-aging therapy and disease was pretty much a thing of the past at least in civilized places like Earth. Plenty of people still died though. Many, for whatever reason, decided they simply did not want to go on and for them there was a quick, painless release.

“I want to schedule myself for the final visit to the clinic. I am over one hundred which means I can waive counseling.”

Her lawyer took off a pair of glasses, which she probably wore to make herself look intellectual or more mature, and considered Carolyn's statement. “That is of course your right but shouldn't you take some time? Things aren't as bad as you might think. The media corporation is willing to drop charges against you in return for exclusive rights to your story. Pine Bluff Farm will go along with that too. The footage has gone viral and it appears the whole thing was an accident. In any case, if the suit proceeds then we can file a counter-claim for invasion of privacy.

Furthermore, public sympathy is very much with you so the state prosecutor is onboard too. Our case isn't hurt by the fact she's up for re-election in November.”

“And the poor woman I shot?” Carolyn asked.

“She's making a complete recovery and the doctors are re-growing her arm.

There won't even be a scar. Don't worry about her, Carolyn. If your story makes it big, she'll probably get her own news show and a video deal.”

“I'll do the interview and then I want the clinic. I'll need someone to wrap up my affairs, but I know that isn't your job,” she said. Carolyn's voice trailed off on a tired, pleading note.

The lawyer was sitting across from her at a narrow, transparent table with round, backless stools built into the framework. Like all the furniture in the prison it was bolted to the floor. She put her glasses back on. “This is off the record, Carolyn. I think you have been used very badly in some ways and I'm not going to try and change your mind about the clinic. I will be glad to help you and there will be no fee.”

18

V Carolyn was skiing along a trail that meandered through her and Theo's forest.

Every few minutes a freshening wind would shake the evergreens so that snow dusted from the branches, making fairy circles on the drifts below. An eagle called in the distance, breaking the stillness of the trail where she and Theo had taken their wild ride. She took a deep breath of rich, clean air. Her grandson's online ghost was right. How real everything seemed. Of course Carolyn knew that she was in fact lying on a table in the suicide clinic because this was the virtual world she had chosen. Theo would ride up the trail on his snowmobile, they would kiss and then the lethal cocktail of drugs and painkillers would do their work. Her final moments would be in the arms of the man she loved.

She pushed on with a will. Although Carolyn knew that the whole sequence of her last moments was programmed into a computer, she felt better rushing toward him. Was she hurrying or was this part of the program? Better not to over-think the experience. The forest held her interest no longer. There was only Theo and he was running toward her now. She dropped her poles and stood with open arms awaiting his embrace. Theo grabbed her by the shoulders and held her away from him. He seemed a man drowning in an ocean with a life preserver pushed always a hand's width out of reach by the sharp, green waves.

“Please, Carolyn, for goodness sake don't do this.”

She gasped and stammered out an incoherent reply. Carolyn had been sedated and the technician had told her that once she was dropped into the virtual world he was not allowed by law to bring her back or in any way change the procedure without a signed consent. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. They were playing a cruel trick on her. She had read that some workers, against the procedure for whatever reason or bribed by people who had a grudge to settle, programmed nasty endings for their terminal patients. Like everyone else, she thought such things were urban legends.

“Listen to me, you can't kill yourself. I love you. I need you and I know you need me. We can have a lot of years together, good years. Stop before it’s too late.”

Theo dissolved into a watery haze as she wept. He held her. They held each other and he was crying too. She tried to get a hold of herself and speak but each time Carolyn fell back and shook against the whirlpool of her grief. Finally she held her breath and choked down the sobs. The words tumbled out of her.

“If you were real I'd ask why you never visited me. Why didn't you send any kind of message? No word, nothing. That was worse than if you had rejected me. Just one call, the sound of your voice would have meant everything.” She clenched her teeth and took deep, ragged breaths. The tears still came but she would master herself enough to at least hear whatever this simulacrum of Theo had to say.

“Goddammit, I am real! I can explain all of that later, but know this. Oh, there isn't enough time. I did want to see you and I'm here now. I had to get permission from your family. Hell, I had to find them first. I found your grandson. He's a good boy and put me in touch with the clinic. No, say nothing until I finish. There isn't time.” Theo gripped her upper arms in an iron embrace. He wasn't hurting her, but he did have her full attention. He was speaking quickly. “I had a heart attack when everything happened with the news people. My parents were back-tonature types, who didn't believe in modern medicine, and my mother had all her children right at the farm. Can't say I disagree with them too much. I'm much in the same situation as you with the immortality drugs except I have to go off them for long periods because of my heart. My father especially didn't believe in regular doctors and I didn't see one until I was three, so they didn't catch my hereditary heart defect either. Good thing too because otherwise the state health service would have aborted me.”

“I don’t understand.” Carolyn sobbed but forced herself to listen on.

“I’ve spent the last six months on the list for a new heart. The hospital put me in deep sleep so I wouldn't die while they decided whether I needed an emergency waiver so I could be bumped ahead of other people. By the time I was awake and found out everything, you had left jail and disappeared. Your grandson let me into this virtual world suicide contraption to talk you out of a damn silly decision. No, keep listening before it's too late.”

Theo relaxed and shifted his hold, cradling her now in his arms.

“They got me hooked up in another machine like yours so I can talk to you.

Marry me, Carolyn. I'll get a new heart and have decades of good living to spend with you. We can go back to my farm or we can travel if you don't mind that I'm no good for cities. You haven't seen skiing until you've tried some the hills they got on Mars. Hurry, dearest, there's a voice telling me that you only have a few seconds before they… before it’s too late.”

“Y-yes,” Carolyn shook her head, barely able to choke out a reply, “Of course I'll marry you.”

Then there was no time and blank nothingness....

(Cont’d. on p. 35)

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

Litso

by Hanna Kras

Rhys checked the man’s pulse and told Jenny it was too late.

“What killed him?”

“Appears to have been this dagger, wait hang on- there’s a message attached.”

“What’s it say?”

Rhys ripped the paper, which was getting bloodier by the second, away from the dagger. He read from it out loud, “Those who try to reach my name will always come up short. Don’t you dare try to follow me or you’ll never have the time for a truth.” He asked Jenny, “What like the game?”

“I don’t know Rhys. What did Fishbaum say?”

“The mockingbird cries when the dove turns black.”

“I feel sorry for the man- those are dreadful words to escape from his last breath.”

“Do you think they apply to the case?”

“That would be a good assumption.”

The two waited for the ambulance to carry the cadaver off and then sat down to Rhys’ lovely, albeit slightly burnt lunch, seeing as how his breakfast ended up on the floor.

“Are we now commissioned for two cases?” Rhys asked Jenny.

“I suppose the police would take on the matter of Fishbaum’s death, but I think if we look into both we may get closer to our answers.”

Rhys nodded. “So when do we start?”

“I think we should do some grocery shopping and put the rest of this ten thousand in the bank. What is this we’re eating? It tastes like cardboard. Please don’t tell me it’s cardboard.”

“Oh, come now, Jenny. We’ve had worse. But no. Actually, this is a hamburger on stale bread.”

“Yes, let’s be off to the grocery store.”

Jenny and Rhys spent most their day running errands. They got home late and slept late.

Rhys was not in the kitchen singing along to the radio and frying up some breakfast for Jenny because the radio was broken, the stove was shot, and Jenny was in the office with oddly, the second client in two days.

“What exactly is it you would like to employ me for Mrs.…” the meeting had just begun, Jenny was attempting to get a feel for her client.

“Mrs. Silvia O. Groosham,” the client offered.

Mrs. Silvia O. Groosham was a tall lady, very prim and very proper. She spoke by enunciating every vowel and carried a large Prada bag. Her face appeared to have been under the influence of some sort of medical procedure, but not in an unattractive way- she was just much too young for her age. She had the air of a strong-willed, prominent woman, one who undoubtedly always had her way, but not because she was spoiled. No, this was a woman to be reckoned with. Her skirt and high heels carefully refined her tennis-playing-legs and the tight bun in her hair made her more sinister-looking than one would think she was.

“Yes, well, Mrs. Groosham, what is it you would like for me to do?” Jenny asked again.

“He was always a fairly pessimistic little man, I’m afraid it came as no shock to him when he died.”

Jenny interrupted the woman, “Excuse me, who?”

“Oh, yes, my husband, the late Robert F. Groosham.”

Mrs. Groosham gave Jenny a puzzled look, “He wasn’t much of a giant, no, but albeit he was pessimistic, he was thoroughly friendly—mostly to strangers,” she added in a harsh undertone, “Strange women, especially.” She quickly continued, “I am employing you to solve the murder of my husband.”

Wishing to not hand out her previous client, Fishbaum’s information and to not disclose anything that would make Mrs. Groosham more informed, in case she was the culprit, Jenny kept her mouth shut about the other person wishing for Robert F. Groosham’s murder to be solved.

“When did he die?”

“During a pie eating contest. I’m afraid his gluttonous ways got to him, or so everyone thought. I however, know the truth. My husband was murdered, and I want to find the filthy bastard so I can thank him properly.”

Jenny was taken aback. “Uh, excuse me, Mrs. Groosham, are you saying that you are pleased your late husband is dead?”

“Yes, to tell you the truth, I am pleased. He was a very unfaithful man and wicked to me. Good riddance, I say.”

Mrs. Groosham noticed Jenny’s shocked and puzzled face. “Oh, do not worry my dear, for it is common knowledge I hated my husband, which is why I need you to find the true killer, so that I can receive my hefty insurance claim, of which you will receive a hefty amount. Would you care to take twenty thousand of my own up front and then thirty thousand from the insurance?”

Penny was shocked. What a dreadful woman, so collected and calm after her husband’s death. What a force of admiration.

“Yes, I think that will be acceptable,” Penny said, taking the check from the woman.

Rhys was in the kitchen singing along to the radio and frying up some breakfast for Jenny when a bumbling man came crashing through the front door of the office-apartment. Jenny and Rhys hardly ever got any callers, so one could rightly forgive Rhys for throwing the breakfast on the kitchen floor in his utter astonishment. “What the hell?”

The breathless man spoke after flopping himself onto one of the red armchairs situated right in front of Jenny’s deep, mahogany desk. “Water,” was the one word he said, right before he passed out.

Rhys stood gaping in the doorway. Jenny, who had been slumbering just a few seconds earlier, was awakened by the man’s audacious entrance. She came running into the adjacent room and was just in time to yell, “You heard him, Rhys— fetch some water!”

Jenny and Rhys took turns watching the man sleep. Earlier they had examined the man’s battered, graying wallet and found from a faded old Ryker’s Center business card that he was a Mister F.R. Fishbaum.

Fishbaum awoke a couple hours later and Rhys demanded to know what he wanted.

“Oh, I’m very sorry. I did not mean to pass out on your lovely armchair.” The man straightened himself and grew a few considerable inches.

He lightly played with the fabric on the chair. “I would like to employ J.R. Are you J.R. sir?”

“That would be me.” Jenny emerged from the other room. “Jenny.”

“Frederick Fishbaum, Miss.” Fishbaum shook Jenny’s hand.

“Alright then, what sort of investigation do you have for me?” inquired Jenny.

“I would like you to solve a murder.”

Jenny nodded her head.

Fishbaum continued, “A few days ago a friend of mine, Bob Groosham, was put under the ground, God rest his soul. He is now swimming with the fishies. He bit the dust. He is pushing up daisies. He said ‘hello’ to Mr. Davy Jones. He--“ Jenny interrupted, “I think I understand the gist of it. Please get on with it.”

“Right, yes. Well, see, most of the general public believe my good friend to have snuffed it whilst enjoying one of his three major pleasures, the one being pierhubarb. But no, they are highly misled. I believe that my comrade was whacked, done away with, polished off, rubbed out, done in, finished, and murdered.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“It wasn’t Bob’s time yet. He was a healthy man except for his bit of gout.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“No, not many. He was pretty well liked. Friendly sort. Very, very friendly with the ladies- his wife didn’t care all too much for that.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me? Some piece of evidence or anything to suggest that it was indeed murder?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Just my gut instinct.”

“I’m not sure how much I can help you.”

“At least look into it for me. I’ll pay you ten thousand up front.”

Jenny was not one to reject such a hefty payment, especially since she had not had a case in weeks. She nodded her head. “Yes, I will. Thank you Mister Fishbaum.”

Fishbaum stood up to leave. Jenny glimpsed a shine from his inside coat pocket.

“I’m very glad you decided to take my case on.” He handed Jenny a business cardRyker’s Center. “You can reach me at the second number if you find any leads.”

“Thank you for coming to see me, Mister Fishbaum.”

The man shuffled out of the room and turned just before he went through the door. “If it matters, Bob’s wife wouldn’t let the doctors perform an autopsy when I suggested the idea of his death being murder.” With those last words, Jenny never heard the man again.

The door closed and Jenny turned to Rhys. “Do you think there’s anything behind the man’s assumptions?”

Before Rhys could reply however, there was a loud knock against the door like a body slumping against it.

Rhys rushed over and peered through the peephole, he could see the end of some very expensive shoes, quite like the ones Fishbaum was wearing.

“I think there might be, Jenny.”

Rhys opened the door and sure enough, Frederick Fishbaum’s pudgy head hit the floor.

Jenny was already dialing for an ambulance.

Rhys ran out the door to see if anyone was in the vicinity. The killer appeared to be gone. Rhys turned back to the dead body and saw that it was not in fact dead.

Fishbaum’s mouth moved opened and incoherent words escaped his lips. Rhys fell down on his knees and shoved his ear in the man’s face, “What?”

Fishbaum muffled, “The mockingbird cries when the dove turns black.”

“What?” Rhys asked again, but Fishbaum was already dead, dead as a doorknob.

VOL 6, ISSUE 4 WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

19

“Do forgive me for my bluntness, but I assure you, my husband was no saint.

Here’s my number if you need to reach me.” Mrs. Groosham handed Penny a slip of paper. “I will be seeing you,” she said as she stepped out of the door.

Rhys was half-expecting another knock against the door as Mrs. Groosham’s body slumped against the door, but it never came.

“Well what should we do first?” asked Rhys.

“We should question the people who knew Robert F. Groosham the best. I think I may know what happened to him.”

“Already?”

“Yes. Shall we be off then, Rhys?”

“Alright,” Rhys said, grabbing their coats from the closet. “Where to first?”

“I think we should visit this Ryker’s Center place, maybe Groosham worked there.” With that, Jenny strode over to the miniature-sized ship on top of the mantel, flicked the bowsprit to the left, and grabbed the pair of keys that came out of the hull.

“Oh, we’re going now,” said Rhys.

“Yup, let’s go!”

The two left the office marked with a frosted, translucent glass door framed in silver with a sign in the middle, and in the middle of that sign, hoary letters were written: J.R. PRIVATE DETECTIVE INVESTIGATIONS OF ALL SORTS They drove over to Ryker’s, an automobile factory.

Jenny drove. “I hate getting bogged down in murders, they really are so messy.”

“Yes, but they keep us alive,” Rhys responded.

“That’s true, kind of miserable really.”

Rhys walked over to an important looking man. “Excuse me sir, where can I inquire about one of your employees?”

The heavy-set man turned around. “You can in-kwire right here,” the man said gruffly.

Rhys was not expecting that voice to come from this man. He stuttered, “Did a Mr. Robert F. Groosham work here.”

“Why, yessir he did, still be workin’ here I reckon, exceptin’ the matter of him dyin’ and whatnot just a few days ago.”

“What was his position?” asked Rhys.

“He was the body specialist manager up on the second floor, but he was just ‘bout to get promoted to partna up on that there third floor.”

“And who received the position instead?”

“Why I did. Yessir I did. You are speakin’ at Geoffrey Raleigh, partna to the executive mana-jah.”

Rhys shook the man’s hand. “Name’s Rhys Whitlock. I am a private investigator, investigating the case of Mr. Groosham’s murder.”

The man tensed up, “Why you investigatin’ a murder what isn’t a murder at all.”

“There are those who believe that it was a murder.”

Raleigh guffawed, “Aw shucks, you ain’t gonna find no murderer. Mr. Groosham’s death came ‘bout eatin’ too much pie crust. My mother always tol’ me not to eat much pie crust. The man shoulda listen my mother.”

“Do you know where this pie eating contest took place?”

“Yessir I ‘spect I does. I was the host of the party what took place with the pie eatin’ contestin’. It was me wife’s pies what done killed Mr. Groosham. Poor thing been writhin’ these past few days, can’t get o’er fact that it was her pies what done the trick.”

“May I visit you and your wife at your home?”

“Yessir you may. My shift gets off in twenty minutes, you think you can entertain yerselves whilst I finish up, then we can all drive o’er together.”

“Thank you Mister Raleigh.”

“S’my pleasure Whitlock.”

During Rhys’ interview with the gentleman, Jenny had been off questioning other members of the factory.

“What’d you find out Rhys?” asked Jenny.

“The man I was speaking to, Geoffrey Raleigh, his wife made the pies. We’re going over to their house after his shift ends. You?” “I’m not sure. It seems Groosham had mixed popularity at this place. Some of the guys might have gone so far as to shed a tear over the man and the others might have gone so far as to shove their own knife into his back. Apparently, Groosham was sleeping around with quite a few women.”

“That would not make his wife very happy.”

“No, Rhys, it wouldn’t.”

“Do you think maybe something could have been in the pies that Groosham ate?” Rhys asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Well then the Raleighs could be prime suspects, especially since Geoffrey Raleigh got Groosham’s job.”

“He did, did he?”

20

“Yes, but he doesn’t seem to have disliked the fellow.”

“We’ll have to look into that.”

Jenny and Rhys discovered that Mrs. Raleigh did make the pies and she did them all by herself. They also found out that Geoffrey Raleigh had been the major choice for the partner position three years running, but every time, some newcomer would come and sweep it away from him, just like Groosham did.

“Were either of you at all acquainted with Frederick Fishbaum?” asked Jenny.

“Oh, yes, we knew the doctor very well, poor thing,” said Mrs. Raleigh.

“The doctor?”

Mrs. Raleigh explained, “Yes, he was the Center’s on-call physician. He dealt with injuries on the job and was available to anyone who worked at the factory.”

“Were you both on good terms with Groosham and Fishbaum?”

“Ya we was. Ole Groosham was o’er here to help my wife ‘round the house when I was at work and she done hurt her ankle like she did,” answered Geoffrey Raleigh.

“Well, we must be off. Thank you for your time,” said Jenny.

The two bid their goodbyes and walked off to the car.

“You think Groosham might have had a relationship with Mrs. Raleigh?” asked Rhys.

“It’s quite possible. Her ankle didn’t look hurt at all.”

The two drove in silence for awhile.

“Do you know who did it Jenny?”

“I have my suspicions, but I’ve done some research and I think I know how Groosham was killed.”

“You think he was for sure killed then?”

“Yes. I do.”

“How was he killed then?”

“I do believe that Mr. Robert F. Groosham was killed by rhubarb.”

“Rhubarb? From the pies? But then the other contestants would have died as well.” Rhys looked puzzled.

“The leaves are poisonous to humans in large amounts, but with a few choice medical disorders, the leaves can be utmost lethal. Groosham had gout, which could definitely cause him to die a most painful death,” Jenny stated clearly.

“There weren’t any signs of toxins in the body.”

“An autopsy was never performed. Everyone just assumed that he had died from excess consumption of rhubarb pies, except of course our clients. We must get a court order to exhume his coffin.”

“Oh, no! Another graveyard?”

“I’m afraid so Rhys. We’ll keep it a secret and just go straight to a judge.”

In a few days they acquired the court order to exhume the body. The autopsy was performed and Mr. Groosham did indeed have certain toxins found in the leaves of rhubarb in his body.

“Well then, I think we can safely assume this was murder,” Rhys said.

“Yes. Do you have any ideas for the identity of the murder?” asked the performing physician.

“I have a few suspicions Doctor, but nothing concrete,” responded Jenny not wishing to divulge much. “Thank you for your time.”

Jenny and Rhys hurried out to the car.

“Do you know who it was Jenny?”

“Yes, I’m almost positive. What do you think?”

“I would put my money on the Raleighs.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah- they were both fueled by jealousy.”

“I think we need to arrange a meeting with Mrs. Groosham.”

In a few hours, Jenny, Rhys, and Silvia Groosham were sitting in Jenny’s office.

“Mrs. Groosham, were you acquainted with Frederick Fishbaum, the Ryker’s Center on call doctor?” Jenny asked.

“Yes, I was.”

“Were you having an affair with the man?”

“I am afraid I do not see why that is relevant and it is much too personal a question to ask such a lady as myself.”

“Would you like to call a lawyer?”

“Am I being interrogated?”

“Yes, Miss, you are,” said Rhys.

“Well, fine. I can safely say that I did see Freddie a couple of times.”

“Did he ever threaten to tell your husband?” asked Jenny.

“Excuse me?”

“Mrs. Groosham, I think that you were having an affair with Mr. Fishbaum and that he threatened to tell about the affair after your husband’s untimely death in order to keep you from getting the insurance money. A way of blackmailing the truth that you wanted told, the fact that Fishbaum killed your husband. Yes, he killed your husband so that you could be with him, but you were afraid of Fishbaum. You threatened to tell the police, which made him threaten to tell the insurance company of your affair and possible affiliation with the murder, which would then keep you from receiving your insurance money- something you could

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

not have happen. Mrs. Groosham, Mr. Fishbaum killed Mr. Groosham, and then you killed Mr. Fishbaum.”

“You do not make any sense,” stated Silvia Groosham.

Jenny smiled. “The last bit did.”

“You have no proof.”

“Fishbaum was your husband’s doctor; it’s probably safe to say that he was the only one who knew the true state of your husband’s gout, of which Fishbaum told us. He therefore would know all about gout and what can worsen it. He was present at the Raleigh’s pie eating contest and could have easily slipped in some extra pies. The police are at Fishbaum’s apartment right now, if the can find some rhubarb leaves that will be enough to further this case.

“Mrs. Groosham, where were you last Tuesday around three o’clock?”

“I was at home napping.”

“Can anyone attest to that?”

“No.” “Mrs. Groosham, I suggest you get a damn good lawyer and a better alibi,” Jenny said.

“No, Jenny, I do not think so,” said Sylvia Groosham, whilst pulling out a gun, “I think I am going to walk out your office door and go safely away, far away.”

Rhys flung his hands in the air.

“Mrs. Groosham, are you planning on killing us too?”

“Why, yes, little Jenny—I am.”

Jenny surreptitiously reached her hand underneath her desk and tapped a button. There was a soft buzz as her office door swung open and six police officers swarmed in.

Mrs. Groosham got a shot off, but it was a complete miss.

Two of the officers tackled her to the floor and knocked her gun away.

“I believe the jig is up, Mrs. Groosham.” Jenny smiled.

Hanna Kras is a recently graduated high school student who has been exploring writing. She is making her publishing debut here with her short story Litso and her poem Perceptions (below). We encourage Hanna and wish her all the best with her studies at George Mason University and her future writing endeavors!

Sullen

by Porcupine Smith To death I aspire if not for but curiosities sake oblique in fire - out down ‘til the end sullen to inquire - around now for sin and without - I learn not to live in the moment of epiphany - there is none to forgive You touch the earth and the wind beckons all that you know and don’t - earth mother reckons a gyration - a turn – the camber descends a feeling forsaken – betrayal by friends and you peer - into the abyss None to matter - none to think futile she smiles on the cusp - at the brink tarry a while and wait for the sea a million bits of guile all waiting to be

Baby X

by Ericka Hiatt The hallway is almost empty. There was the couple who went in before her, they’ve already come out again beaming and relieved and holding hands, and there’s the hard-faced Latina nursing her son on the next bench over, flashing her boob like she's daring anyway to give her shit about it, and then there’s Des. Desdemona, which is the utterly stupid name her mother gave her eons ago when hippies roamed the Earth, and Wilkerson, the unwieldy handle bequeathed her by a very English forbear, and the one part of her identity that her flower child mother had NOT cast off, and it just figured…

All of this thinking to hide the fact that her hands are starting to shake. She clasps them together very slowly over her stomach, quite a ways to reach because the baby is almost five months along now and Des was never tiny, so it figures she’ll have a whopping big baby.

She’s glad Luke isn’t here. He’d say something stupid, something saccharine and placating and she really doesn’t want to be placated. She’s well rid of him. The baby is well rid of him. Baby X, as he/she has been since that first little stick with its pink line, and the moment when Des knew that there would be a Baby X and there would be a Des, but there wouldn’t be a Luke.

The nurse comes out and Des follows her in, pulls up her shirt and lays down on the table, just one more appointment that she’s facing alone, and she can’t believe, fucking can’t believe, how much it’s bothering her.

They start with the needle, and she wants to scream at them to get the hell away from Baby X, leave the poor little kid alone, why the hell is this necessary? Stupid amniocentesis, the worst part, the part she wished she had a hand to hold for, though she’d never admit it. She clenches her hands into fists around the metal supports of the table, and they bring the needle and they clean off her belly with that ugly orange brown stuff that’s cold as hell, and here goes the needle…

She almost arches her back off the table from the pain of that one stupid needle, but in a tiny second the pain goes away and she relaxes back as the nurse pulls the plunger up and the syringe fills with what is euphemistically called amniotic fluid but which, in reality, is a load of glorified baby pee – you go, Baby X, piss all over these bastards – and the worst part is done and the nurse, in a moment of surprising gentleness and compassion, strokes Des’s hand and asks, “You okay, sweetie?”

The kindness is more shocking than the pain, and Des has to blink away the wet from her eyes. She just nods.

Now comes the magic part, they take the paddle thing and squirt the goo on her belly and move the paddle thing around and the nurse asks, “Do you want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

Des was going to say ‘no’, she practiced saying ‘no’ a bunch of times in the mirror, let the child announce itself, but here she is at the moment, and her mouth spits out the ‘yes’ before she can stop herself.

The nurse says, “It’s a girl, oh yah, she’s not shy at all, there’s her little patootie, she’s sticking her little butt out at us…”

Des can see the baby, clear as day, the legs, the body, the heartbeat. And all the breath leaves Des’s body in a rush.

“Lucy,” she breathes, so soft, it’s a word like the ‘yes’, not meaning to come out but there it is.

The nurse only smiles, but it’s a nice smile, and she pats Des’s hand again. "Lucy's a pretty name, sweetie."

They help her up. The nurse makes her take a moment or two sitting upright to make sure her head's okay. All Des can think about is the outside world, the sun, the wind, and the bright blue spring.

Ericka Hiatt is a Silicon Valley, California native - bred, raised and never strayed more than 40 miles from the town she grew up in. She's been a writer her entire life, but it's only recently she's begun submitting her work for publication. By day, she works as a humble web content manager. Her colleagues suspect nothing...

And only to love the destitute state eternal she cries – as if she were fate a pain – an anger - arising for naught a despair as if your soul had been bought and anguish taints – all of your thought Tedium pushes to the edges of hell like a bondage - like a yoke - I cannot prevail in death I transcend - In life - I will fail in bleakness and sadness - I tell the tale and to which - I succumb Porcupine Smith is a poet, philosopher, and stand-up comedian from Arizona and California. Check out his work on his website: http://www.porcupinesmith.com.

VOL 6, ISSUE 4

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

21

Tea Time

by Linda Barrett Spring, 1888-London, England…

As the mantle-piece clock chimed four, Lady Rose Thornwood swept into the Duke of Hemlock’s parlor. Lady Ivy Hemlock looked up from her knitting. She sat in a small corner of the room, her bony body pressed against the two walls.. Lady Rose tried to hide a smirk. The scrawny old wren resembled a spider quietly knitting a web. She wore her usual blank, sheep brained expression. No wonder Claudius fell for me, Lady Rose thought.

Rose handed the maid her new scarlet hat without a glance or a thank you.

"Ah, Lady Ivy, it is such a pleasure to see you for tea!" she happily sighed.

"Yes," she replied, staring down at her knitting.

With a sweep of her skirts, Rose glided into her chair.

"Claudius told me much about you!" she said Ivy stared around her at the dozens of stag’s heads hanging on the walls.

"Claudius used his tongue to paint a cruel portrait of me, Lady Rose," she said, "One which was false."

"Such charming paintings—like the Murder of Gonzago from Shakespeare’s Hamlet and that dramatic final scene where Queen Gertrude swallows the poisoned cup, too! Socrates drinking the poisoned cup of hemlock! And my, such a lovely oil of Cleopatra in her tomb, poisoning herself with the serpent! Who painted such fine works of art?" Rose laughed.

"My father, Lord Hemlock," Ivy droned.

"The man must have been madder than a March hare. Very talented! Almost like Michelangelo himself!"

"Yes," Lady Ivy replied in her turtle slow monotone.

"It is such a shame that Claudius had to die like that," "Yes," Lady Ivy said, reaching into her pocket to pull out her handkerchief "And pray tell-how did he expire?"

"He took something which did not agree with him," "All of London society says he caught the ague while fox hunting!"

"Yes." Ivy sighed, "you must have known how much he adored the sport-Especially when you and he spent much time together in his hunting lodge," She glared up at Rose with fierce black animal eyes.

"Did you try to cure him?" Rose laughed to hide her fear from that hideous stare "I brewed him an herbal tea which my ancestors swore by."

"And what happened?"

"I made Baxter, his butler, take it to him," "And then what?"

Lady Ivy took off her spectacles to wipe her eyes.

"Within an hour, Baxter came back and found him on the floor. Dead!"

"A terrible tragedy!" Lady Rose mournfully frowned.

"It would be more of a tragedy if I signed the divorce papers," Ivy snarled low through clenched crooked teeth.

Rose pressed her back hard against her chair.

"Ah… let us not discuss that now. I am here to make a condolence call. May we discuss more pleasant things? Such as your wonderful tea? Or perhaps those lovely roses which you cultivate!" she stammered.

A sweet aroma filled the air. The silent maid brought over a silver tea service and laid it on the table between them. Lady Rose leaned over and inhaled the tea pot wrapped in its cozy. She studied the cups for their floral design.

"What kind of flower is this?" she asked.

"A poppy" Lady Ivy sallow face smiled.

"Such a lovely blossom!"

"Yes, they give off a lovely juice! Some use it for deadening pain!"

"What kind of tea is this?"

"I made it myself," Lady Ivy removed the tea pot’s lid dipping the metal ball up and down.

"From the flowers in your garden?"

"The medicinal herbs. Drinking them makes it feel as if you’ve gone to heaven! It would even wake up the dead to its odour," She dipped it over and over into the pot. Closing the lid, she tilted it into the cup before her and handed it to Lady Rose.

"I like two lumps of sugar in mine. Sugar always brings out the best in a tea!"

Rose sighed.

"This tea needs no sugar. It’s sweet all by itself" Ivy replied.

"Which plants are in it?"

Lady Ivy hummed, deep in thought. "Various herbs and fruits. A gardener would know what they are. I only know them by their Latin name."

Lady Rose took a deep sip, closing her eyes. Suddenly, she felt something choking her. She grasped at her throat.

22

"What…is…the name…of…this…this t—tea?" She wheezed, clawing at her collar.

"My mother used it in times of crises. It has all sorts of healing herbs" Lady Ivy pulled back her chair and stared down at Lady Rose.

In her breathing frenzy, Lady Rose noticed the smirk slowly curling across Lady Ivy’s bland face.

"Please tell me!" Lady Rose gasped, "What kind of herb is in this tea?"

Her cup shattered when it hit the floor.

"It’s called Oenanthe crocata. Pleasant tasting isn’t it?" Lady Ivy blandly said Lady Rose clawed at the table to pull herself up.

"For… the… love of God, woman! Don’t…tell me…the Latin name! Help… me!" she gasped "It’s called dropwort."

"For God’s sake! I’m…dying!" Lady Rose struggled. "Fetch the bloody—" She collapsed, writhing for a few seconds before her body stopped.

"It does wonders for moles and rats. Especially pretty ones with titles," Lady Ivy intoned.

Linda Barrett still lives in Abington, Pa. in the same house for almost 50 years. She works as a service associate in a large supermarket and actively pursues writing as a life long passion.

Lost Loves, Broken Dreams

by Donna Krause Slowly, ever so silently love was swept away, Like the waves in the ocean that break, As they came so gracefully to the shore.

The gentle arms that enfolded one start to fade, just like the sunset, That tells us that evening has approached.

The passionate kisses that showed such undying pleasure, Seemed to vanish into lost memories, Like a grand garden that wilts in winter.

Is this pleasure saved for the fortunate?

Who love like teenagers?

Who are learning and exploring, Their expressions of love in its purest form?

Bodies no longer entwined.

They become unwound like sparkling garland Peeling away from the Christmas tree.

There is unspeakable yearning, A silent scream, And words are not heard anymore, by the lonely.

They are left with vivid memories Of splendor and pleasure That has gone away like each season Just like the rolling winter snow that bids one adieu Will the act of human touch return To one like a wild spring flower?

Time doesn’t pass so quickly For the one who is left behind.

It becomes an expected way of life.

In turn, praying to God can fill a void.

And it may bring with it a sense of hope.

That doesn’t wane like the seasons, Or get swept away by the shore.

Donna Krause has published her poems with us in our Winter Issue and Tough Lit II. A Philadelphia resident, Donna is a mental health therapist. in tune with others needs and writes poetry on what inspires her .

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

Mother of the Year

by Zachary Burd “I swear to God, if you don’t get out of bed in the next five minutes you’re not getting weed for a week,” she said, her manicured thumb motioning for the boy to move it.

Her high heels stomped on the kitchen floor as she opened the refrigerator and pulled two Gatorades out and put them in a small cooler on the counter. If the day kept going like this she was going to need something a bit stronger than a sports beverage. A few shots of Jack sound appetizing before soccer practice, but she promised her boys that she wouldn’t drink and drive anymore. No one liked a drunken mommy yelling at the referees.

She tapped a foot waiting impatiently for Jason to get his ass downstairs. She specifically told him the night before not to stay up playing his video games. Soccer was more important than God of War or whatever the hell he was into these days.

And it got her out of the house, which practically took a miracle for that to happen.

Jason’s feet stumbled down the stairs nearly tripping down and landing on his face. As far as she was concerned he deserved it for being a little brat. Her lips curved into a smile when she saw him. His hair was the bed head only a tornado could whip up.

“That’s real adorable, Jas,” she said, laughing.

“Mom, there’s girls on the team. I don’t want to go looking like this,” he had just turned eleven and was already worried about the fairer sex.

“I think it’s kind of cute. Plus you should have thought about that before you took forever to get out of bed,” she explained, grabbing her purse from the floor.

She rummaged around for a joint and couldn’t find one.

“Um, I saw Michael going through your purse last night,” Jason tattle told on his big brother, “I told him that it wasn’t a good idea to take your pot,” he spoke meekly as if he was unsure of whom to be more afraid: his mother or Mike. Picking the former would mean at least he wouldn’t be in as much trouble now.

She took a deep breath and exhaled like a pissed off dragon who had his treasure stolen from him. It was hard for her to imagine why one of her children would steal marijuana from her, when she allowed it to be smoked. She glanced away from her youngest child, licking her lips, and slinging her purse over her shoulder.

“That was kush too,” she stated, shaking her head. “It cost a fortune.”

“I’m sorry, mom.” Jason said, lowering his head.

“Yeah, it’s not your fault. Good thing you told me though. I was going to blame you, but since you’ve proved to me once again why you’re my favorite son I’m going to let you take a bath,” she said.

“Really?” He was shocked because practice started in ten minutes, but he didn’t care. “I’ll go fast.”

“Oh, I know you will,” she said, grabbing him by his shirt and pulling him to the sink. His eyes widened with surprise as she forced his head under the faucet.

“What are you doing?!” he yelled in panic, trying to get away from his mother’s grip.

“Giving my baby a bath,” she said, turning on the water. It soaked his spiky hair down as she wrung a hand through it to make sure it was all wet.

“Stop, please. I don’t want a shower anymore,” he pleaded.

“Mommy will make you look better for those girls,” she said, spraying dish soap into his hair and scrubbed it hard.

After another minute she let go of him. His hair was matted down and dripping all over the floor. She couldn’t help but chuckle at his expression. An expression she saw too often, but one that never got old. Jason would at least look better when his hair dried.

“Here, dry yourself off with Michael’s pants. We got to go,” she patted him on the head and tip tapped to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.

Jason dried himself with the pants ignoring the stain on the front of them. She knew if he was paying attention to what she was doing he’d throw a fit. Screwing the cap off she took a few swigs, but she wasn’t quick enough to avoid detection.

Her son stared her down with an angry scowl.

“You promised Dad you wouldn’t drink before practice,” he said, tossing the sweats on the table. He crossed his arms across his chest.

“Well I don’t like your father,” she said, putting the bottle back. * * * They finally were on the road in the family minivan. Jason decided to pout and sit in the back. He stared out the window in deep thought.

“What are you thinking about, honey?” she asked, turning into the gravel road leading to the practice field.

“I’m worried about you,” he said.

“Don’t be. Worry about being a good goalie,” she said.

“I’m a centre forward, Emily,” he said, opening the door as she was slowing down to find a place to park.

VOL 6, ISSUE 4

“Hey, I’m Mom or Mommy to you!” she pointed out, laughing at him.

He jumped out and landed on his feet.

Emily brought the car to an abrupt stop and got out. Her heels weren’t made for huffing it through wet grass and mud. Trying her best to balance she skipped on each leg avoiding getting stuck or dirty. She made her way to the back of the van and popped it open with her keys and took out a yellow and red lawn chair and slammed the door shut.

The field was beaming with activity as children ran around kicking balls as their coaches blew their whistles and yelled for them to listen to them.

She never saw much of a point of trying to get these kids in tip top shape for the game, when they never won anything. To help kids’ self esteems the league decided to drop the score board, trophies, and the ability to win and shove it in the losers’ face. That was the whole point when she was young and on the volleyball team.

The chair flipped open and hit the ground exactly where she wanted it to go.

Plopping down she crossed her legs and took out her smart phone. She had an email from her sister. The woman sent her pictures of her new dog like she was suppose to care. Emily huffed and dropped the device on her lap and looked up to watch her boy play.

Jason was talking to a man she didn’t know. He was wearing a tucked in polo much like the coaches, but it wasn’t the same kind. It was black. The rest off them had green and white ones as their team colors. She thought that he might be a new coach and shrugged.

She took out a cigarette.

“You know that’s setting a bad example for the children,” a chubby blond woman said from behind.

“And I’m Emily. Nice to meet you,” she said, rolling her eyes and lighting the cig.

“I don’t want my daughter to become a smoker and die from lung cancer!” the woman’s tone picked up.

“She’ll die to get away from you,” Emily said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. She looked back at the woman whose face was bright red.

“You put that death stick out right now, missy, or I will call the cops for you endangering the lives of us all,” she said, standing up and coming around to face Emily. She was a dopey looking woman in a long jean skirt, Jesus sandals, and a flowery blouse.

Emily giggled placing her hand over her mouth. Now that she thought about it she was surprised something like this hadn’t happened already. The woman before her was fuming like a pot of hot tea on the stove over her smoking a Camel. In the past she had done worse.

“Hey, McMuffin. Step aside. I’m trying to watch my kid,” she said, smiling thinly.

“I’ve had it with you,” she threatened to the amazement of all the other moms watching. She went right over and plucked the cigarette out of Emily’s mouth, threw it on the grass, and stomped on it.

For a second or two Emily didn’t know what course of action to take. She puckered up her lips and looked straight up as if to say, “Say what you want about my lifestyle. Just don’t take the damn cigarette out of my mouth. Especially on the day my son stole my last few joints of kush.”

Without a moment’s hesitation she shot up like a bolt of lightning bringing her fist to the woman’s jaw. The uppercut almost lifted her off her feet and most definitely made her bite her tongue, which was something she could learn to do more often. The chubby lady tumbled back as a crowd of onlookers gasped and watched in awe as she fell on her back.

“Bitch,” Emily name called, taking her seat on her rightful throne and crossing her legs. She took out another cigarette and fired it up as the woman, now being helped by a few of the other moms, stood back up.

“I’m going to press charges,” she yelled back.

“Press away,” she said her attention drifting to the fact that she didn’t know where Jason was.

She stood up immediately and headed for where the children were practicing. A ball rolled her way and she hammered it with a strong kick sending it flying into the woods. A few curses ran out of her mouth as marched over to where the main coach, Larry, was sitting. He was drinking a juice box.

“Where’s my kid?” she demanded to know.

“Um, what?” he asked. His expression was dazed as if he had been looking at a computer screen for four hours after getting baked.

“Where’s my kid, Jason, the one I pay you to be responsible for?” she asked, worrying that he may have run away.

“Oh, him. He left with his uncle,” Coach Larry pointed out.

“That wasn’t his uncle, dumbass,” she stated, kicking his shin and rushing off to her van.

“I heard him say he just moved to Cedar Lakes with his family. He was driving a red Mazda Miata,” the coach said, rubbing his leg.

Emily flipped him the bird.

“Cedar Lakes is a piss hole. No one moves in a family there,” she spoke, hating

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

23

herself for not paying more attention when the unknown man had been talking to Jason. She jammed the key into the ignition and revved the engine to her mom mobile and sped off.

She took out her cell phone and dialed Michael. She had no idea what he would be doing at this time, but with his little brother being kidnapped and him taking her weed he didn’t have very many excuses not to answer. With every ring the angrier she got until he finally picked up.

“Hello,” Michael said.

“Hey, thief. How are you doing?” Emily asked, not really caring for an answer, “We’ll talk about your kleptomania at dinner tonight, but right now we have more pressing concerns. Jason’s been kidnapped by some pedophile at soccer practice.

Meet me at Cedar Lakes in ten minutes.”

“You let him get kidnapped?” Michael asked.

“Don’t judge me. Ditch your after school crap and help save your brother,” Emily demanded, speeding through a red light.

“Why don’t we call the cops if you know where he’s at?” he asked, not wanting to leave what he was doing at the moment.

“I have a warrant. Now if you don’t want to be sleeping outside in the slide you’ll be at Cedar Lakes shortly,” she threatened. It always worked to scare them with banishment at such a young age. No child with any lick of sense would fight against that. If they did, they’d usually be back soon.

“Well, you’re not going to win Mother of the Year,” Michael criticized, waving goodbye to his study group quickly and heading to the school parking lot.

“There’s always next year,” she said, hanging up.

The red sedan stuck out like a sore thumb in the run down neighborhood. The coach was good for his word. She still wanted to kick him again for letting this happen. If Jason’s pants were down or shirt was off everyone was going to die. He was the only good thing she had going in her life. She’d be damned if she let some pervert twist her child and ruin what could be her future college graduate.

She parked along the side of the road and watched the house. It was an old duplex probably made when Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves. It was falling apart from the outside like a decayed tooth. Toys littered the front yard.

Her stomach was beginning to get sick. A flood of images of what could be happening to her baby boy spilled into her brain. She had watched all those prime time documentaries on sex trafficking, sexual predators, and disgusting vile men who got off on children. Michael was taking too long. She couldn’t sit there anymore. So she grabbed any empty beer bottle from the floor and got out of the van.

Her high heels pounded the pavement as she strutted down the street like an Amazon warrior. She was a tall woman with thick thighs and long brown hair. She was a sight to behold in such a crack whore infested part of town.

She rang the doorbell then knocked on the door. Emily didn’t have much patience for people who nabbed her children and took them to some seedy part of town in a candy red chick car. She thought about ringing the bell one more time, but her hand went down to the knob twisting it open.

“That’s handy,” she said, walking right in.

The man in the black polo was a few yards in front of her with a piñata bat. He was skinny, almost frail looking, and was wearing clothes two sizes too big for him.

The sleeves went passed his elbows and his khakis laid in a heap on the bottom of his shoes.

“Get out of my house,” he said, coming at her. He looked like a garbage bag full of twigs.

“Surprise!” she said, hurling the beer bottle. It smacked the man shattering over his head. He stumbled backwards onto the wall as Emily followed sending a swift kick to the family jewels. He groaned bending forward with the impact.

“Where’s my kid?” she yelled, taking his head and slamming it down on her knee, “I swear to God, if he’s so much as been kissed by you, I’m going to tie you to the back of my minivan and drag your ass around town. Got me?”

The guy could hardly remain standing. Blood poured from a cut on his scalp. His eyes were half shut, and he mumbled incoherently. The back of his skull was then shoved deep into the cheap plaster wall again and again and again.

She couldn’t stop herself. A mother’s rage took over stronger than any drug. It was like being on PCP after taking a double shot of adrenaline to the chest and not having any life harming complications to it. Emily felt great as she tossed the man to ground, but deep down she was scared that this guy had already done what he wanted to do and killed Jason.

Her foot slammed hard on the man’s face giving him a reason to see the dentists soon.

“Where’s my son?” she once again demanded.

“Up.” He muttered as Jason fell down the stairs. His wrist and ankles were bound by duct tape.

She kicked the man one more time before she ran over to Jason and ripped the tape off him. She was relieved to know that he was still alive and looked mostly

24

okay. There were no hickies or visible signs of rough play or anything gross. The boy looked up and hugged her.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“You don’t have to be, honey,” she said, “I’m just happy you’re okay.”

She had a feeling that Jason had run off with the man to spite her for what had happened in the kitchen. She made a mental note never to do that again. The amount of stress this caused was too much when she didn’t have anything to smoke.

Michael ran up to the front door and saw his mother and brother getting up. His eyes then saw the bloody mess that was the kidnapper. He stood there with an open mouth not knowing what to say about how his mom handled the situation.

The guy was barely able to pick up his teeth from off the carpet.

“I think you’re up for mother of the year now,” he stated.

“I know, but you’re still grounded,” she said as she walked over, picked up the bat, and hit the kidnapper over the head one more time.

Zachary Burd is a pharmacy technician in Knoxville, Tennessee. He spends most of his time writing, enjoying the outdoors, and playing games.

Perceptions

by Hanna Kras At fourteen I knew what love was.

It was spiked hair and had an affinity for warheads..

It hugged me daily and held my hand.

At sixteen I knew what love was.

It was four-foot-eleven and had an affinity for hypocrisy.

It mocked me daily and built my confidence.

I knew what love was.

At twenty-seven I know what love is.

It can’t afford hair gel and has an affinity for bickering.

It’s old enough to offer a promise and a P.O. Box. I know what love is.

At forty-three I know what love is.

It has spiked hair and has an affinity for banging pots and pans.

It holds my hand and hides behind me.

I know what love is.

At eighty-six I knew what love was.

It was everything I ever set my heart on and gave me comfort.

Love was everything I thought it was—no condescension required.

I knew what love was.

The Little Girl

by Janet Ball-Reed The little girl who wanted to be was hidden inside of me, deep in the closets of my mind, hidden by fears of my past.

Lost in childhood that was confusing and frightening, childhood that gave me dreams and hopes but no way to achieve them.

As I wrote of my past my future became available, I could see my dream and my future, my life fills with hope and new ideas.

There was fear still hiding in my mind, but hiding only so it can come into view a little at a time.

Dreams of building a barn, having horses, playing with dogs, having no fear of new ideas and friends.

Dreams to have someone care and ask me how I feel, not just me who asks others how they feel.

All my dreams can come to fruition, as the little girl unfolds into her future and becomes a beautiful woman in God’s wonderful image.

Janet Ball-Reed has written articles for Riding Magazine and published a coloring book for children about riding basics and a flip book to take to horse shows.

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

Live Another Day

by Marcelline Jenny CHAPTER ONE Anne Forsythe woke up. She listened. Waited a moment. Then she opened her eyes. She squinted in the darkness toward her bedside clock. The digital alarm clock glowed: 3:22. Her heart pounded so hard she thought she could feel it thumping against her T-shirt. She lay completely still, and strained to listen to the sounds in her bedroom. “Is this it? Is he finally going to show himself? . . . Stop thinking. Just listen.”

But it wasn’t a strange sound that had startled her awake. It was something else.

It was something bad. It was a voice. And it whispered her name in her ear. “Anne.

Anne.” There it was again. Goose bumps rose on her arms. Her heart pounded harder and sweat drifted down her forehead into her eyes.

Anne had never thought of herself as a woman who frightened easily, but she was terrified now. Terror was mixed with a kind of relief that it maybe it would soon be over. Just yesterday, after the family doctor told her she looked like hell and asked what was going on with her besides having been jilted and worrying about her great aunt, she confessed to Doc Millner that the feeling of being watched and followed was stronger than ever.

“You told me years ago that feeling was gone, and I figured it was just a teenqueen episode and believed you.”

“I lied.”

“Why? There’s help for that. Why’d you lie to me of all people? I know you inside and out since you were an infant. Anne, you’re a smart woman. What’s going on with you? You don’t have to suffer from . . .” He hesitated to say ‘delusion.’

“Look, it’s past time you saw somebody. There’s a very good psychologist in my building who could help you. Her name is Myra Cohen. I think you’d like her.”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll call for an appointment. When I was little, I thought it was my guardian angel. Remember? Then when I was a teenager, I thought my birth parents had found me and were looking over me. Now . . . maybe you’re right. I’ve resisted it for so long. Maybe I should go talk to Dr. Cohen.

“No. I’m not going to. I know somebody’s been following me. In fact, I think I caught a glimpse of him.”

“Then go to the police.”

“You know that wouldn’t work. They don’t have the manpower to keep somebody looking after me all the time. And they’d probably think I was a nutcase if I told them I’ve been feeling like this since I was a kid.

“No, sooner or later I’m going to catch this guy and find out what he wants. I’m not exactly afraid of him. After all, he’s had more than one chance to attack me or kill me, and he hasn’t. No. I’ll catch him myself.”

Now Anne lay perfectly still in her bed and listened. She tried to quiet her breathing and slow down her heart. She needed to be able to hear. The only sound in the bedroom was the soft whirr of the alarm clock. “Show yourself,” she whispered into the darkness. “Let’s have this out once and for all!”

Anne steeled herself and kicked off her blanket. If he was in her bedroom, by now he knew she was awake. She had to get ready to fend off his attack or run. The room felt cold. She checked the window. She always cracked it open when she went to bed. Was it open wider? It wasn’t. She looked at the burglar alarm pad. It winked green. Nobody had entered the house. “Am I hearing things? Am I going crazy?”

As soon as she said it, she wondered if she was finally giving herself a real wake up call. If she was going crazy, she had to deal with it now before it got worst. Her thought had been that it might be a genetic condition. She had to stop dragging her feet and find her birth parents.

“Maybe they’re crazy too, and maybe that’s why I’m . . .” But she couldn’t deal with that thought right now. Her whispered name had definitely awakened her.

That was no delusion. . . . “But could it have been a dream? No.” She sat up to get ready to confront whoever was in her room, and she had to fight him off. Gammy needed her.

In the dark room Anne gulped back a sob. Her mind kept going over the same thought, “No one could have gotten in without it showing on the burglar alarm keyboard. I may finally be going crazy. Maybe no one has ever been following me.

What if one of my parents has a serious mental problem? It could be genetic. I could have inherited that. No. I’ve got to get over this. I’ve always functioned normally in every other way. I’m okay.” But she didn’t feel okay. Someone had whispered her name in the dark. She was sure of it. Finally Anne stopped her mind from going around in circles. “Forget all that right now and get a grip,” she told herself.

She concentrated on regulating her breath. In a few minutes her heart settled down a bit. She still felt light-headed, almost drunk, but her confidence had started returning. “It was just a nightmare. Nobody’s in the room. Go back to sleep.”

VOL 6, ISSUE 4

After staying absolutely still and listening to the silence of her room until her clock showed 3:53, she hunkered down into her pillows, and lectured herself.

“Don’t be stupid. It’s just that it’s a new place for me. That’s all. Go back to sleep Anne. It was a dream. You’re not crazy. Think about Gammy. She needs you.

Nobody’s following you, and there’s nobody in this room but you. It wasn’t an intruder and it’s not a ghost. You don’t believe in ghosts. You’re going to love living here, even if it kills you!’

But thoughts of the night before, her first night in her house, also kept forcing their way into her head. She had been startled awake last night, too. And she had automatically looked at her clock then too. It had glowed: 3:22. She couldn’t block out that thought anymore. “Not a coincidence,” she murmured into the darkness.

She was again completely alert and ready to spring from her bed.

She hadn’t known what woke her up the night before, but she knew what woke her up this night. Someone had whispered her name in her ear. She was sure of it.

She looked carefully around the room. She knew she wasn’t getting any more sleep this night. She was beginning to feel calm, as if, no matter what it was, she could deal with it. “Just think about how Gammy would have handled this.”

The light from the alarm clock and the nightlight in the adjoining bathroom were enough so she could make out rough shapes in the dark. Anne was slightly farsighted and wore glasses or contact lenses for reading and working, but she could see well enough in the dark bedroom. She peered carefully around the room and finding nothing moving or out of place, she prayed, “Please, don’t let my house be haunted. Please. . . . Don’t be stupid,” was her next thought. “It was a bad dream.

There’s no intruder and no such thing as ghosts,” she whispered into the darkness.

But her heart was pounding hard again, and her T-shirt was wet with sweat. She reached up to turn on the bedside lamp so she could really see into her bedroom, not just dark shapes.

Then she heard: ‘You may turn it on if you want to, Anne, but it will not help you to see me.’ The voice was that of an old woman, soft, and slightly quivery.

CHAPTER TWO Anne stifled a scream, and scrambled out of bed. ‘”Who are you? Where are you?” Her mouth had gone dry and her scream was only a croak. The woman’s lips had been right up against her ear. She could practically feel them. Anne rubbed her ears hard. Another wave of fear overtook her. Her knees began to fold under her.

She supported herself against the nightstand. She was shaking slightly so that the lamp on the nightstand swayed.

“Do not be afraid. I cannot harm you. Do not be afraid.” The voice was softly reedy, and was clearly that of an old lady. “Just take a few moments to get used to my presence, dear. Everything is all right. Do not be afraid,” the quivering voice repeated.

Anne slowly straightened up, but she was still trembling and very cold; her wet T-shirt stuck to her body. “Who are you? Where are you? What are you doing here? What do you want?” She didn’t recognize her own quivering voice, and couldn’t stop tears from welling in her eyes. ”Why are you following me?”

The voice spoke again: “My name is Mary Porter Gamewell. I am right here. I am not following you. I could not follow you even if I wanted to follow you, but I do not.

“I am here on important business. I must tell you that you are in great danger.

But please do not be afraid of me. I cannot harm you, and even if I could, I would not harm you. Not at all.” The woman’s voice was calm, but still reedy.

“What do you mean ‘I’m in great danger’? Why am I in great danger? Are you going to hurt me? Wait. You said you couldn’t hurt me. I’m not afraid of you. . . .

Well, yes, obviously, I am . . . a little. I don’t believe in ghosts. But even if you are a ghost, how could you hurt me. . . . Oh,” Anne wailed, “I’m finally going crazy . . . or this is a bad dream . . .”

“No, Anne. You are not dreaming,” the voice said and then added, “I have heard some say that it helps to pinch oneself, but I do not think it would be helpful, but you certainly might try if you wish.

“Are you going insane? I do not know if you are going insane. How could I know such a thing? And I do not like the word, ‘ghost.’ I prefer the word, soul, with a small ‘s’. Not ‘ghost.’ One might call us ‘small souls.’

“I suppose one might call me a ‘spirit’. However, ‘spirit’ does not seem to capture the exact meaning. The word, ‘ghost,’ is rather unseemly, do you not think? It conjures up goblins, ghouls, and All Hallows Eve, don’t you know. Oh, excuse me. Frank was always reminding me that I should not end a sentence with that phrase. ‘Very unladylike,’ he said. It was not that he was an elitist, but my dear husband liked everything, especially one’s language, to be proper.

“But I have noticed that you use contractions such as ‘don’t’ and ‘I’m.’ Is such language usage now accepted in polite and literate society?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but continued talking. Anne was still trembling and afraid, but no longer terrified, and the question flitted through her mind whether the ghost had been as talkative in life as in death.

Mary continued: “Now where was I? Oh, yes, I believe the holiday is now called

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

25

Halloween, is it not? An odd holiday to my mind. Originally, if I recall correctly, the day was set aside as the day before All Saints Day, in the Roman Catholic calendar.

Thus, All Hallows Eve is the eve of All Hallows Day, the day that is more commonly known as All Saints Day, November 1st. A Roman Catholic priest once told me this.

I, myself, never confirmed this information, but I do not believe a priest would lie about such a matter. Why would he? Quite an important holiday in Latin America and Roman Catholic countries, I understand. I do not know why, do you?” She didn’t wait for Anne to answer, but continued, “In our world, it made no never mind. Children love it of course. The dressing up as well as the treats. Now what was I supposed to tell you? It is quite important. It will come to me. Do not worry.

“You see we did not completely trust the Papists, but that is rather medieval thinking, don’t you know. Oh, excuse me. My husband would be so distressed, but men are not always right, don’t you know,’ she giggled. “You are a Papist, are you not? Would you prefer that I refer to you as a Romanist? That is the name most of us Protestant missionaries used for you.”

“We usually say ‘Roman Catholic’ or just ‘Catholic’ today,” Anne answered.

During the little monologue, even her fear of the ghost was disappearing. Her curiosity had been aroused. Still she heard her own voice tremble when she asked, “But you are dead, right? I mean you don’t have a body, right? Who are you? What are you doing here anyhow? You said I’m in danger. Tell me why. Did you come to warn me? Why you? Why me? Are you the one who’s been watching me? If you’re not the one, do you know who it is? Tell me now. Please.”

“My, oh my, so many questions! Well, I suppose that is to be expected. I always like to be precise in my words. It is necessary to be precise, is it not? Many misunderstandings could be prevented if people were more precise in their words.

Therefore I shall be precise. I shall explain it this way. Listen carefully. I am here to tell you that you are in danger. Sad to tell, I do not know why. I am not privy to that information. Perhaps I will be able to tell you later. It is very odd, but I do not know what I will say next. Did you ask me another question? . . . Oh, yes, I did die, but one could not describe me as completely dead. But yes, I no longer have a body.”

“I really need to know why I’m in danger. You’ll tell me as soon as you can remember. Right? Please. You must realize that I’m worried about that.

“Why ‘small soul’? You said you could be described as a small soul. Your name was what? Mary something, wasn’t it? Should I call you Mary? Who are you? Why are you here?’ Anne didn’t trust her legs to hold her up and sank onto her large bed, but she was determined to sit upright. She kept peering into the darkness, even though the voice was clearly at her ear. Or, was it in her head? She didn’t want to consider that possibility. Not yet.

“My name is Mary Porter Gamewell,” the spirit answered, her voice was tight with annoyance. Then she said, “For a young woman your memory is rather poor, is it not? When I was living, it was my experience that a young person usually has a good memory. Not so many years to remember, don’t you know. I myself had a very good memory clear into my fiftieth year. A good memory is something you must cultivate. A good memory is crucial for oh so many reasons. For example…

Well, for you it will be crucial. It could save you.” Anne’s face jerked up at Mary’s last statement. She still strained her eyes looking into the darkness, but couldn’t see another presence in the room. Mary kept talking.

CHAPTER THREE The young Chinese man turned over and sat cross-legged on the floor. Fifty situps and one hundred push-ups had energized him. Hu Renjiang sprang to his feet, crossed the room, grabbed a bottle of water from the carton of water bottles on the floor, then walked to his computer. He sat and tapped the ‘Mail’ icon.

The e-mail he had been longing for popped up. He opened it, read it, smiled, and went to the closet to get his duffel bag. He was finally going home. After all these lonely months in America, he was allowed to go home.

Hu packed his books and papers and then his few clothes and toiletries. His laptop would go in his backpack. He peered around the room and found nothing more to be packed. He zipped up the duffel and looked suddenly at the apartment door. A small noise . . . and then the locked door swung silently open.

A young Chinese woman, carrying the same duffel with a small OHC logo on it, stood framed in the doorway. She didn’t smile, but held out her hand when she introduced herself. “Ellen Chan.”

Hu walked over and took her hand. “Welcome. The apartment is clean. There is nothing in the fridge. I’ve stripped the bed. Clean sheets are in the closet. Is there anything else?”

“No. I’ll manage fine.”

“I’m leaving the trackers, binoculars, and other stuff here.”

“Okay, but I brought my own just in case. I prefer to use equipment I’m familiar with. Are you leaving a weapon?”

Hu slung his duffel and backpack on his shoulder. “Yes, it’s here in the kitchen drawer with ammunition. Anything else?” She shook her head. “Okay, then. Good luck.”

26

“Thanks. You, too. Oh, and these are for you.” She held out an envelope. “You have your ticket to Beijing, but in here is a ticket to Washington. The Master wants to see you there tonight. Do you have enough cash?”

“Yeah, thanks. Good luck again.” He left the apartment as silently as she had entered only a few moments earlier.

(To be continued in our next TOUGH LIT issue…)

Marcelline Jenny lives in New Hampshire where she concentrates on writing fiction.

Her first two books are thrillers. The first, Live Another Day (featured here), draws on her knowledge of Chinese History, particularly the First Emperor who was the initial builder of the Great Wall of China. The second thriller, Talant Searches, has the relationship between Kublai Khan and Marco Polo as its back story.

Heirs of Justice

by Rosalie H. Contino, PhD Part 3 Reminiscent of Dragnet, Parts 1 and 2 appeared in our September and February TOUGH LIT issues. Here’s the recap (just the facts, ma’am): One summer night, two boys in their early twenties went for a ride. Kevin Myers and Mark Stephano had been best friends since they were children. This ride ended in tragedy when their car slid off the road and hit a tree, killing Kevin instantly. Kevin's mother, Claudine, is shattered with grief. However, what looks like a random horrible tragedy may prove to be much deeper and perhaps more sinister than Claudine ever expected. And now for the dramatic conclusion!

“Kevin and I did volunteer work together at the Fort Acres General Hospital in town on our summer and midyear breaks. He was great to work with-always full of ideas of how to help patients, how we,” he laughed, “should consider volunteering our time in the poorer part of the country or maybe overseas. Kevin always included me with him. He wanted us to work in the pediatrics field because he saw what happened when children were victims in crashes of drunk drivers. The kids loved him when he went in the wards to talk to them. He had a special gift.” He pinched his lips. “It’s hard to believe he’s not going to medical school with me.”

“Did he ever mention Mark Stephano to you?”

“Oh, yeah… over and over. We all knew each other but Kevin and Mark grew up together. Their parents were friends. In fact, one semester, when we all came home for the summer, as we went to different colleges, Mark came with us for a few days to be a volunteer at the hospital. He didn’t like it because he didn’t like to see people suffer from the carelessness,” he stared straight at Mark, “of others.”

The cameraman caught the “mmmm” sounds from the courtroom and the expressions on the jury as well. Claudine and Mark’s mother reacted with a wideeyed expression. Apparently, neither mother was aware that Mark had worked with the boys in the past. “He thought we hated him because he didn’t want to be a doctor. We assured him that it was quite okay. He said he was glad that we felt that way. Kevin was glad that he was going to another state to become a doctor.

Mark was always goofing off and making his parents nuts. Kevin was gung ho on volunteering in the hospital. I guess but the fact that they were childhood friends and lived in the same town and/or that their parents were lifelong friends always presented a problem. Kevin felt that maybe Mark’s parents pushed too hard. Kevin was optimistic and finally listened to me that he should focus on his own career.

We were checking places to volunteer after the first year of medical school.” Todd eyes filled up with tears. “God, Mark what the hell were you thinking?”

“Excuse me,” Megan said curtly. “I think we heard enough.”

“Did you get the feeling that Mark was out to get Kevin or jealous because of his perfect life?” asked Jeffreys.

“I don’t know. When we were together, Mark was cordial, and why not? We were all a group of happy-go-lucky kids getting ready for the next step in our futures. All I know is that we were all looking to go to the party for a last hurrah. We were all going to school, or getting married, or traveling. We weren’t sure if we were going to see each other again.” Todd’s eyes filled up with tears. He wiped his eyes with a tissue. “It was a fun time. Who knew the outcome?” Todd cast a menacing look at Mark. “Who knew?”

Mark kept his head down, silently weeping. His mother put her hand on his shoulder. He sat up and faced Todd.

“Any questions, Ms. Megan?”

“Weren’t you upset when Amy dated Mark and not you? I understand you raved for days.”

“My God,” Todd yelled. “That was the first year of college. We were all kids.”

“Like you’re so old now?” Megan laughed.

Todd was flustered. “I was pretty angry because I thought she would be my

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

girlfriend in college as well. However, I grew up, and found someone to date.

There were enough to choose from.”

The courtroom was filled with laughter. Todd’s face reddened. The camera flipped from one side of the trial to the other.

“I’m sorry Amy. I didn’t mean that.”

“Weren’t you mad when you found out that he took the air out your tires last winter and you were low on funds and had to have the car towed?”

“Wouldn’t you be? That was Mark’s doing! I didn’t have the funds that Mark had access to. I had to take out loans and pay for the car myself. Of course I was angry.

Everything was a joke to him. I didn’t trust him anymore. Look, we were all drinking that night. We told Kevin not to get in the car with him that night. Kevin insisted that Mark was okay to drive and that he wasn’t drunk because he could tell!" he answered angrily.

“Did you feel Mark was teaching Kevin a lesson by swerving because of your friendship with him?” asked Jeffreys.

“Who knows what went on in his mind? I didn’t trust Mark anymore but Kevin did. Ugh! Like a big brother, and look what happened!”

“Are you more angry that Kevin got a scholarship to medical school and you didn’t get one?” asked Ms. Megan.

“No, I just received a letter to yesterday that I got one. Maybe I should thank Mark for killing Kevin. Is that what you mean?” Todd retorted.

The courtroom was in an uproar. The Manero used his judge’s tone for “Order, order. Order in the courtroom. Your call, Ms Megan!”

“I’m sorry, your honor.”

“Finished, folks?” asked the judge.

Both lawyers answered, “Yes, your Honor.”

“I guess we’ll call it a day. We have one more witness who could not testify today but will be here tomorrow. Okay?”

“Fine,” they answered in unison.

Jeffreys gave Claudine a look of 'don’t worry’ again. But the grieving mother wasn’t so sure. As she did the day before, Claudine left the courtroom quickly, head held high. She walked to her car and drove home. * * * After dinner, she called Jeffreys. He picked the phone up. “I knew you were going to call. I figured yesterday you took the phone off the hook. Stop worrying.”

“No, I remembered that Kevin was upset many a time when he was with Mark. I finally confronted him.”

Jeffreys listened quietly, then said. “Wow, this changes things.”

“Sure does. Is there any way of checking to see how many tickets Mark got during these escapes, and if he lost his license for a while, especially upstate New York?”

“Mmm, I have friends who live upstate. I’ll ask them to check court records during the last five years.”

“By the way, who is this Megan and why is she so insistent that Kevin was at fault? He wasn’t driving! There are no fingerprints anywhere on Mark’s clothes!

Who is she?”

“Calm down Claudine. Her fiancé was killed by a cousin who grabbed the wheel.

The fiancé was driving. The cousin got only a few years and wasn’t hurt. She’s very bitter and that’s the reason why she became a lawyer. She doesn’t want Mark to go to jail.”

“I thought so the way she is so insistent that Kevin was at fault. What is she complaining about? Even if Mark goes to jail, at least he is alive!”

“I know, I know,” said Jeffreys sadly, “What could I say?”

“Okay, I won’t keep you on the phone, See you tomorrow.”

“Fine.” answered Jeffreys. * * * The next morning, Claudine walked into the courtroom heavy-hearted. Who could be the next witness? Most of the people who could be called would have the same testimony as the previous witnesses. Claudine was surprised when she heard Jeffreys swear in the next witness.

“Mr. Jeremy Cameron, is the owner of the service station in the next town of Winterberry. How well did you know the Mark and the deceased, Kevin, Mr. Cameron?”

“They were in my shop quite a few times, in the past two years. Mark had a few fender benders and when he didn’t want his parents to know, paid cash or asked Kevin to pay or charge paid for them. Apparently, they were friends since they were kids. It was very kind of Kevin to help him out.”

“How do you know this about them?”

“They told me. At one point, Kevin was annoyed and told Mark to shape up because he was going to medical school in another state and wasn’t going to be around to bail him out. Both were very nice kids. I didn’t doubt their stories. A lot of kids help each other out because they know their parents will take the cars away from them or not send them to college.”

“Is that your opinion?”

“No, it’s what their parents have told them.”

VOL 6, ISSUE 4

“Do you keep a list of services and charges even if they pay cash?”

“Of course,” Cameron stammered, “Why wouldn’t I? Every account is listed and what services were done. Here, I brought a copy for each of you and every sheet they signed. I don’t need the IRS sending investigators. Laws are stricter than years ago. Insurance companies don’t want to pay for damages that their clients are not responsible for. You should know that!”

“Yes, sorry, I just wanted to make sure. Okay. Ms. Megan?”

“Weren’t you annoyed that you had to call Kevin a few times when you couldn’t get Mark to pay for the last damage to his car?”

“What kind of a question is that? Wouldn’t you be if you had to call the friend and not the person whose car it was that had to be repaired?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Your call, Mr. Jeffreys.”

“Nothing more to be added,” stated Jeffreys.

“Court will resume in two days at 9:30 AM.” Manero banged the gavel softly this time. “Is that enough time for you Mr. Jeffreys to get more evidence?”

“Hope so, your Honor.”

Megan was shocked. Megan walked over to the Judge.

“What’s this all about, if I may ask?”

“The case is not over, Ms Megan. More evidence and witnesses have come forward.”

Claudine spent the next two days trying to do mundane things to get her mind off the trial. What if I am wrong, she wondered? No one knew what she asked Jeffreys to do. She finally went shopping and thought of nothing else except the sales items she purchased. She didn’t dare call Jeffreys. She felt she should let him do his job in peace. Her mind went from one thing to another. She remembered ever so clearly Bob Hope and Bing Crosby doing the disarming patty-cake routine in their On the Road movies: “Patty cake, patty cake, patty cake man! Make me a cake as fast as you can!”

Life should be as easy as making this cake, she thought, and cried the rest of the day.

The two days went quickly. Claudine sat quietly as the members of the jury and onlookers waited for the judge to begin. The camera slowly surveyed the area as she did, focusing and refocusing on some newcomers that Claudine recognized as Kevin’s friends from the hospital. Tears filled up in her eyes as in theirs when they acknowledged each other.

“Mr. Jeffreys, what new evidence do we have today?” asked Judge Manero.

“Dear Judge Manero and members of the jury, I am going to show that Mark Stephano, kind and well-mannered Mark Stephano was a macho maniac behind the wheel without a care for anyone on the road. You heard how many fender benders Kevin paid for so that his parents wouldn’t know about them, but there were others that were in upstate New York—paid for by a new set of friends that no one in this area was aware that he had.” Jeffreys motioned to the guard who opened the door. A young man about Mark’s age in a wheelchair and with his aide and another, a young lady with her leg in a soft cast and on crutches entered the courtroom.

Jeffreys motioned both of them to come up front.

“Your Honor, Ms. Megan, and members of the jury, let me introduce you to Vinny Salerio and Jenny Emilio, both Mark’s victims.”

The aide straightened the wheelchair so that Vinny would be able to give his testimony. After he was sworn in, Jeffreys spoke.

“Mr. Salerio, did you know Mark Stephano and Kevin?” asked Jeffreys.

“Yes,” Vinny spoke, “Mark, Jenny, and I were in a computer class together. Kevin drove up with him once in a while. We all went ice skating together during the winter recess. In fact, I’m going to get a masters in computer engineering not ice skating.” Vinny pointed to his wheelchair.

“Thank God. It was one of those nights… We were going to a music concert at Caramoor...”

“And I see that you are in a wheelchair. Did that happen at Caramoor?”

“Yes, I got in the car with Mark, and Jenny was in the back... You know, sometimes he always had to try a kind of skidding and stopping on a dime, demented skit. This time, he skidded, and I got thrown out of the car. There was something wrong with the seatbelt. He said he had it checked but sometimes it got loose. All I know is that I still have to do a lot more therapy before I give up this wheelchair!”

He faced Mark and snapped, “Did you finally confess about us?” pointing to Jenny and himself. “How did they find out? Didn’t your parents wonder about the insurance claims, or did you wriggle your way out of that?”

Mark’s parents showed up that day and sat behind him. They and Claudine sat there stunned and mesmerized as Vinny spoke. The camera was having a field day showing the reactions of everyone in the courtroom.

“Everything was always a joke to you. How many times did Kevin chew you out for acting irresponsibly, man? How many times? Jenny wanted to be an ice skater.

What is she going to do now?”

“Calm down, young man. Ms. Megan, any comments?”

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

27

“Was he drinking?” Megan asked calmly.

"No, we were going to a concert—not drinking. Whether, he drank or not, he was always pulling these shenanigans! Pull over to the side off the road fast and pull back, Mr. Macho Mark.”

“Why did you get in the car?”

“Because he promised he would not do it again.”

“And after a while Crazy Maniac Mark would pull another stunt!” Vinny screamed. His brown hair fell over his eyes. No matter how many times he pushed it back it seemed determined to stay in front of his eyes. The last time he left his hair as it was and it gave him a haunted look.

Claudine sat hearing her son’s words ringing in her ears-“the macho maniac behind wheel.” Mark’s mother was weeping. His father’s face was expressionless.

“I have no other questions your honor.” Megan said, quietly.

“Mr. Jeffreys?”

“I’m finished, your Honor.”

As Vinny screamed, Claudine realized that Sherri had covered for Mark again. She always did because when Mark’s father found out, he had a fit and cut Mark’s allowance and use of the car for a month at least. She told Claudine several times she didn’t know why Mark had a rebellious streak in him. It had to be with a car.

Hmm, she pondered, I wonder if Jeffreys was aware of this? Or did Mark hide insurance rates and papers and help Mark pay off the damage?

The aide escorted Vinny to a space that was kept for him after testimony. Jenny edged her way to the witness box, assuring them that it was okay. The slender girl pushed back her long black hair so that she could look presentable. Once she was sworn in, she sat as comfortably as she could.

“How do you know Mark?” asked Jeffreys, showing no emotion.

“He and Kevin used to come up once in awhile, during the winter breaks and we would all go ice skating. Mark, Vinny, and I were in a computer course together.

We always had a lot of fun.

I usually took my own car to meet them as I was working for one of the professors. The only time I got in the car is when Vinny and I got into the accident. I didn’t want to because of what Vinny said about Mark but Mark and Vinny assured me that Mark was on his best behavior. Who knew?”

“Were you on your way to becoming an ice skating champ?”

“No, I am studying to be an occupational therapist.” She laughed. “I’ll be trying out a lot of the exercises once the soft cast comes off. Vinny and I grew up together. He always wanted me to be a professional ice skater. I don’t know about him, but I’m glad I didn’t plan on it. Once you break your leg like this, it’s all over.”

“Will you have to walk with a cane or no cane?”

“I don’t know but I doubt it. Lots of people break their legs. People ski, play tennis, jog, and even ice skate. They don’t have to use a cane after, I hope.”

“Weren’t your parents angry and threatened to sue Mark’s parents for the medical bills he caused you?”

“No, Mark convinced my Dad that he would tutor me in computers for the year if he didn’t. Dad said okay. He liked Mark and wouldn’t believe what we said about him. Whatever we said, he couldn’t understand why we associated with him to begin with.” She shrugged.

“Was Kevin there that day?”

“No. When he came up a few weeks later and we told him, he looked at Mark, shook his head and said, “I don’t understand you Mark, I really don’t.”

“There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Goodie Two Shoes to some and a Macho Maniac to friends. Being clean cut didn’t help him. Amazing. You know that expression, 'you can’t judge a book by its cover?' I’m finished, your Honor.”

“Ms Megan?” asked Judge Manero.

Megan shook her head no. Her face registered a total look of shock or anger or plain shock. Manero motioned for the guard to assist Jenny off the stand and to a seat in the front row next to Vinny.

“We’ll end this session today. I will ask that the Police Chief Morgan to return for questions on his testimony. Any questions, Mr Jeffreys or Ms Megan?”

“No, your Honor,” both lawyers answered simultaneously.

Claudine left the courtroom quickly. She wanted to beat Mark and his parents out the door. She couldn’t bear to face them. At home she made a quick salad and poured herself a well-deserved glass of wine. The phone rang a few times before she jumped up to answer it. That ringing pierced every bone in her body. It had to be Jeffreys.

“His mother knows.” she blurted. “She always covered up for him. She told me it was because when Anthony found out, he cut his allowance for weeks and wouldn’t let him use the car!”

“I know. When I saw the look on your face, I knew that was the answer.”

“So what do we do?”

“The kid needs help and not really punishment but I don’t want him to walk out of the courtroom free as a breeze.”

“Will Mark be asked to testify, or better still, what will his parents do?”

“I don’t know.”

28

Claudine heard him sigh on the phone.

“Maybe we’ll be lucky and a miracle will happen. Let’s wait and see.”

The next morning, Jeffreys asked the police chief if he found any damage to the seatbelt.

“I checked the seatbelt again yesterday over and over. Every shape and weight in the police department has gotten into the car. We drove and pulled over several times, and stopped short several times. It failed once and only once on the twentieth try did the seatbelt slide open. Yet the seatbelt was not frayed or looked as if there was any damage to it. I called the company that makes the seatbelts. I asked if it made a difference what brand or type of car the seatbelts were installed.

They said each car has its own type of seatbelt. They had noticed that there were one or two complaints but I insisted on their sending me a report just to be sure, as I mentioned that we were talking about the loss of a life. I will have the answer in three days. Okay?”

Jeffreys looked at Megan.

“Fine,” said Manero. “Then we will resume this trial in four days.”

Claudine left the courthouse with a heavy heart. Jeffreys’ expression once again said to keep calm. Why, she thought. Mark will walk out of this courtroom without justice being served all because of a faulty seatbelt! On the other hand, if he didn’t clown around so much and jerked the car to a sudden stop, Kevin would still be alive. * * * After dinner, Claudine turned on the TV to watch a mindless reality show when the phone rang. She knew it was Jeffreys.

“I know what you’re thinking. He’s not walking out scot-free. Mark has a lot of problems that are coming to light with this case.”

“So, what does that mean? We go to jail instead of him. I don’t understand Sherri. Didn’t she notice he was getting more and more into trouble? She was always a concerned parent. How could she not know about the accident with Vinny and Jenny?”

“What makes you think she didn’t? Don’t put the cart before the horse.

It’s not the end of the case yet. Let’s wait to see what the seatbelt people say, okay?”

“Fine. All I can see is that he’ll get off because of the seatbelt!” Claudine snapped at him.

“I’m sorry, Claudine, I am so sorry. Let’s keep our fingers crossed and our faith up. See you in a few days.”

Four days after, Claudine sat quickly avoiding Sherri and Anthony. The camera swirled from Mark, his parents, Claudine, the judge, the lawyers, and the jury as if slowly trying to get a feel of what was to become of the scene.

“The seatbelt incident is a fluke. They have tested it over and over-almost on the 20th or 30th time,” Morgan noted, “it flies open and when the driver stops short or jams on the brakes. I have been told that it is off the market. If people want to keep it in their car they can buy a gadget that will present it from opening. They do so at their own risk, rather than buying a new one.” Morgan gave copies of the document from the company and to Jeffreys, Megan and the judge. “That’s all I can say.”

“Counselors, any other questions or comments?” asked Manero. Both shook their heads no. "If that being the case, I suggest that we have a summation tomorrow. Is that okay?” Both lawyers nodded yes.

Claudine walked out of the courtroom without any expression - devoid of any emotions -wishing she go to see the Wizard of Oz and sing, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” with Judy Garland. Claudine knew she could not change what had happened in the past year.

She walked around the house for hours. Every program could turned on could not quiet or calm her wondering mind.

“Mark will walk scot-free. I know he will. I know it!” She cried to no one in particular.

Claudine sat there in the courtroom with bated breath. “To be or not to be” free was going to be the jury’s decision. She looked over and saw the Stephanos and Mark sitting there stoically. Sherri looked as if she had been crying. The sunglasses didn’t cover too much.

Jeffreys spoke first, rehashing what he had said at the beginning and middle of the trial, emphasizing the fact that he possessed that 'macho attitude' when driving, whether sober or drinking, along with the fact that he was lucky enough to have friends cover up his shenanigans for years—even the incident of the seatbelt.

Shouldn’t he have replaced it, knowing that he had a problem once or twice, without being told that he had to?

"The tragedy was that Mark’s total disregard for human life caused injuries to Vinny Salerio, Jenny Emilio, and of course, the death of a fine young man, Kevin Myers - a caring, young man who was on his way to a great future as a doctor.

Instead, the only future his mother has to look forward to is a periodic visit to his grave site. It’s up to you ladies and gentlemen of the jury to keep young men like Mark Stephano off the highways and save others from such a fate! I rest my case.”

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

Megan stood up, her stance a little less defiant than the first day. Claudine remembered when she spoke in those self-righteous terms, asking the jury how Jeffreys dared speak about her client in such cruel terms.

“Remember, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, both men were drunk. The coroner stated this fact. If you knew your friend could at any moment, drive to the edge of a road and stop short, why were you willing to take a chance unless the victim liked to be motivated in this excitement, whether drunk or sober?”

A hush fell over the courtroom. The camera was working overtime, focusing on Claudine sitting there stunned, Mark's parents still stoic, the jury listening and staring wide-eyed at Megan’s insinuations, and more mumbles from the visitors.

“We don’t know what dialogue took place when Kevin decided to pay for the fender benders. Maybe he said, ‘Wow, Mark, try it again, okay? But don’t go so near!’ We were told that on that fateful night, Mark had been drinking, but so was Kevin. Why did Kevin take a chance and trust him? Why? Kevin liked adventure, didn’t he? He was willing to become a doctor and help in third world counties that needed doctors. How safe was that dream? We read about terrible accidents that happen to people in these situations, people who thought they were doing the right thing every day. I ask you to think about your decision to find Mark guilty or innocent before reaching a verdict.”

She nodded, and Judge Manero stated, “We ask the jury to find a verdict based on that which you have heard during this trial.”

Claudine left with a heavy heart and drove home. This was not what she expected. Mark will walk and spend the rest of this life as a free man. Three hours later, Jeffreys called to say that the jury reached a verdict.

The foreman stood up and said in a clear voice, “We find the defendant, Mark Stephano, guilty of the following, reckless endangerment of a human life, total disregard of safety rules on the roads for himself, his passengers or others on the roads. We suggest that Mark be psychologically tested before giving him a sentence. According to what we have heard, his reckless behavior was consistent.

His behavior was covered up by various friends who believed his 'sudden apologies', including Kevin Meyers.”

Judge Manero faced the jury and courtroom. “Any questions?" He looked at Jeffreys and Megan, both of whom breathed a sign of relief.

To Mark, he said, “Stand, please. I will sentence you next Monday morning.

Okay?” Mark nodded grimly and sat down. Sherri put her arm on his shoulder.

Claudine sat thinking. So, what the hell does that mean? Where is that Judy Garland song? I need to hear it and escape from this travesty. She drove home quickly, called some members of her family, and told them the verdict.

“Look, Sis,” her brother Vince said, “want me to fly in and stay for a while? I have the time. I told you, you shouldn’t be handling this by yourself.”

Claudine insisted it wasn’t necessary. Instead, she took out the lessons and thought, Why not use the Merchant of Venice, Romeo and Juliet, or Julius Caesar?

Claudine reconsidered that thought. She didn’t want her students to think of revenge each time they entered her class. There was enough of that in the world.

Jeffreys called several times to ask how she was doing. She assured him she was fine.

Monday morning arrived. Claudine sat there quietly, but had already rationalized that whatever would be, was going to be. It's not like it would bring back her son.

Judge Manero spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, before I give the sentence, I have a letter that was given to me this morning from Mr. Stephano, Mark’s father, and I have asked the court attendee to read it. Does this sit well with you, Mr. Jeffreys and Ms. Megan?” Both lawyers nodded their approval.

“Dear members of the family of Kevin Myers and the jury, I have been told by the wife Sherri Stephano and finally, by my son Mark, that many of the incidents that Mark was involved in were true. I had no idea that our car insurance rates went up and that the insurance company paid for the damages that Mark was involved in with Vinny Salerio and Jenny Emilio. My wife thought she was protecting my son from my wrath and was not logical in these situations. Mark used to clown around when he was a kid, and I know he caused some grief to many of the people in our town, but never did I dream of the consequences of his immature or irrational conduct.”

As the court officer spoke, the camera were busy capturing the expressions of Claudine, Mark’s parents, the members of the jury, as well as Vinny and Jenny, who returned the following day, as all of their faces registered shock, but that quickly turned to sadness, to dismay, and to anger.

“Many people told me over and over, but obviously, I paid no heed, although I warned Mark that someday his pranks would cause damage, serious damage.

Although we don’t know if a faulty seatbelt added to Kevin’s demise or the injuries of Vinny Selario but, logically speaking, maybe Mark should have had the seatbelt replaced. We are here today, dealing with the consequences too, and results of the death of his childhood friend Kevin Myers. Mark wasn’t listening when he was told to grow up and cut the shenanigans. We were lucky in the past that because of his endearing personality attitude and of ‘Who me? I didn’t mean

VOL 6, ISSUE 4

anything by it.’ He got away with it. Had I foreseen the future and maybe those who paid or covered up for him came forward and told me, Kevin’s death might have been prevented, and certainly Vinny and Jenny’s accidents would have been prevented. Maybe Mark needs psychological help more than what we realized or knew. I hope you, Judge Manero, take this request into consideration. My wife and I are sorry for the damages and accidents our son caused Vinny Salerio and Jenny Emilio and for the death of Kevin Myers.… Signed. Anthony Stephano.”

“Thank you. Anyone else want to speak before I sentence Mark?” No one spoke.

“Young man, please stand. Before I give the sentence for the car infractions, accidents and the death of Kevin Meyers, I want you to be sent for psychological testing. Pending the results, I will decide what sentence is appropriate. You are not be driving until the court decides what the outcome of this testing is. Your conduct has caused innumerable injuries and pain. Is that clear young man?” Mark nodded.

“This case is over for the time being. I thank the members of the jury for participating and finding a verdict.” His gravel was heard with a “Court dismissed.”

Claudine sat there. Jeffreys took her hand. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not over.”

“I know,” said Claudine. “Like Yogi Berra said, ‘It’s not over ‘til it’s over.' Maybe we’ll find out what the problems were or are, and resolve and save other lives accidents before they happen. Thanks, you did a good job. I am very pleased.”

Six months later Claudine, spoke as a guest speaker at the local high school assembly where she taught. Police Chief Morgan was hosting a day to discuss drinking and driving the importance of responsibility of being a driver. She ended her lecture with the following: “How many of you know where the quote ‘Goodnight, Sweet Prince’ is from?”

A few students raised their hands. Claudine picked the nearest girl in the front row.

“It’s from Hamlet? It’s what Hamlet’s best friend Horatio says after Hamlet dies.”

“Yes, it is. Can anyone tell me why I would choose to open a lecture on driving what that comment?”

Hands flew up again. Claudine picked the same young lady who just happened to be one of her students.

“I guess you must really like Hamlet, Elena.” Claudine laughed.

“I do, I do. It’s the last scene and it’s very sad.” she added, pleased with herself.

“Okay, for the next question. What does it mean?”

Elena spoke quietly, “I think it means when someone you love dies, and when you go to visit them at the cemetery, and this is how you say goodbye to them. Oh, er, if it’s a lady, then you would say, ‘Goodnight, Sweet Princess,' because he/she meant so much so that person."

“Good girl, Elena,” she faced the teenager, “I know you are aware of how many organizations have been set up to prevent you or a loved one from being a victim of drunken driving.”

Claudine spoke quickly and softly, and concluded with, “Why do you think I chose to use this quote to close this lecture?”

She picked a senior, Mark, who knew her son, Kevin.

“It means that someone close to you died, and when you visit him at the cemetery you end your visit with ‘Goodnight, Sweet Prince’ because that’s what your son meant to you.”

Claudine looked at the young man. As tears welled up in his eyes, so did tears well up in hers. There was a gasp and murmurs of “so sorry” from the audience.

“Yes, many of you know, my son Kevin was killed by an irresponsible fiend-one of his best friends, no less. The case is not resolved yet, and the person responsible for the crime is still being evaluated. Promise yourself you won’t let this happen to you or anyone you love. Thank you for having me speak. I wonder if any of you thought this was going to be a test.”

The students laughed, stood and clapped vigorously. Then Police Chief Morgan came up to the podium. He waited for the applause to die down. “We hope you leave by the message Mrs. Meyers has just left you with. Have a good day. But I just have to say, Mrs. Meyers must be very proud of how many hands flew up when she mentioned the quote 'Goodnight, Sweet Prince'. When they say Shakespeare was for the masses, they were right.”

The student audience clapped and cheered. Claudine left with a happy heart.

Mark was still being evaluated. At least he wasn’t driving on the road. If nothing else, that was a major consolation.

She hadn’t seen Mark’s parents since the end of the trial. Word was that they both took leave of their jobs and rented an apartment at the facility where Mark was being treated. They never approached her but she guessed that the letter Anthony wrote to the jury included her in the apology.

Claudine booked a trip to London and Paris for August. At least it will be a change in her routine—paintings, sculpture and plays, of course. What more could she ask for?

(See Rosalie’s profile on p. 35)

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

29

Little Boxes

by Amanda Garretson Part 2 Based on real-life events, Part 1 appeared in our February TOUGH LIT II issue.

Here’s the recap: Natalie and her husband Frank are thrown into turmoil over with the unwanted pregnancy of their 15-year-old daughter, Lily. Zeda, Natalie’s close friend, who works at an adoption agency, offers to adopt the child, but the plan goes south when her criminal past is uncovered and a mysterious $50,000 is discovered in Mitch Shepherd’s (the adoption agent) desk. He’s arrested but insists he’s being framed. Adding to the drama is the fact he and Natalie are having an affair and Zeda has mysteriously disappeared. The twisted plot unwinds in this gripping conclusion.

I called Mitch on the morning of his trial. I just wanted him hear my voice. His wife was bitter, retreating deeper into exile from the family and seldom speaking to him. His search for resolution had worn to a vengeance-tainted quest for restitution, a war he was fighting alone. Later that morning, he was convicted, heavily fined, and fired.

Frank spent a lot of time with the kids, holding his umbrage beneath his ethics, while I took the blame for every violation of them, whether or not it was given to me. All the years of hiding from the bad girl inside me, keeping her hidden behind an intense desire to be a better person, showed up blacker against the whiteness of Frank’s goodness.

“You keep acting the part,” Greta said. “When are you going to stop?”

I stared back at a year of losses: a baby, an acquittal, reputations, faith, and marriages... We had all grown up in different directions, that year after Lily’s baby was born.

I watched the sun’s predawn patina on its distant ledge, and considered it a prelude to a new summer day.

“The kids and I are going to see Greta,” I announced to Frank.

No one objected, Frank or kids, and the three of us were packed and driving before the sun had started to make good on its promise. We opened the windows to the August wind and let it whip us mercilessly while we sang off key to an old Bob Seeger CD: “Today’s music ain’t got the same soul… Just gimme that old time Rock-n-Roll!”

That morning’s Indiana sun was bobbing on a southern horizon like a giant jewel hopping through the words of a sing-along, when our tires crackled on the seashell drive that wound to Greta’s house before falling into the marshy shallows of St. Helena’s Sound.

I woke between fresh, clean sheets, feeling puppet strings being snipped, and my wooden limbs turning pink and pulsing. Maybe I’m becoming a real girl, I thought, indulging in a Geppetto-to-Greta comparison. I’d make real choices and live in a real home. The view from Greta’s window made my Indiana house look like rental property that I’d never owned. When I left it, I had hurdled the low picket fence with my long stride, but looking back from here, I saw it as a tall wall.

We’d been at Greta’s almost a week before I called Mitch, and heard his voice for the first time in many months. His mood ran deeper than the ruin of his reputation. He was floundering in wrecked emotions, feeling guilty for the affair, angry at being wrongly accused, and still unable to unravel what had happened.

He hated me and loved me from one day to the next. His financial and emotional footing was slipping away, leaving him hanging with only a lifetime of good goals.

“One bit of blue sky from this,” he said. “The $50,000 had to be donated to charity, and Virgil had no part in the decision. Dick Lawrence contrived to get it sent to the crisis centers.”

Greta heard the end of my conversation with Mitch.

“You’ve broken through a lot of barriers this year,” she said.

“I’ve done it all wrong,” I answered. “I know what God says about marriage and adultery. I try to convince myself that Mitch is an obsession, a symptom of a deeper problem. But it’s as if my movie screen was blank all my life, without me knowing it, and when Mitch walked in, the projector switched on, surrounding me with living color and symphony sound. It would be different if I still thought the blank screen was the feature show. I’m willing to walk away from the movie, but I’ll never be able to turn it off. Mitch has melted into the gaping hole in me, filling it with 3-D animation, a plot, and a purpose. Greta, why did God let this happen?

He knew I didn’t have the power to resist it. No matter what I do now, Mitch will always be in my marriage.”

“Well, sometimes angels put clothes on,” she said. “But Mitch isn’t the one filling that hole inside you. God is. He knows you don’t have the power, that’s the point.”

“You’re the angel.” I muffled into my pillow. She laughed aloud, “So are you,” she answered, “find your wings!” She settled beside me on the comforter and put her arm around me.

30

“Did God use ‘bad’ people, in that Bible of yours, to get ‘good’ things done?” She went on answering her own question, “He spent His time with people a lot worse than you, leaving the principled, and the pious to their judging Him as they chose.

You’re reproving yourself with Pharisee standards, Natalie, mistaking judgment for discernment.”

“But right and wrong don’t change.” I said.

“No,” she answered, “but how big is your wrong, and how much worse than any other? It’s a tiny drop in the eternal ocean of a big God’s love.”

“You make it sound so easy,” I said. But what would I have left if I didn’t keep trying?”

“The problem is, trying to do it yourself, Natalie.”

Frank called for the first time a week after we’d left him.

“When are you coming home?” he asked.

“I don’t know, feels like I am home,” I laughed. I was joking, I suppose, but he wasn’t as refreshed as I was, and my answer fell on cracked, dry ground. I sobered quickly and pulled my next sentence out of some hidden cache, because it surprised both of us.

“I don’t think I’m coming home,” I said. “This feels pretty good.”

“Well, let’s just get a divorce then, Natalie.” I was pretty sure it was a “this is what’s going to happen if you don’t do what I want” response, but I jumped on the bomb just as quickly as it dropped.

“Okay,” I said. Three months later, we were divorced.

Lily went back to Indiana to finish high school, and Jax stayed with me. I worked with Greta, buying outdated furniture from those who want to buy new, doing little to regenerate the pieces – other than putting them in a new context, an ultramodern showroom – and selling them to those who want nouveau. The showroom was the bottom floor of an old warehouse, with an apartment above with large cool rooms that were airy and pleasant against midsummer heat. Its multilevel verandas were half the size of my Indiana yard, and twice as interesting.

Jax and I watched TV in our new home when we chose to.

Jax rolled in and out of trouble, but he worked at showing his shadows to the sun. The dark places where his fears lived had little control over him in daylight. Lily planned ahead, hardly looking around at what she’d left behind. Frank seemed happy staying where he was, and I was happy for him. I couldn’t blame him for the box I’d climbed into by myself, and couldn’t do a thing about his. He married six months after we divorced.

Mitch and I talked periodically. He pronounced himself through with trying to meet the needs of the forgetful, choosing instead a higher yielding investment – his sons. He spoke less of getting back what was stolen from him, and of what he deserved, and what he didn’t. I told him how my instincts and my reason were joining forces, and how good it felt to let go of their destination.

“You make it sound so easy,” he said.

“It was time,” I answered. “We each have our alarm clock, Mitch.”

“Any regrets?”

“Very few,” I answered.

Watching Jax face the lost boy inside him, motivated me to look for my scared little demons. They weren’t hard to find, and one by one, with supernatural help, I accepted some and let go of others. Without their weight, hurdles were easier to clear, and the finish line in the distance motivated me to keep jumping. But I was in no hurry to get there; the scenery along the way was too nice to rush. I still tripped on a few, especially if I tried to jump someone else’s. But I could spot them while they jumped their own.

In the middle of the afternoon, almost a year after I’d moved to Beaufort, Frank called me at work.

“I thought you’d want to know that Zeda died last night,” he said.

“What?” I stammered.

“She was found on the railroad tracks early this morning.” I was silent, so he continued. “Seems she was a fraud and a criminal too,” he said. I wanted to hang up, but I just listened to his words, tucking them away to pull out later when they weren’t coming from him.

“Mrs. Bulifant worked at the Children’s Home years ago. She recognized Zeda, which isn’t even her real name, as the eighteen-year-old who was caught having sex with a sixteen-year-old kid. She’s the reason the whole place was shut down...

Are you still there, Natalie?”

“Yes.” “I just thought you should know.” He continued. “I’ve gotta go, I’m late for a funeral.” I stared at an empty table on the showroom floor, its age was irrelevant, its value redeemed only by a new home.

“Who else died?” I asked.

“Someone who’ll be honored more than Zeda,” he said. “Virgil McCormick died of a heart attack Saturday.”

I looked at the dead phone in my hand and tried to stay the guilt of forgetting how an endlessly empty womb can spread lies to the heart, demanding that motherhood and mortality be equal. The toughened skin

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

on my heart was still porous, and tears for Zeda leaked through every perforation.

Mitch called five minutes later.

“Did you know who she was?” I asked.

“I had no idea,” he answered. “Her name was Tina Perkins. She was a quiet, overweight girl who got slicked by a kid on a dare. She was caught and told that pleading guilty would get rid of the charge.”

“Who represented her?” I asked.

“Our firm did, but neither Virgil nor I had anything to do with it.”

I had many questions but no energy to ask them.

“What are the arrangements?” I asked.

“I’m trying to find her ex-husband before making any plans, but I’m going to take care of whatever we decide to do. Are you coming home, Natalie?”

“I am home,” I replied.

I packed my élan vital and started back to my dated past, the next day.

I made it a two-day trip, driving alone instead of flying. The open road pulled and lulled, promised, and proved that it just kept going, whatever detour or shortcut I chose, the road paved the way, pushing on. I couldn’t get enough of it. Jax was in Waverly for the summer and had only been gone for two weeks, but I hadn’t seen Lily in three months, and I was anxious to get my arms around her. It was dusk when I pulled my dusty car into the little motel fifteen miles southeast of town on state road 41. In my rearview mirror, I saw the jaded sign that said Wailington Park.

I left the car without checking in and walked across the crumbling pavement to the park’s foyer of split rails and jasmine. I wandered for two miles in the haze of twilight, until I found our secret garden. He didn’t know if or when I was coming, but I wanted to find him waiting for me on our picnic table. I sat beside my memory of Mitch, enjoying the comfort of knowing he was close and that I’d see him soon. I didn’t get up to leave before darkness closed in, hiding the path and scaring me a little. I didn’t have a flashlight but my eyes adjusted to the moonlight.

“It gets dark fast out here,” he said. I didn’t ask, I didn’t talk, I just put my face against his neck and let warm arms take me wherever they wished.

“Virgil didn’t die of a heart attack,” Mitch said, sitting on the edge of the bed watching me unpack. “It looks as if he might have been poisoned, and his wife is being investigated.”

“My,” I said. “I moved here to get away from crime and intrigue; it’s hard to keep up with the pace of it around here!”

“Did you reach Zeda’s husband?” I asked.

“Yes, and he’ll be here Saturday for the service.”

“Service?” I asked.

“She’s been cremated, and I’ve scheduled a small ceremony.”

“Not at our old church?” I asked, interrupting him.

“No,” he said. “Definitely not.”

“Jax and Lily are on their way over. We’re going out for dinner,” I told him. “I suppose you’ll be home with your wife later tonight?”

“Yes, but it’s okay to call. With the boys in college, she never leaves her room.”

“Just call me when you can tomorrow,” I answered him as he opened the door to leave.

I held my children ‘til they screamed for air. I’m sure Jax had grown in the two weeks since I’d seen him. And, Lily’s ponytail was gone, replaced by a simple cut that fit her. We ate and stayed up watching TV in the room until we fell asleep.

Your father is going to kill me for keeping you out this late, I almost said, but realized I didn’t need to.

I went for a long walk Friday morning and it was almost lunchtime before Mitch called.

“I just got a phone call from Graham Bellingham. Sit down,” he said, “This will take a while.”

“Zeda mailed him a letter before she died, and he got it this morning. It said that he deserved to know what she’d kept hidden from him during their marriage, and from people she’d cared about all her life, you and me included.”

“Did she plant the money?” I asked.

“Well, Virgil figured out who she was when Judge Ottgold called him with the review board results.

“Virgil saw the first adoptive family come to my office the morning the money was found, the morning after I left to go camping. He also knew the second family had come in while Zeda was at lunch. I guess he saw the perfect opportunity to get rid of me, and discredit my work. He planted the money, knowing I was out of touch for several days, that Zeda would find it, and that both visitors were videotaped coming up to my office. When Zeda came to him, he told her that he’d been concerned about me accepting money under the table for a long time. “‘You’ve worked for a lower salary because he accepts low fees for his work,’ he told her, and he’s had plenty of money all along.”

“She wouldn’t have distrusted you that easily, Mitch.”

“But Virgil also told her that he knew who she was, and that I had been the one behind the push to prosecute her twenty years ago.”

“But she knew Virgil was also on the board. She’d have suspected him before you,” I said.

VOL 6, ISSUE 4

“He didn’t tell her that he was on the board, and I guess she never looked. Here’s the really sad part,” he continued. “She was pregnant when she was arrested. The scandal had the school in deep trouble already without a baby complicating it further, so they offered her $10,000 to abort the baby, along with the promise of a clean record if she pleaded guilty.”

I exhaled, afraid I wouldn’t find the air to breathe back in.

“The abortion wasn’t handled well. She lost the baby and her fertility.”

“And, in her mind, all her losses were your fault,” I finished for him. “And Virgil,” I asked. “Was there anything about him? Can it be proved that he placed the money or that she had anything to do with his death?”

“I’ve been working on that since I talked to Graham,” he said. “She didn’t confess anything but ended her letter with two things.”

“What?”

“She wanted her ashes strewn where her life really ended twenty years ago – in Wailington Park, in a secret garden she had tended for years.”

“Oh, Mitch.”

“I know,” he said.

“What else?”

“She wrote, ‘The guilty have paid,’” he said.

“That’s all?” I asked.

“Yes, and Dick is going through her apartment now.”

He sat on our picnic table with his chin in his dirty hand. He stared at the chimney in the distance, and I watched him. I put my rake down and took his other dirty hand in mine.

“She was dealt a rotten hand, and her bluff was deadly,” I said quietly.

“Would she have folded if we’d have been there?” he asked.

“Would we have had an affair if we’d learned all these lessons earlier in our lives?

Would Lily have gotten pregnant if I’d made different choices all along? Would we have married the people we did? It doesn’t matter, Mitch. We can’t change it. But we don’t ever have to make the same mistakes again, and it took what it took to get where we are – and where we are is all we have to work with.”

“Yeah,” he said.

His phone rang, and he listened for a long time. I could tell from his scraps of responses that Dick had found evidence of Virgil McCormick having died at the hands of a girl who had been dead inside for most of her life.

“And the money?” I asked when he had hung up.

“Virgil’s wife found a $50,000 gap in an IRA tax receipt that fits the time frame,” he replied. We sat still, waiting for history to catch up with our thoughts.

“You’ll get your credibility back,” I said quietly.

“Yeah,” he said again.

Cars lined the trail beside the secret garden. Symphony members, Mays Chorus friends, bluegrass musicians, and adoptive parents, were some of the colorful assortment of people who came to honor Zeda Bellingham. Her ex-husband introduced himself to us.

“I’m Graham,” he said, holding my hand. “She mentioned you the few times we communicated over the last few years,” he said.

“How much of her story did you know?” I asked him.

“I knew about a criminal record that she was trying to get expunged, and I knew there was a part of her that was unstable, that was the part that came between us, but the best part of her was unforgettable.”

Dick Lawrence walked toward us pulling a package out of his pocket.

“This is everything you’ll need to clear your name,” he said. “Where are you going to start?”

“By not even worrying about it,” Mitch said. “It’s just a part of the past.”

Mitch climbed half-way up a Hickory tree that hung between the garden and the grounds where the home had been, and sprinkled Zeda’s ashes across the secret garden, and the old Home grounds. She would grow in this fertile ground where new life and untimely death continued, unstoppable, despite the small power of people.

I stretched in my comfortable skin and searched the near clear distance for approaching danger. But the setting sun sat on the road ahead, glowing rose on everything between us, and all obstacles shone like Christmas lights around a thousand tiny toys. Looking around, I took note of all there was to appreciate, going slowly enough to enjoy it all. I remembered to watch the road now and then, but crashing or making a wrong turn didn’t concern me. I’d given up the wheel, turned it over to someone who knows a lot more about navigating than I do, and obstacles are His specialty. The car slowed and I looked out of the window, on the passenger’s side, at a dusty broken sign by the side of the road. I read the faded words as we drove by. “Happily Ever After,” it said.

“Well, we must be on the right road,” I said to Mitch, as his twinkling eyes enjoyed the view from the back seat.

Amanda Garretson loves words, words, words – writing them, reading them, and learning how to creatively combine their endless assortment into ever new and interesting packages. A “Writing” merit award was given for Little Boxes by the short story moderator on the writing.com community.

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

31

The Eternal Nocturne

by Faraz Gafoor Pt 3 This freaky fantasy was featured in our Fall and February Tough Lit II issues.

Here’s the recap: After meeting the hypnotic stranger Belial, Analise discovered the dark and thrilling world of the Eternals. She jumped at the chance to become one of the Eternals, intoxicated by their beauty. However, in order to truly become an Eternal, Analise was forced to prove her devotion by making the ultimate betrayal; murder. Belial kidnapped her husband, Garrett, and put the knife in her hand.

Desire and devotion battled inside her, and for the first time, she realized the horrors of the dark road she had impetuously chosen to travel. Rather than kill her loving husband, Analise made the decision to attack her husband's kidnappers, allowing him to escape. By saving his life, has she condemned her own? And now for the riveting conclusion!

Though the assassin ultimately failed was a moot point. Aricia had been wounded, and Desrik had come here, to see every last person within this old fortress weep red blood upon his sword.

His blade crashed against that of his adversary’s but he suddenly pulled back, reminding himself of the second figure by the door. He stole a quick glance in that direction and was surprised to find that the newcomer had yet to advance. The other man almost seemed hesitant, even though Desrik had clearly been distracted by emotion.

What does he wait for? Emotion has become my bane, the crack through which weakness creeps into my soul. He felt tears in his eyes, but he forced the anguish from his mind, shoving it aside to make way for the clarity of pure rage. It was all he had left.

“The princess will die,” the first man was saying, teasing, tormenting. “And these kingdoms, these peoples that your knighthood has protected for generations, will all crumble away, broken by a war you were too weak to prevent.”

Desrik couldn’t take it any more. “How can you care so little for so many lives?” he nearly screamed. “Galas meddles in powers beyond his understanding, twisting and deforming the laws between life and death—and all for what?”

His enemy merely shrugged. “It matters little to us; death is our trade.”

“Wretched assassins!” Desrik spat. “Death is no longer only your trade—it is your visitor this night!” Heedless of the second figure, he again launched himself at his foe, needing to see the other man dead, needing to feel his blade plunging repeatedly into the other’s flesh.

Up, down, around and around, Desrik’s sword worked in a frantic blur, desperate to drink from wet blood. He slammed his blade hard into his enemy’s, forcing an opening for his elbow to smash into the other’s face. His enemy stumbled and unleashed a wild slash that landed directly into Desrik’s crosspiece, the impact snapping the sword from his grasp.

Before the man could seize the advantage, Desrik brought a closed fist into the other’s face, sending him toppling into a statue. As the other man fell, he quickly turned around and started for his fallen sword.

It was at this moment of utter vulnerability that the newcomer decided to intervene. He placed himself directly in between Desrik and his sword. Yet, to Desrik’s surprise, this new enemy didn’t draw his own sword. Instead, the figure extended a hand, the fingers waving in invitation for an honorable contest without weapons.

Desrik was momentarily stunned by this show of nobility, but he eagerly accepted the invitation. He came in with a punch from his right while simultaneously launching a lower strike from his left. The first blow was cleanly intercepted by a blocking arm, and the second was similarly batted aside by the other arm. Desrik wasted no time in thrusting his knee hard into the other’s gut.

The figure spun and snapped his leg out in a kick for the knight’s head. Desrik pivoted smoothly and came in again with fist after fist. Their arms locked in a haze of motion, each combatant in turn striking and countering, deflecting and dodging.

Desrik’s right fist dived in for his enemy’s abdomen, but the other man’s opposite hand neatly slapped the attack downwards, even as he twisted to the side, bringing his leg around in a second kick. The heel crashed into Desrik’s shoulder, shoving him back.

He whirled as he stumbled, extending his own leg in a return kick. His foot crashed into the other’s ribs, and they both met the ground in a hard roll. Coming back to his feet, ignoring the reaching fingers of pain writhing throughout his body, Desrik stared at his opponent. There was something about the other man’s motions—a natural grace—that felt somehow familiar. Though slightly shorter than himself, his adversary matched him move for move, as though able to anticipate everything Desrik would do. It’s as though he’s fought me before, learned my techniques!

32

He didn’t have time for further scrutiny, however. A glance over his shoulder indicated that his first foe had regained his composure and was clearly annoyed that his companion hadn’t simply drawn his sword to cut Desrik down with ease.

Urgency rising within him, Desrik dove in at his present enemy, content to let his anger guide him. See through my rage if you dare!

Strike for strike, the other man continued to match him, but Desrik was gaining ground with every breath, with every painful strike and counter. When they were at last close enough, he swept his left arm downward, crashing it into both of his opponent’s own arms, and he pivoted in from his right, driving that same-sided fist into the other’s chest.

Soft! He felt something within the other’s shirt cushion his blow, though it clearly left his enemy in pain, gasping for air. Breasts? His eyes widened. “Who are—?”

As he started the question, the woman’s eyes dilated from within her hood. He wasted no time in diving to the side, evading a slash from behind. Rolling along the floor, he grabbed his sword back up and sprang to his feet, turning to greet his initial adversary.

The other man hurriedly closed the distance between them, starting again the aching melody of their screeching sword song. Slowed by previous wounds, Desrik just narrowly managed to move aside from a thrust to his abdomen. He felt the tempo of his anger wearing thin beneath the constant onslaught of grief and anguish. This has to end!

Growling in desperate fury, he forced himself a step forward, applying enough pressure to roll his sword around and over his enemy’s. He continued the motion, flinging his opponent’s sword out wide. With the other’s defenses momentarily exposed, Desrik reversed his grip, shoving his pommel into his enemy’s gut and then twisting the sword around so that the blade tore into and through his shoulder.

The other man collapsed with a sudden cry, all but waiting for the death stroke. But before Desrik could deliver that fatal strike, the woman advanced, her sword flashing between them. He was forced back, away from the kill that he needed to taste, to feel.

The woman continued her vicious assault, her sword batting against his, her feet and legs pivoting and bending in the elaborate choreography of a masterful dance. Each motion was clean and crisp, full of a beauty that even Desrik found himself admiring.

As they built their rhythm, composing their bloody masterpiece, Desrik realized why her movements were so familiar. Her! She was the assassin who had made the first, albeit failed, attempt on Aricia’s life. Desrik had confronted her within the grounds of the Iridanian palace, and the violence she had unleashed upon him then had been nothing short of startling.

But there was something absent this time, as though the assassin was beset by mysterious reluctance. It didn’t matter. She had tried to kill Aricia and was a member of the abominable group that had persistently plagued the dear princess’s life with the threat of untimely death. This was the end, and Desrik could not make himself care whether he survived or not. He committed himself fully to the battle, devoted entirely on the assassin’s death and destruction, on seeing her body torn to pieces by his blade.

He met her next thrust with a quick parry, flipping his sword about in an even quicker riposte. The blade darted into her guard, stealing a brief bite into the flesh of her stomach. She grunted but twirled, driving her sword into his while slamming a foot into his knee.

His leg trembled and he collapsed into a kneeling posture. Sheer instinct guided his sword around behind his head, blocking a chop meant for his neck. He pushed his blade up, shoving her sword into an involuntary climb. In that same instant, he reversed his grip and blindly stabbed behind him.

He felt the penetration, felt the weight of her body hovering mere inches above his shoulders.

“Desrik…”

His eyes snapped wide open as he heard her voice. No! He couldn’t be sure whether the scream had been an explosion within his head or a cry torn from his throat.

He pulled his blade clear of her stomach and turned, watching in helpless horror as her body fell to the ground. From within her hood, her dark eyes stared up at him, and they were suddenly painfully recognizable.

“No…no…No!” Upon coming here, he had thought it impossible to feel greater pain than what he had already been subjected to. But now he knew that the world was capable of making anything cruel all too possible.

“Des—” she gasped, and a dark blotch appeared on the cloth covering her mouth. Blood!

He didn’t know what to do. He stared at her, his emotions pulled taut from outrage to panic. Somehow, though, he managed to hear the advancing footfalls of his first opponent.

His heart broken and battered, it was with pure emptiness of feeling that he moved aside, dodging a thrust and countering with a slash. His sword smashed into the other man’s, and both blades collided with the window along the wall beside

TOUGH LIT. III

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

them, shattering the glass. Lightning flashed, and Desrik broke away from the embrace of steel, wheeling himself around on the balls of his feet. Around he went, his sword coming in too fast for the other man to defend against.

Steel bit into cloth and flesh, severing neck from body. The man’s head rolled from his shoulders in a bloody spray, falling straight out the broken window and to the storm beyond.

Still silent and unfeeling, Desrik simply dropped his sword and collapsed to his knees before the dying woman. She was shaking now, and so he was careful in unwrapping the hood from her face.

When the cloth fell away, he felt his heart plummet inside of him. Shareena’s exotic, lovely features stared up at him. Red spittle wept from her mouth, merging with the clear tears that cascaded down from her eyes, along the smooth curve of her cheeks. Her dark hair had been bunched up to help conceal her femininity.

Her eyes met his, and the look inside of those dark orbs introduced him to a whole new world of grief.

All this time…it was her. She was how they reached Aricia. Because of me, because of my foolishness. I trusted you! He wanted to scream, he wanted to sob.

“Why?” he choked out; it was all he could actually manage to do.

“Loyalties,” she muttered, her eyes staring into his, as if wanting to drink in every last contour of his face. She rested her head within his arms, laying against him while rain from the shattered window poured over them, drenching them in cruel coldness. “I was with them…before you.” Her voice was strained, its strength fast fading.

He shook his head and soon found himself unable—unwilling—to keep his lip from quivering. Tears fell freely from his eyes as he held her against him. “Save your strength, Shareena,” he murmured, though he knew as well as she did that there was no point to such advice. Death’s banquet was not yet over for this night.

“It…it was supposed to be…easy…” she went on, heedless of his request, needing to share this with him, unwilling to part from him without having unveiled the entirety her heart.

“Deceiving me?” he hissed, instantly regretting the words the moment he spoke them.

She didn’t flinch. She merely trembled in his embrace, crying freely, if softly. “Yes.” She closed her eyes, and Desrik’s heart fell even lower, grabbed by renewed panic. But she opened them again. “But it was hard…so hard. I…I love…”

He didn’t want to hear it. He couldn’t bear to hear it. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to purse her lips with a forefinger. His finger came back wet with blood, and his agony was intensified tenfold.

“Desrik—” “Don’t leave me!” he blurted, not caring of the weakness he now exposed. How did we come to this? How did we get here? “Please…you’re all I have now.” He held her tighter, weeping and feeling a part of him starting to die along with her.

“I’m…so… sorry.” Her voice cracked, and his heart broke a little more.

Lightning flashed out the window, and thunder roared. The pool of rainwater had grown around them, soaking their bodies. Still he held her in the futile attempt of giving warmth, of offering life.

Apart from the raging storm, silence slowly came to prevail over the chamber. Desrik kept his eyes sealed with his arms around Shareena’s lifeless head.

An eternity had come and gone before he found the strength to whisper into the dreadful silence, “I love you, too.”

Faraz Gafoor is a MBA graduate who has worked as a proofreader for textbooks and in the tourism industry. He’s harbored an intense passion for writing since his childhood and it’s always been his dream to entertain readers with his stories and characters. A number of his pieces have been received enthusiastically from various writing communities.

THE INTRUDER (cont’d. from p. 4 ) “Mimi, from Montreal, Canada. I was heading south on the 117 from Flagstaff.”

“Pam, from Marysville, California. I was at the Sacramento airport.”

The list of towns went on. Usually they were taken at an airport, a mall, or a tourist attraction of some sort, like a zoo or amusement park. A couple of women were abducted while at the beach and still wore their bikinis. Most had been abducted within the last two months and had been alone or temporarily separated from their group when taken.

“Margaret, do you know why he has taken us and why there are so many? We all look so similar.”

“Yes, I do. I was dating him not long after he had a bad break up. He had come home and caught his girlfriend with someone else. She left and moved in with her lover. He had a nervous breakdown, but couldn’t get over her. When he was released from the sanitarium he went to her place and killed her and her lover.”

“He told you this?”

“No, of course not. I found copies of his admission documents in a drawer in his nightstand, while I was looking for a condom. That’s not the worst of it. I found lots VOL 6, ISSUE 4

of pictures of her and of the murder. He kept them like a trophy. They were horribly gruesome. Those two women were brutalized beyond all recognition.”

“Oh, my God! So what is the connection to all of us?”

“We all look like her. He’s trying to replace her. To find an ideal, but we all have flaws.”

“How did you end up here?”

“When he came into the room he saw the open drawer and accused me of being an untrustworthy tramp, just like her. He slapped me and tied me up, then brought me here, and until you told me, I didn’t even know where I was. I feel lucky to be alive. If you had seen those pictures, you’d know what I mean. I hear the car. He’s back.”

“He’s left all of you alive and as bad as your situation is, it’s something to be grateful for. One last question for now, does he have a van as well as a car?”

“If the car is a red Camry, it’s mine and yes, he has a van. I think that’s how he brought so many of us here at one time. Quiet. I hear him coming,” said Margaret.

I try to sound perky as he reenters the room.

“Hi. You were gone so long, I missed you. Let’s get these bitches fed so we can play chess. I haven’t played in a long time, but I’m looking forward to playing a game with you that will challenge and stimulate us both mentally.”

So far I feel confident that I’ve moved my pawns correctly in this true-life version of chess. I must be calm, strategize correctly, anticipating his next move and out maneuver him at every juncture. My opponent must be led to believe he is superior to me.

While we play chess I can engage him in conversation watching to see if he plans out his moves carefully, or if he’s impetuous. I’m hoping he plans his moves in chess the way he plans his moves in life.

After he brings in all the bags of food and drinks, he takes off the ropes that bind my hands offering me his outstretched hand to help me stand.

“Take these bags and feed the ones on the left and I’ll feed the ones on the right. After they eat, they can go to the bathroom. Only one can go at a time. There’s a storage room behind the counter on the left side with blankets and pillows. We’ll need to distribute them as well. Then we can get to our chess game. I look forward to the challenge.”

“Me too.”

I take the bags and start distributing the food, giving each girl a smile of encouragement as I mouth the words, “We’ll be okay.” Each girl looks back at me with renewed hope in her eyes. I pray I don’t lose this game of chance by making the wrong move.

We quickly distribute the blankets and pillows and then one by one they are taken to the bathroom. Then as each girl returns from the restroom he adjusts her tether allowing her to lie down. I’m surprised to see that he cares about their creature comforts at all.

He lowers the lights, puts on some smooth jazz CDs and takes me into an office. There on a small table in the corner is a chess board, set up and ready to go. I ask if he has some wine to finish off this perfect setting and he quickly obliges.

He must have anticipated my question because he had two glasses and a bottle already on ice waiting for us. It was my favorite wine too. I love syrah. It goes so well with spicy pizza. Of course, that’s how he would know. Lorna would have bought a bottle for me to drink last Saturday to have with the pizza from Rocco’s. I decide to use the wine to engage him in conversation.

“How did you guess that syrah is my favorite wine?”

“When you were at Marconi’s that was all you drank, except for your dessert wine which was a nice light zinfandel to go with your chocolate mousse.”

“Wow, you remembered that? I’m impressed. Now tell me something about yourself. I feel somewhat at a disadvantage, because I know nothing about you, except that you’re a bartender and gorgeous. Did I tell you I love the slight graying at your temple?”

I reach across and gently stroke the graying hair at his temple and as I do he grabs my wrist. Worried that I’ve overplayed my hand, I feel my chest tighten. He brings my hand to his lips, gently kisses it, then holds it to his cheek for a moment, before letting go.

“May I be white? I love to think of myself as the white queen and my opponent as the black knight. Will that be all right with you?”

“That’s fine. Black seems to match my mood lately. Let’s begin. Ladies first.”

“Thank you, kind sir. Now tell me all about yourself while we play. I insist. Where were you born?”

“Pocasset, Oklahoma.”

“I’ve never heard of that town. How big is it?”

“It’s not very big at all. Only about two hundred people if that. Then when I was about ten years old, we moved to Tulsa.”

Margaret…I think to myself.

“That’s a long way from San Diego. Have you been here long?”

“No, not long. About three months give or take.”

Margaret again.

The men on the chessboard slowly move about, just as I slowly move and

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

33

manipulate my human pawn when asking about his life.

“I’m the middle of three kids. Are you an only child or possibly a sandwich kid like me? Oh, before you answer, may I have some more wine please?”

He pours the wine as he answers. “I’m the eldest of three. My brother was killed in a car wreck when we were in high school. My sister, his twin couldn’t accept the fact he was gone and committed suicide a year later. That just leaves me. My father was killed in the Korean War, and my mother died two years ago of congestive heart failure.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. What brought you to San Diego?”

“Well, I had a really bad break up.”

“What an understatement.” I think to myself.

“I sold my mom’s house, cashed in some bonds, bought a van and moved to San Diego to start a new life, a life where nobody knows me.”

“You drove from Tulsa? That must have been a long, lonely drive.”

“It was at times but I made several stops along the way.”

“Just to rest or were you able to get in some sightseeing too?

“A little bit of both. It’s your move. Be careful, you’re venturing into dangerous territory.”

“I can see that, my worthy opponent. Did you go sightseeing any place worth talking about?”

“I went to San Antonio to see the Alamo and the River Walk. I didn’t have time to do what I wanted, so I went back last month to pick a few things up.” He begins to laugh as he says this.

He must have taken Chanelle and Toni when he went back to San Antonio.

“I’ve never been to the Alamo. Will you take me there sometime?”

“Yes, I’d love to.”

“What else did you see on your way here? Your move.”

“I saw the Grand Canyon. Wow, that was really something else. I can’t describe what I felt standing on the rim. It’s beyond words.”

Now as he names places he’s stopped I can see how he randomly gathered his captives. I fear for their safety, but am hesitant to ask what his intentions are regarding all these women. When he was in Arizona last month that’s when Jan, Gretchen, Joyce and Mimi were taken.

As we continue our chess game, my mind starts to kick into overdrive. I begin to think and worry about work and the projects I left unfinished on my desk. It’s so funny the things we think of in a crisis. Maybe this is a strange type of mental self preservation. Whatever it might be, I couldn’t get my mind to switch gears back to my current situation. Only thinking about tomorrow and how Harvey would react when I didn’t show up or call.

Tomorrow is Thursday and I have a budget meeting in the morning. When I don’t show up, they’ll try to call me. Of course when it goes to voice mail they will call my emergency backup number, which is Lorna’s. When they are unable to get through on that number too, Harvey will send out the militia to investigate both apartments.

When they see the conditions at the apartments, Harvey will tell them to run the prints at both locations. If I’m lucky, this guy's prints will show up in the system and Harvey will know how dangerous he is. Next he’ll turn on the beacons, which are GPS devices planted into my work cell phone and my office keys. They’ll find my phone unattended in the foyer and poor little Torino lying in the corner. They will assume the worst and activate the secondary beacon in my keys.

I usually get pissed off about all the security precautions, now I’m happy to be working for Homeland Security and the government. As soon as they activate the beacon in my keys, it will be like someone called out the SWAT team. They’ll be so far up this guy’s ass he’ll be praying for an enema.

I still have my own mini arsenal in my bra and shoe. I just can’t believe I forgot about the beacons. My source of irritation may well become the source of my salvation.

“Julia, it’s your move. Julia, are you ok? You’ve been staring at the board for the longest time.”

“I’m just a little tired. It’s been an exhausting day. Maybe I should go to bed and we can finish later. Will that be okay?”

“That’s fine. I have a bed made up for you in the back room.”

I’m praying the bed in the back room is for me and me alone. I really don’t want to be forced into playing the sex trump card. He takes me into what must have been a storage room of some sort and redesigned by Martha Stewart. The walls in the windowless room are a pale, soft gray tone, with white sheers flanking the bed.

The bed is made with layers and layers of white Battenberg lace pillows and bedding. The lighting is soft and candles are strategically lit about the room. The soft sweet smell of vanilla fills the air. Sade is singing softly in the background and there is a champagne colored nightgown draped across the foot of the bed. The setting is perfect for a night of romance.

My chest and stomach tighten. It looks as though I may have to play the sex card after all. I’m really not sure I can be that good an actress. The thought of having sex with him, makes me want to vomit. I force a smile to my face and the bile back 34

down my throat.

“This is beautiful. You did this all for me? When did you have the time? I don’t understand.”

“After I saw you at Marconi’s, I knew I had to be with you. I did the room last week before going to your blond friend’s for pizza. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

“It is. It’s perfect. I love it.”

“Please change into the gown. I can’t wait to see it on you. I’ll be back in a moment.”

For the first time tonight I feel completely vulnerable and exposed. When I change into the gown I will have to give up both the nail file and the lighter. I have to undress quickly and make sure I hide them both well.

Just as I finish changing, there is a soft knock on the door. “Is it ok to come in now?”

“Yes, come in.”

“Wow, you look breathtakingly beautiful.”

He walks over to me and places his arm around the small of my back pulling me into him and we begin to dance. Even the coolness of the satin gown can’t counteract the overwhelming heat of his body. My instinct is to pull away and yet, I force myself to yield.

The tempo of his breathing increases and his erection presses into my flesh. He begins to tremble, the moistness of his hands penetrating the sheerness of the gown. His fingers press into my flesh, squeezing and then letting go. His trembling turns to tremors as he catches his breath, pushing me away and turns to run out of the room, locking the door behind him.

I walk over to the bed and wait. When he fails to return, I breathe a sigh of relief and blow out the candles before going to bed, praying for the safety of all my fellow victims in the next room. Tomorrow will bring a new dawn and hopefully we can all wake from this living nightmare. * * * The next morning I hear the soft click of the door lock and am met with a tray of coffee, juice and a Danish. He’s treating me like a queen.

“After you finish your coffee and dress, come help me feed them breakfast.”

“What happened last night? You left in such a hurry.” I pat the bed and say, “Come sit with me. We can split the Danish.”

He averts his eyes away from me. “No, I’m going to put all the bedding away and readjust the tethers. Just come out when you’re done.”

Just as I finish dressing, I hear screams coming from the next room. My heart catches in my throat as I run through the door, fearing for my friends, as I hear the gun blast. When I enter the room, the intruder is dead, a gunshot to the head, his lifeless body laying on the floor, next to Lorna’s feet, a knife in his hand.

I run to Lorna, and to my relief she’s ok. After being untied Cynthia runs over as well and we cry and hug, not wanting to let each other go. I’m shaking so badly, terrified of what might have happened to us all had it not been for my job, Harvey and those damn beacons.

The room is alive with excitement as one by one the women are unbound, crying as they tell their rescuers who they are and where they’re from. They see me and run toward me, smiling and crying as they express their gratitude.

Margaret walks over, hugs me as she says, “How can we ever thank you? Without you, who knows how long he would have kept us captive, or if he would have started to systematically eliminate us. Thanks again.”

Paramedics, the Coroner, as well as the local news team have now joined the scene. All the women are being treated for dehydration and trauma. Harvey has arranged for them all to receive counseling and whatever medical attention they might need.

I walk to the back of the building to retrieve my purse and keys, pausing to look at the intruder one last time. His reign of torment over, maybe now his tortured soul can finally find peace.

If the name Claudia Aragon rings a bell, it should, Claudia is an outstanding storyteller, capturing the nuances of family life and the difficulties of a hardscrabble existence. Her writing has appeared in The San Diego Reader, The Paper, The Sacramento News and Review, and Green Prints magazine. Claudia has finished a fantasy novel and is currently working on an adaptation of Frankenstein.

She is ghost writing the family history of a well known resident in her area. She loves writing poetry and is inspired to write every day.

COMMUNION (cont’d. from p. 7)

“Are you sick, darling? Are you….” He puts a hand on her back.

“Your conscience,” Linette answers. “That’s what she was. Your conscience.

‘End your affair,’ she said. ‘Be the man you pretend you are.’”

He loses his balance and falls to a sitting position.

The organ tones reverberate like a kazoo in the distance organizing themselves into a recognizable tune: Amazing Grace.

TOUGH LIT. III IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS

Everything seems dark. Is his sight going? Is it the wine?

“Dig,” she says. “Funny, how the father doesn’t fall far from the daughter. Dig! Your prayers have been answered! Dig!” The door lock clicks from the outside. The heels click on the flagstones, growing fainter.

Soft dirt jams beneath his fingernails as he clutches the ground on either side of him. Beneath the powdery soil is something harder, something buried.

Whispers spread through the congregation, “Just like Annie; just like Annie,” and just when enough time has passed for the whispers to die down, the bodies are found, the man still decomposing, the young woman’s skull sunk into his abdomen like a twisted, underworld pregnancy. No longer is a young woman missing. No longer is a couple missing. Now only the aging woman is missing person, the woman in the high heels and the daffodil dress, Linette.

Poetry From Prison I Wish I Would’ve Listened

by Pamela Dupree, Inmate #924-457 Dedicated to Agnes Dupree I Wish I Would’ve Listened When You Told Me The Things I Should And Shouldn’t Do. Everything You Said Would Happen Came True.

I Should’ve Never Doubted You.

J. E. Harris is a freelance writer and editor who has written for a variety of publications including The Boston Globe, Homeopathy Today, and The Middletown Press. She has been featured in The New York Times Connecticut Section and is a lifetime Connecticut resident, where she lives with her husband and three daughters.

I Learned My Lesson The Hard Way ‘Cause I Ignored Some Of The things You Would Say I Wish You Was Still Around.

I Need You So Much Now.

OPRAH TO THE RESCUE (cont’d. from p. 11) the open parking garage door crowded with police vehicles, red lights flashing, and an ambulance. The police took him to where I was seated in the pharmacy. He blurted out, “Nancy, are you okay? What happened to you? Let me take you to the hospital. Your face is a mess.” I touched it but had not felt the pain until he mentioned it. My left eye was swollen shut. I must have looked like I had done three rounds in a ring.

“I’m okay. I’m okay.”

He hugged me gently and looked white from shock himself.

“The lessons I learned from an Oprah show saved my life. Let me tell you what happened.”

Joanne Jagoda retired in 2009 from years working for non profit organizations. It took one writing workshop to realize that she loves to write, and she embarked full speed ahead on a long postponed journey into the world of creative writing. She has been working non stop on short stories, essays and poetry and taking workshops and classes around the San Francisco Bay Area. In 2010 she received an th Honorable mention in the 79 Writer’s Digest competition in Mainstream Fiction. She has a winning story in the Ezine, Motherhood Muse and several poems in Poetica magazine. She currently has a piece in the magazine, California Northern, Issue 2. Joanne is a graduate of UC Berkeley and holds a masters degree from California State University, Hayward. She has three talented daughters and three adorable grandchildren. Joanne lives with her husband Jeff in Oakland, California, and they are looking forward to celebrating their fortieth anniversary this year.

It Would Be So Nice To Have My Mother’s Advice.

I Look Up To Heaven And Talk To You. You Did The Best A Mother Can Do. And There’s No Other Mother Better Than You.

Save Your Heart

by Pamela Dupree, Inmate #924-457 Is What We Feel Really Love?

Or Is It Dependency Covered With A Glove?

Will You Take A Moment To See What I See Or Make An Effort To Spend One Hour On A Visit With Me? Time Is Of The Essence!

Or Is This Some Lesson I Was Destined To Learn?

When I Reminisce, It’s Confusing.

Maybe I’m Haunted By Illusions Of What We Once Had.

JANUARY THAW (cont’d. from p. 35) The forest dissolved and Carolyn was surrounded by a swirling confusion of sounds and colors. Kaleidoscope fireworks faltered, simmering down into flashes of light and then lucid darkness. Voices. She was lying on a table in the center of a dim room lit red by indirect lighting built into the floor. A man and woman both dressed in lab coats, which appeared an unreal powder blue in the glow, were disconnecting tubes from Carolyn's neck and arms. The man made soothing noises and asked what her name was and the answer to one-plus-three, while his colleague, stern-faced but her eyes shining, dictated numbers and complicated medical-sounding phrases toward the ceiling.

Theo was in the room beaming, smiles and happiness all around. He sat in a motorized wheelchair and was at her side. There was a marked pallor about him.

He'd lost a bit of weight but his voice was still strong as he cried, “Carolyn!” and grasped one of her hands in both of his and pressed it fervently to his lips. Carolyn knew that whatever happened from here on out, she loved Theo with all her heart and wanted nothing but a long future of last sunsets with him.

When Will I Know It’s Time To Let It All Go? Does Absence Make The Heart Grow Fonder Or Does It Make It Stronger?

Does Love Grow…

Or Go? Is This Some Type Of Competition Where The Heart Is The Aggressor And The Mind Forms A Resistance?

It Should Be A Hate Crime For The Heart To Go Against The Mind.

You’re Running Out Of Time.

My Heart Is Going Blind.

Amanda Storm enjoys writing romance stories set in places that don't but might exist. She lived for many years all over Maine, but currently calls Fremont, California home.

HEIRS OF JUSTICE (cont’d. from p. 29)

Pamela Dupree,Inmate #924-457, is from Baltimore, MD and the mother of two children. Reading is her passion. She is a beginner with poetry, but writing what she feels is a consolation for her mind. She is at the Patuxent Institution for Women. Her cellmate read some of her poems and suggested she submit them to our TOUGH LIT III magazine.

Dr. Rosalie H. Contino is a second generation Italian-America who resides in Brooklyn, New York. She received a BS degree in Elementary Education from Fordham University and PhD in Educational Theater from New York University. In addition to teaching elementary and junior high school as well as serving as a teaching fellow for the Program in Educational Theater at New York University, Dr. Contino is a costume designer, consultant, and lecturer for multiple productions and events. Rosalie’s memoir, Born to Create is available on Amazon.com.

VOL 6, ISSUE 4 WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

35

FEATURED AUTHOR – TIM BULLARD

Every issue we present books we believe will entertain, intrigue, and educate. This issue we focus on crime writers.

FEATURED AUTHOR – ALI ALAVI (http://www.saalavi.com) A native of Iran, Ali Alavi is a bilingual author with a knack for storytelling and a penchant for fast-paced plots and atypical protagonists. His avid readers describe his work as the ultimate page-turner. Ali’s number one passion in life is literature. From classical Persian poetry to modern world literature, Ali reads everything that “nourishes his soul.” Captivating prose, intricate plots and endearing heroes are the ingredients of his irresistible tales. Ali was educated at the University of Southern Maine in Portland where his first novel, The Autumn of Traces and Enchantment, is set. He is currently an academic chairperson and a college professor. He lives in Washington, D.C. Roseheart Books is proud to feature Ali Alavi’s latest novel: The Lady of the Moulin Rouge (http://www.roseheartbooks.com) A magnificent nineteenth century painting has been stolen from British aristocrat Angela Higgins and the DC private eye Alex Knight is hired to return the precious masterpiece to its rightful owner. In this first-ever Alex Knight novel, the DC P.I.’s investigation takes him on a riveting adventure from the dangerous labyrinths of organized crime to the majestic halls of academia.

FOR WRITERS…

71st

Annual Writers Conference at Ocean Park (Maine) August 15- August 19, 2011

(http://www.timbullard.com) Formerly a reporter, photographer, and columnist at the North Myrtle Beach Times, Bullard’s Haunted America series covers Asheville ghosts, Charleston Mysteries, and other spooky locales: Atlanta, Cincinnati, Manhattan, St. Charles, New England, Austin, Birmingham, Buffalo, Charleston, Fort Lauderdale, Green Bay and many more.

Haunted Watauga County delves into the witchcraft that has been reported through folk lore in the N.C. mountains. One story is that of the ghost of a baby and a miscarriage on Halloween. Another chapter is on Bob Kennedy, a cop who died when his airplane fell from the sky as he hunted marijuana from the skies with another officer. He had investigated a religious cult group in Boone. “The Horizontal Trucker” details a man who was found outside of Boone, having committed suicide. “The Ghost of Merle Watson” tells about how MerleFest got started as a famous music festival in Wilkes County.

Then “Daniel Boone’s Spirit” tells how the frontiersman and his ghost still haunts “Horn in the West,” an outdoor drama that th is celebrating its 60 anniversary this year.

Other titles are “The Last Holiday Inn,” “The Ghost Light and Howard’s Knob,” “Civil War Phantoms,” “Cone Manor,” “Hickory Ridge Museum” and “The Horse Apparition.”

Bullard dedicates the book to his wife, Diane, his son, Conor, his parents, his former editor Polly Lowman, his editor Jessica Berzon and the Durham family. He lives in Winston-Salem, and his work is at www.timbullard.com on the net.

FOR MUSIC LOVERS… SKIN AND BONE is a brand new CD by actor/singer/musician Jennifer Porter. This blues-rock album with silky smooth vocals and grooving Blues- influenced instrumental solos is the soundtrack for the soon-to-be-released feature film about tough thugs doing brutal things 40 West (starring Jennifer Porter and Wayne Newton). Download it for only $1.99! http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/jenniferporter4 Be on the lookout for the gripping, thrilling 40 West coming to theaters and DVD soon!

Presenters at this year’s conference include: • Chuck Sambuchino is an editor for Writer’s Digest Books.

• Maria Padian is a freelance writer, essayist and author of young adult novels.

• Caitlin Shetterly is a frequent contributor to National Public Radio where she reports on arts and culture, food, and lifestyle Critiques Offered for Participants!

Call 401-598-1424 or e-mail jbrosnan@jwu.edu today for more information! Jumpstart your writing career in a supportive environment by joining us this August.

If you have a product or service you would like us to advertise in our online and print publication, contact us: ideagems@aol.com