Tough Lit VI

Skeleton in the Closet

by Claudia Aragon

Every family has secrets buried deep in the bowels of its history, hoping no one will ever learn of transgressions, secret liaisons or evil deeds. Eventually all is revealed. For some of us, it happens just a little sooner than we’d like.

Case in point: James and his wife Terry discover the skeleton in her father’s closet.

Back in 1989, James, a coworker of mine, came to work one day saying his father-in-law had passed away. It had been almost thirty years since his wife Terry’s parents had divorced, and she hadn’t been to her father’s home in that same length of time. Sadly he was also never invited to their home for family functions or holidays.

“Pops,” as James affectionately called the old man, would occasionally drop by the store to visit his son-in-law. The old fellow was an odd bird and had lived a hermit’s existence for the last twenty-plus years. Since there were no other family members to do the deed, James and Terry took on the unpleasant and necessary job of cleaning out his mobile home.

The job would be a massive undertaking, because Terry’s father had been a hoarder. James took a few vacation days and started the task. He was wise enough to rent a dumpster, which they immediately filled. They hauled away load after load of rusted car parts, broken bicycles, and bag after bag of rat-infested aluminum cans and newspapers. Once the outside was complete and no longer resembled a condemned property, they placed rat traps and bait around the perimeter and moved inside, beginning in the kitchen.

The front bathroom was quickly emptied and thoroughly disinfected so they could use it. It was probably the easiest task they would tackle or confront.

The contents of the kitchen sink were removed and thrown away.

Moldy dishes filled with half-eaten food created a smell that was both overwhelming and nauseating. Open boxes of food contained cockroaches, and in the far recesses of the cupboards there were boxes used as an ample and ready food supply for the rodent population.

The kitchen cabinets were systematically emptied of their bounty.

The mismatched cookware, plates, glassware, and eating utensils were boxed up and given to charity along with the table and chairs.

The refrigerator was a lost cause and went directly into a dumpster after the freezer was thoroughly checked for hidden money and jewelry. Likewise, the stove and microwave followed. A week had passed. Three full dumpsters later they were barely to the living room.

The situation was far worse than they originally thought, and they both took open extensions of their vacation time to continue the cleanup.

It was an embarrassment for Terry to see and go through all her estranged father’s trash, but she persevered. After picking up all the empty liquor bottles, old newspapers, and trash in the living room, they began meticulously looking under the furniture, behind photographs and through the books for hidden stocks and money.

Terry was well aware of her father’s mistrust of the banking industry.

Her mother had told her stories when she was younger of how he would squirrel away money and stocks in strange places. Years after their divorce, she continued to find items he had hidden in heating vents and the attic.

The sofa was beyond redemption and found a new home with an easy chair in the dumpster. The end tables, stereo, lamps, and paintings were placed to the side for charity, along with boxes of books. Although the living room wasn’t very large, there were four more book cases to go through and three cabinets of records and videos to clear out. They hadn’t found anything out of the ordinary 2

until it was time to go through the last cabinet containing videos and the VCR. Embarrassed, but not surprised, they found several tapes containing pornography. Pops appeared to favor big-breasted women who preferred well-endowed men. The tapes met the fate of the fridge and sofa in the dumpster.

The first of the three bedrooms resembled a well-stocked bomb shelter. Cases of water and rusty canned goods circled the perimeter, and the closet held a small freezer full of outdated, freezer-burnt meats and vegetables, along with a packet of cold hard cash. The pile of twenty dollar bills was wrapped in aluminum foil and stored inside a zip-top plastic bag.

The center of the room held cases of boxed cereals, pasta, and top ramen, also outdated, infested by the rodent population that had established a low-cost housing development complete with a birthing facility. After Terry and James checked for more hidden treasure, they dumped the contents of the room into the dumpster.

The only thing she found of interest was a music box. It was the musical jewelry box she left behind when her parents separated. It contained a lock of her hair, her kindergarten photo, a Valentine she made for her dad, and a stack of letters addressed to her, returned and unopened.

James was the first to enter the next bedroom. Shocked by what he saw, he immediately sent Terry home, shielding her from the contents of the room. The second bedroom was used as Pop’s movie room. The room sported one chair—a recliner that faced two walls of televisions and several VCRs. An end table topped with a box of tissues and a jar of Vaseline was on one side of the chair and a waste basket on the other. The remaining wall and closet housed floor-toceiling book cases overflowing with hundreds of magazines and tapes, filled with young girls and boys engaged in gay sex acts, bestiality and bondage. One shelf was devoted entirely to snuff films.

James could feel the bile rising in his throat as he cleaned out the contents of the room, piling them outside and torching them so no one else would be subjected to what he had witnessed. He felt it best to do an initial inspection of the master bedroom as well, before allowing Terry to return.

The master bedroom housed a bed, two nightstands, a dresser topped with two TVs, and two VCRs and a mirror hanging over the bed. Piles of pornographic magazines lay on and next to the bed.

The nightstands were filled with various lubricants and adult toys.

Pops had a Polaroid camera on the nightstand and several selfportraits in which he appeared to be a real standup guy.

Donning gloves, James boxed the contents for a baptism by fire.

He found an envelope containing stocks, bonds, and an insurance policy behind the dresser. Another wad of twenty-dollar bills was discovered stashed inside the back of a heater register.

He called Terry, informing her it was safe to return. After her arrival, she began to box Pop’s clothing. Finally, she was down to a leisure suit which was the last item of clothing hanging in the closet.

That’s when James heard her scream and came running.

She had been startled by Dottie, Pop’s blowup “friend,” hidden in the closet. Wearing nothing but garters, a peek-a-boo bra, and crotch-less panties with a twenty-dollar bill stuffed into the waistband, Dottie wasn’t exactly dressed for company.

Once Terry recovered from the initial shock of finding her dad’s virtual skeleton in the closet, she let the proverbial wind out of Dottie’s sails, folded her up, and threw her in the dumpster.  Claudia Aragon is an outstanding storyteller, capturing the nuances of family life and the difficulties of a hard-scrabble 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.

TOUGH LIT. VI

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Mrs. Underwood

by Daniel Roche

Mrs. Underwood lifts a cup of coffee toward her lips. Black. No cream or sugar allowed. A woman of her advanced age can no longer afford such luxuries. Doctor’s orders. Her frail hands tremble as she blows the steam away from her perspiring lips. She sips at the hot liquid, and of course, it’s delicious. Throughout all these years she still worships the taste of coffee, just as she had all those years ago when she first tasted it. Apparently coffee never grows old.

Too bad she can’t say the same for herself.

Warm sunshine pours in through the windows. Mrs. Underwood loves the feeling she gets when the soft rays tickle her skin, causing goose-bumps to rise like bubbles in a pot of boiling water. For this reason she is always up before dawn, waiting for the sun to arrive and welcome her to the new day.

She looks down upon her outfit (a long well-worn nightgown) and sighs. She takes another sip of coffee and allows her mind to wander. Her mind wanders back to a time when she actually had a reason to wear lovely dresses once in a while. Dresses that showed off her long legs. She recalls how good it felt when a young man would ask her to dance, or when a gentleman would step aside to hold a door open for her. She would turn around to thank him and catch him stealing a glance at her back side as she stepped though the doorway.

Happened every time.

No sense tormenting herself by thinking about those long gone days, but it’s hard not to think about her youth. Those care-free days when she actually had something to live for.

She puts her coffee down and stares at her feet. Her slippers are tattered and worn. Maybe later on in the evening she will gather her knitting kit and make a new pair.

Some comfortable new slippers would be nice. Just having something to do would be nice.

Her attention is suddenly stolen away from her slippers when she notices two small figures out in the meadow on the far side of her lawn. Disgusted at what she sees, she approaches her window to get a better look.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she says. “Now why on earth do those boys feel they have to meddle with those flowers?”

Through her window, out in the meadow, the two young boys from the house next door busy themselves by plucking away at some of the wildflowers that occupy the landscape. From where Mrs. Underwood stands, she cannot see any rhyme or reason as to why those boys would feel the need to rid the neighborhood of such lovely flowers.

Don’t they have anything better to do?

Maybe after “The Price is Right” she will scurry next door and inform the boys’ parents of their misdoings. She makes her way back to her seat, and to no one in particular she says, “Oh, what’s the point?” She tells herself that maybe the boys are already in trouble for something and are trying to make amends by picking some flowers for their mother.

Mrs. Underwood retrieves her coffee mug and takes another sip, but a lump appears in her throat making it difficult to swallow. She finds herself sobbing. Seeing those two boys out there in the meadow reminds her of her own children.

For about a year after her husband passed away, her two sons and daughter would pop in every now and again for a visit. They always brought the grandchildren with them, which was always appreciated, but after a while the visits grew less frequent, until finally her children stopped visiting completely. Nowadays it seems

they only call her on her birthday or drop by to give her a card on Christmas. It’s a hell of a way to treat their mother, she thinks. After all, I’m the one who brought them into this world.

Thinking of her children always depresses her, and her depression has been so severe lately that she even took the trouble of gathering all of the family pictures in the house and putting them into a shoebox. That shoebox now collects dust in her bedroom closet.

The lump in her throat increases, and she realizes she cannot finish her coffee.

She decides to dump it into the kitchen sink.

Bracing herself over the sink, she allows her anguish to consume her. She has a terrible decision to make—a decision she has been putting off for a while now, but this sudden outburst draws attention to the severe importance of her situation. Fresh tears flow freely down her wrinkled cheeks because for many months now she has been formulating a plan. One last act that will end the misery that has become her life, and last weekend she had put all of the necessary items into place. All she had to do now was wait until the time felt right.

Staring down into the wash basin, Mrs. Underwood realizes there is no better time than right now.

Gathering up her courage, Mrs. Underwood heaves herself away from the sink and heads towards her bedroom.

In her room she sits upon her neatly made bed and stares at the closet door. Tears no longer stand in her eyes. Her hands no longer tremble. Her sadness is down to a dull ache. She knows that beyond the closet door the end of all her troubles awaits. For Mrs. Underwood, her closet door may as well be the gates of heaven.

She takes a deep breath, stands up, and closes her hand around the door handle.

The moment of truth has arrived.

She opens the closet door.

Glorious emptiness fills her mind as her eyes fall upon a small stool. Four and a half feet above the stool is a noose, the end of which is tied to a rafter in the opening of the ceiling. It was hell climbing through the small opening into the attic, but now as she gazes upon the fruits of her efforts, she knows her pains were well worth it.

Mrs. Underwood stands on the stool, and just as she is putting the noose around her neck, there is a knocking at her front door.

“Who could that be?” she mumbles. It certainly couldn’t be one of her children.

Of all the times… “Ah, the hell with ‘em.” She continues with the noose, but then she thinks, what if it is one of the kids? Is this how I want them to find me? As she is thinking this, another knocking can be heard from the front door, followed by the impatient ringing of the doorbell.

Mrs. Underwood groans. “Hold your horses. I’m coming.”

She climbs down from the stool and makes her way down the hall towards the living room. Once again the doorbell rings. Feeling no need to rush, she shuffles along.

At her age, she rushes for no one.

Half-expecting to be greeted by a salesman of some kind, she opens the door, but instead of being greeted by a seedy salesman, the two young boys from next door stand before her. Up close, the boys look sweet and innocent. Mrs. Underwood feels immediate remorse for harboring such negative thoughts about them earlier.

Smiling brightly, the boys are wide-eyed, proudly holding before them colorful displays of flowers they had picked and arranged all by themselves.

“Good morning, Mrs. Underwood,” says Anthony, the older of the two.

Looking anxious the younger boy mimics his brother. “Yeah, good morning, Mrs. Underwood.”

(Cont’d. on p. 26)

VOL 7, ISSUE 5

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3

This Human Credential

by Ben Macnair

“Jones, are you in there?” asked the warden.

He always asked that. Where else was a prisoner going to be but in his cell?

‘Yes sir, I am in here,” I replied as I had done every day for the past four years.

It was my fault I was in here. I had no one else to blame. It was my fault that the judge had found me guilty. It was a crime of passion.

That was what they had said. They did not say that it was she that attacked me, or that it was done in self-defence. I had acted in selfdefence, as I always had done in that relationship.

At times I look back and remember everything that I had tried to forget. There are a lot of bad things about prison life. One of them is the amount of time you have to think about the past. These days, I spend more and more time thinking about the past. At the moment, I see very little point in thinking about my present, and to be honest, I really do not have that much faith in my future.

The warden unlocked the door and threw in the two letters I always got on a Tuesday. One was from my mother and the other one from my brother. I looked at them as the Warden locked the door again. Apart from these two letters, I had no other contact with the outside world.

Only my family had stood by me during the trial. My friends had all abandoned me. Of course, her family had the best and most expensive lawyers to make sure that I was put away for a long time. I had killed her, but only in that she would have killed me. My life ended the moment I took the knife away from her. I thought I was safe and she would leave, but she picked up the rolling pin and came at me.

It was my fingerprints on the knife and her blood on my hands. The police arrived after I had called them. I never meant for it to happen.

It just did. They put me away for murder. I should have gone down for manslaughter, that was what it was, but the judge had said he had wanted to make an example of me, so that was what happened.

I opened up the letters. Although my own life had stopped still for the past four years, outside these four walls, the world had continued to turn. I was now an uncle to two three-year-old twins who I had never met.

They would be ashamed of me. I was only in my mid-twenties when it happened. I would be in my forties if I ever got out. They would be adults by then. Mum and Mark never mentioned it, but I knew that I had bought shame on the whole family. In years to come, I would be the uncle that no-one ever spoke of.

Mum and Mark would continue to write to me. I know they will, and right at this moment, that is the only thing that keeps me going.

These letters are my human credential. They show to me and the rest of this whole world that I am not the complete monster that a prison sentence would suggest.

The letters showed that I was never alone, but after I read them, I could not help but feel a sense of complete abandonment. I had to wait another week for more news of people who I could barely remember.

The weeks had passed so slowly. I had been here for just over 200 weeks. I had nearly another thousand weeks to go. I was only about a fifth of the way through my sentence. At first, it was tough, but I got used to it. I still think it is unfair. At the trial nobody listened to my side of the story. She was seen as being the victim, but even two old boyfriends of hers had testified at the trial that she had been violent towards them as well. The judge did not believe them. He went with the physical evidence, which I could not deny. He said that 4

the violence had given me a motivation.

I never really had a chance. It was all over the papers. The way that it was reported only made things worse. It is amazing and sad how easy it is for a person’s life to change so drastically because of one stupid mistake they make in the heat of the moment.

There is not a moment that goes by when I don’t regret what happened to bring me here. There is not a moment that goes by when I wish that I could have done something different on that day.

Even something seemingly insignificant would have led to a different outcome. Maybe she would still be alive. I would have been a free man. Nobody ever realises what freedom means to them, until it is taken away from them.

Many years ago in our youth, I remember a conversation that Mark and I had. We were teenagers, no older, but he was already beginning to sound like Dad. Mark was always most like Dad. I remember at the funeral, only six years ago, how it had been Mark who had read the eulogy, organised it, and then cried for a week. I just went numb to the world. I haven’t really felt anything since that time.

It didn’t really hit me that he had gone, until Mark had sold Dad’s old piano. It was a wreck of an instrument and never really held its tuning, but Dad had loved that old piano. He had had it for more than fifty years, as man and boy. The gap that it left meant that I missed him more. It was not like anybody else would have played it, but it was the principle of the matter.

“I wish I was a sloth.” I had said. “Then I could just laze around in a tree all day, not care about how I looked or smelt, and just have the time to feel the earth move through space.”

“Well,” replied Mark, “that is one step up the evolutionary scale from where you are. I would like to be a shark. I would be the king of the ocean, and everybody would be scared of me, but in your case, you should be careful what you wish for, just in case it comes true.”

I bet Mark does not remember what he said now. I wish that I could forget it. He was right though. I do occasionally feel the earth spin on its axis, and I am powerless to stop it from turning.

I cannot really speak to the other prisoners. Being a murderer, regardless of the circumstances, means that many of them are scared of me. These are people with a completely different moral compass to mine. Some of them have murdered people in cold blood or robbed thousands of people of their lifesavings or held up old people or robbed houses. None of them seem to feel the same remorse as I do.

A lot of these people are career criminals. They have earned a place in prison with the scars to prove it. I am only in here because I was trying to defend myself in a relationship which went sour.

Sometimes in my dreams, I can see her. Her olive skin, dark hair, her smile, her passion for life, but the dream always ends in the same way, with the sound of police sirens and the sound of a bloodspattered knife being dropped into an evidence bag.

I have to wait another seven days for more news. I would write to them, but it would depress them, and I know that it would depress me. My weeks always seem to be the same. I miss the freedom of being able to do what I want to do, when I want to do it. I will be able to write back to them sometime… but not now.

I look out of the window, across at the market square. The sun is shining, but there are big black rain clouds in the sky. It will be raining soon. It always does rain. Rain until tomorrow, when for me, but not the rest of the world, it will be exactly the same as today. The first drops of rain splash against the window as the lights in the prison go on. I look at my watch. It is 5:00 p.m. Another day of my life has gone, and I am still no wiser and still no better.

I re-read the letters again. They are my human credential, my one and only proof that I am not the complete monster everybody (See Ben’s bio on p.29) believes that a murderer is. 

TOUGH LIT. VI

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

The Call

by Gaye Buzzo Dunn

Pouring rain pelted the windshield in sheets. The car’s wipers swished hard to keep up. Janine’s cell rang. Fumbling around in her purse she wrapped her fingers around it, hoisted it out for a quick glance. It was John, her boss. God help her, she just left that place.

Looking out through the blurred window she looked for a spot to pull over. She had to call him back.

The light turned green. She zoomed into the Gas Mart, parked, and dialed.

“Hi, John. What’s happening?”

“Sorry to bother you, Janine, but I can’t find the—” Gone. Her phone died.

Damn. This was the fourth time today she dropped a call.

Disgusted, she called back.

“John, I’m sorry. This lousy phone’s been dropping calls all day.

What do you need?”

“The Bankton File, I need it before court tomorrow.”

“I left it on the corner of my desk. I didn’t think we’d need it ‘til afternoon.”

“I know, but they changed the time to early morning. I’ll get it, and thanks, Janine. Be careful in the storm. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay, goodnight, John.”

Janine pulled back into traffic and slowed the wipers when the heavy rain subsided. Ten more minutes and she’d be home. Glad to put the hectic day behind her, she hit the automatic door opener and with a sigh of relief, pulled the car into the garage. Dumping her purse on the kitchen counter, she kicked off her heels while walking to the fridge. Yes! A half-bottle of white wine was corked inside. She poured a full glass and took a grateful sip while heading for the wall phone. She wasn’t going to put up with this phone crap another minute.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“What? Oh, I’m so sorry. I was calling the customer service number for the phone company and must have hit a nine instead of a four.

Sorry to bother you,” Janine said.

“Ma’am, I have your number and location onscreen. Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Yes. Yes. Everything’s fine. It was my mistake.”

“Okay, ma’am, but please remain on the line. I have to send someone out to your location to check. It’s policy.”

Her voice high and shrill, Janice screeched into the phone, “I’m telling you, it’s not necessary. Everything is fine here!”

“Someone will be by shortly. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Gulping another sip of wine, Janine slammed the phone in its cradle. She had just drained the glass when she heard a car door slam in the driveway. Her bare feet were silent while she crept to the window and peeked through the blind. A tall, well-built policeman with a salt-and-pepper mustache had left his patrol car and was heading for her door. Great, just what she needed—a cop car parked in her driveway. She’d bet nosy Bart next door already saw it.

The neighborhood pest, he was always poking around, looking for an excuse to stop by. She hated having that snoopy creep for a neighbor. Janine went to the door just as the doorbell chimed through the foyer.

“Janine Weldon? I’m Officer Masterson. I’m responding to the 911 call.”

“Yes. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. Like I told the dispatcher, I made a mistake when I dialed a service number.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ve been advised. Please understand that I must come in and check the premises to assure your safety. It’s procedure.”

VOL 7, ISSUE 5

“Really officer, that’s not necessary. I just got home from work.

Everything’s fine.”

Silence. Officer Masterson stood and waited.

“Oh, for God’s sake… come on in.” Janine pushed open the front door.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He entered the kitchen, opened the pantry door, and looked inside.

Together they walked through the house. Janine was dumbfounded when he looked inside all the closets and pulled open the shower curtains in both the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms.

Walking downstairs to the basement, he said, “Nice place you have here.”

“I like it,” she said as they walked into the utility room. Janine stifled a laugh when he looked behind the furnace and under the stationary washtub. Can’t say he didn’t do a good job, she thought to herself.

“What about the garage?”

“I just pulled the car in. There’s just my bike and some yard stuff in there.”

“I’ll take a look.”

Janine watched from the kitchen door while he flipped on the garage light, strolled around the car a few times, then glanced at the side and overhead garage doors.

“Miss Weldon, do you live here alone?” he said when he returned to the kitchen.

“Yes, but I’ve lived here over five years now and never had a problem.”

“That’s good, but I would advise that you install some deadbolts on the doors and have the house and windows reviewed by a security company.”

“I’ll consider it. Thank you for coming, Office Masterson.

Goodnight.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good evening.”

Locking the door behind him, Janine refilled her glass, flipped on the TV, and flopped into the recliner. What a day. “Harry’s Law,” one of her favorite shows, was on in a few minutes. She settled in to watch and quickly became so engrossed in the episode’s storyline that she dozed off.

A sudden clunking sound jarred her awake. Startled, she jumped from the chair. What time is it? Disoriented, she noticed the clock read ten thirty. Ten Thirty? She must have fallen asleep. It sounded like something fell in the garage. Still unsteady on her bare feet, she padded over the hardwood floor to the kitchen. The kitchen door to the garage was slightly open. She thought she had shut it when the policeman left. She flipped on the garage light and looked around.

Everything was quiet. Blaming her confusion on fatigue, she flipped off the light and went to bed.

Janine zonked out as soon as her head hit the pillow but endured an uneasy sleep, given the day’s events. Sometime during the night she woke up to a soft rustling sound—kind of like a footfall. Was she imagining it? She lay perfectly still, afraid to move or make a sound.

Heart pounding, she opened her eyes and saw a dark form approaching toward the nightstand. Was this a nightmare? Janine screamed and jumped from the bed just as a black gloved hand reached for her arm… and missed. Running toward the doorway, a vicious kick to her calf sent her sprawling to the floor. The hand returned, grasped her hair, and pulled her head backwards.

A soft whisper, “Keep your mouth shut, and maybe I won’t hurt you.”

That voice. She’d heard that voice before… but where? She couldn’t help herself. She shouted, “Get away from me, you weirdo!

Get the hell out of my house or I’m calling the cops!”

“You ain’t in a position to call anybody, girlie. Now be nice, and I’ll leave before too long.” Strong arms grabbed her from the floor and flung her on the bed.

(Cont’d. on p. 27)

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5

My Fifteen Minutes

by Joanne Jagoda

I head out of my office at the Main Library in downtown San Francisco at 3:30 p.m. My work day started at 7:30 a.m. with a department meeting, so I can leave early and have time to take Seymour for a long walk to the park on this stunning October afternoon. Fall is the best season in San Francisco with its mild Indian summer weather. I’m cooking up something outrageous for Halloween next week. Every year I surprise my co-workers with a costume that they never expect from their resident computer geek.

I’m the head technology specialist in the San Francisco Public Library system. As I drive home down Fulton Street, I realize what has been bugging me lately. I’ve been coasting on auto pilot far too long in my job. Sure, I’m lucky to have it in this uncertain economy with budget cuts looming in many city departments, but the truth is, I’d quit today if I could get another job. I’d search out something completely different… become a gardener or chef but what I really want to do is take off a year and see the world.

Frankly, I’m bored with myself. I’m thirty-three, tired of my same straight haircut since high school, and I’ve been ten pounds overweight forever. I can’t seem to give up my tortilla chips and Ben and Jerry’s. I know I’m attractive but could be a knock out with those pounds gone, and I’d have so much more confidence. I’m fed up with being cautious and never taking chances. I’m the only child of loving but neurotic parents, and their excessive caution in their approach to life has rubbed off on me. I want to try horseback riding and skiing. I want to travel to India and Thailand, the Seychelles and the Galapagos. Sure I’ve been on a tour to Europe, but there’s an adventurous part of me that is begging to go off the beaten path. It’s awful to say, but on a Saturday night, I can be perfectly content by myself, curled up with a movie and a pizza with anchovies and extra garlic, my faithful Seymour to keep me company.

I’ve just broken up with a decent guy, Felix, a computer geek like me. He is sweet and smart and adores me, and my parents adore him, but I got tired of his groping and the way-too-quick sex. His idea of foreplay was ten minutes of heavy breathing and then bam, it was over. I was barely getting warmed up, and he was done and not concerned in the slightest that I didn’t hear the crash of cymbals and see fireworks when we had sex. I had such dreams of passion and romance. Now, I realize I’ve got to make some changes.

I get home by 4:00 p.m., and as soon as my key jingles in the lock, Seymour, my slobbery, “snorty” English bulldog, is panting, ready for his outing to Golden Gate Park. Even though his breed is known to be sedentary, he demands his twice daily jaunts and I gladly oblige him.

I look forward to this outdoor time away from my computer screen as much as him. I change into my comfy gray sweats, get the leash on him, and we head to the park.

My apartment, in a funky 1930’s building with hardwood floors, is conveniently located two blocks from Golden Gate Park. It is not entirely accurate to say I take Felix for a walk. It’s more that he takes me for a walk or a “yank” as I like to call it, his fifty pounds pulling th and me chugging behind. We head towards the park entering at 36 Avenue, and I smell the tang of the Pacific drifting in with the hint of fog. With the shorter days, the light is changing and shadows hover over the eucalyptus trees. Other trees are turning colors, with red and umber leaves falling, giving me a little taste of New England right here in San Francisco. Seymour has his routine, starting with barking at the resident ducks in Spreckles Lake, which we come to first in our walk. The old people who sit on the benches every afternoon know Seymour well and call out to him. He loves attention. Then he heads for his favorite places to pee as though he pays rent on these trees and bushes.

6

I’m doing a slow jog cursing myself again for the extra pounds slowing me down. “Hold up, Seymour. It’s my turn to pee.” I’m sure he understands me because he is more intelligent than many men I meet. I usually don’t like to do this, but I need a pit stop and head to the closest bathroom off the Main Drive. This one is generally clean and has paper, and the smell is not too bad which is lucky because I loathe smelly bathrooms. I tie up Seymour on a fixed cement post and notice, resting on its side, a solitary pink child’s bicycle with Barbie decals and purple tassels. As I approach the entrance and pull open the heavy wooden door, I hear a muffled cry and a sound of scuffling.

I debate taking off in a hurry, but something about that sound bothers me, and I head into the bathroom. The light is surprisingly bright from the fluorescent fixture, and I hear grunts and banging coming from the stall with the handicapped sign. Male feet in heavy black boots are visible in the lower half of the stall door. Now I’m thinking, What’s wrong with this picture? This is the ladies’ room.

Why is there a man in here? Doesn’t he know that there’s a men’s bathroom around the corner, and why is he in my space? Then I hear a noise again and yell on instinct as loud as I can, “What are you doing in there? I’m calling the police.”

The next events happen in a blur. I pull at the door which thankfully isn’t locked and see a wild-eyed girl who looks Hispanic, around ten or eleven, cowering near the edge of the metal toilet seat with a man standing in front of her. Her mouth is covered in a torn strip of silver duct tape, and her hands are not visible, so they must be behind her back. She is wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He has one hand on his crotch near the zipper of his pants, and there is a knife on the ground next to his feet. I can smell his sour unwashed body.

I yell again as forcefully as I can, “What do you think you’re doing?

I’m calling 9-1-1!” I rush forward and grab him by the back of his plaid shirt. He turns fast, pushes me back with both hands, and I fall hard on the old-fashioned tiles. He takes off running out of the bathroom. I’m more stunned than hurt and fortunately fall on my padded backside. I go to the child who is shaking from head to toe.

“You’re okay, honey. You’re going to be okay. I’m not going to leave you alone.” She nods with her head like she understands me, and I very gently ease the tape from her mouth. Then I work to free her hands which are bound in the same tape. Using a little file on the end of my house keys, I keep at the tape and finally tear it enough to release her hands from behind her back which had to be uncomfortable. She is too shocked to say anything, then starts to sob pitifully, gasping for breath. I take her from the bathroom and guide her outside, grab my cell phone from my pocket and dial 9-1-1 which I know goes to the Highway Patrol. It seems to take forever until they answer, and I’m looking around scared that he’s still outside. I’m desperately hoping to see joggers or anyone but only see my Seymour who starts barking but somehow makes me calm down.

When they finally answer I pull myself together to sound coherent.

“Send the police and an ambulance. My name is Tracie Benson. I… uh… stopped an attack on a little girl. I’m here in Golden Gate Park in th front the bathroom on the Main Drive near the 36 Ave. entrance past the buffalo pasture.”

I help her over to the grass. “Sweetheart, what is your name? Are you hurt?” She stutters then says her name, “Va-Va-Veronica, Veronica Ramirez.” I’m relieved to hear her sweet voice. “I was riding my bike home through the park, I had to go to the bathroom, and my momma will be so mad, and I should’a listened to her.” She is talking very fast. “She doesn’t like me going through the park alone, but it’s quicker. That b-b-a-a-ad m-m-man grabbed me when I came out of the toilet and put tape over my mouth and hands and pushed me back in there. I want my momma.” She starts to sob and shake and looks very pale. I‘m sure she’s in shock and take off my jacket to keep her warm.

TOUGH LIT. VI

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

“Don’t worry Veronica. I just know she won’t be mad at you.” I hold her hand tightly and it seems to comfort her.

Police sirens in the distance get louder and three police cars pull up followed by a city ambulance with two fire trucks. Veronica is still grasping my hand, and I’m trying to keep from breaking down. A small crowd of joggers and walkers gather, attracted by the sirens and commotion. Where were they when I needed them a few minutes ago?

Six patrolmen group around us, and the emergency personnel quickly approach to check out Veronica. They put her on a gurney, and someone hands me back my sweatshirt jacket which I put on because I’m shivering now myself. I collect Seymour who is very happy to see me and stays close to my side, sensing I’m upset. One of the policemen in a suit, apparently a detective whose name tag says “McGarity,” pulls me aside.

“Ma’am, we want the emergency personnel to check you, but first can you tell me what happened and give me a description of the perp… uh… perpetrator?”

He pulls out a pad and takes down notes. I surprise myself by rattling off a detailed account of what happened and what he looked like. “He was maybe thirtyish, 5-foot-9 or so because he wasn’t that much taller than me, 160 pounds not huge, plaid shirt un-tucked, blue jeans, and navy watch cap pulled low over brownish hair, broken front tooth, and a tattoo of a… it was a… uh, I think a shark across his hand, the one he had on his zipper.” He immediately got on his two-way radio broadcasting the description.

I watch from a distance as the paramedics check Veronica, but they are not rushing off so it looks as though she is not hurt too badly. I fear the emotional toll on her will be worse than the physical. It is very chaotic as police check the area and go in and out of the bathroom cordoning off the area with yellow tape. They come out holding the knife that was left in the stall. After about a half hour, an unmarked police car pulls up, and a woman who has to be Veronica’s mother wearing what looks like a maid’s uniform with a name stenciled across the breast practically jumps out of the moving car.

She frantically runs to her daughter. The police told me she is a single mother, works at the Hilton Hotel and lives with Veronica and an older son near the beach in the Avenues.

Sobbing and hugging her daughter, she is speaking to her in Spanish and is asking questions of a Spanish-speaking officer who is translating for her. Veronica had calmed down and was enjoying the attention of the police and emergency personnel until her mother came and now is very upset. When she hears the complete account of what happened from the translator, she leaves Veronica, comes over to me and hugs me and thanks me profusely in Spanish and broken English. I’m ready to gather Seymour quietly and head home, but the paramedics insist on checking my vital signs which are normal, though I admit I’m shaky and sore from my tumble. I know I’ll have a huge bruise on my backside. They advise me to go home, sit on ice packs, and rest.

Seymour has been incredibly patient, which is not surprising because he just gets things. By now it’s deepening twilight, but I’m way too nervous to walk home. Detective McGarity thankfully offers me and Seymour a ride, and we get in the backseat of his unmarked police car. As we drive off he looks at me through the rear view mirror, “Tracie, you were brave to do what you did. You saved that little girl from what could’ve been a much worse outcome.” Then I started to shiver all over thinking about what I just did but a feeling of pride was welling up inside of me. As he drops me in front of my apartment he says, “One of our detectives will be in touch with you tonight or tomorrow. We’ll let you know if we catch him.”

As I enter my apartment, I keep looking over my shoulder and jump at any noise. I double lock the front door and push a couple of kitchen chairs in front of it. I take a long hot shower aiming the water on my sore back and try to clear my head but can’t get rid of the VOL 7, ISSUE 5

image of that ugly man about to unzip his pants. I shudder at the memory of Veronica’s pink Barbie bicycle, so innocent like her. I rummage in my cabinet for some brandy, pour myself a shot, and put some ice in a plastic bag which I sit on. I doze on and off with the TV on. Though I want to call Felix to tell him what happened, I hesitate because I have to process this myself. At around 8pm the phone startles me.

“Miss Benson, this is Detective McGarity, and we have good news.

Police dogs tracked down a suspect fitting your description hiding in the bushes near the horse stables. Turns out he is Walter Kramer, a serial pedophile. We’ve been looking for that lowlife for at least three years.”

“Oh, my gosh. That’s such a relief. But tell me how is Veronica? Is she doing ok? I can’t stop thinking about her. Could I go by to see her tomorrow?”

“She is resting quietly at home under sedation. They were overjoyed to hear that we caught the guy. I can check with her family to see if they are open to seeing you. We’ll be back in touch with you tomorrow.”

When I hear they caught him, I let out my breath. Thankfully there is nothing about what happened on the 10 o’clock news, and I can begin to put this behind me. I don’t want to call my parents tonight to worry them because I know they will freak.

Insistent knocking at my door awakens me. I wearily look at my alarm clock surprised that it is 8:00 a.m. I gingerly ease out of bed after a restless night of scary dreams. I gently rotate my stiff back and touch my very tender backside, a painful reminder of yesterday afternoon. Seymour comes over for a snuggle.

I call out, “Coming… Just a minute.” I head to the front door, move the chairs out of the way and peek through the eye slot stunned to see a reporter with a Channel 7 emblem on her microphone. I slowly open the door, and right behind her are reporters from Channel 2, 5, and 11 holding mics with cameramen toting portable cameras.

“Ms. Benson, we understand you saved a little girl in the park yesterday. Can you tell us your story?”

“I, uh…” I try to finger comb my hair and don’t open my mouth very wide with my yucky morning breath and tug on my flannel pajama bottoms to smooth them. “Well, I walked in on him, yelled, and he took off. That was all I did.”

“But Ms. Benson, Walter Kramer is a serial pedophile.” They keep firing questions at me, but I have nothing left to add, and I tell them I need to go and close the door gently. I peek out my window behind the curtains and see the swarm of news trucks and cameras. Then the phone starts ringing.

“Ms. Benson, we would like a quote from you for the San Francisco Chronicle. Did you know that you led to the capture of a serial pedophile who is on the FBI’s most wanted list?”

I mumble that I was glad to have been there to help. No sooner did I put the phone down than it starts ringing again until I finally take it off the hook. I wearily get in the shower trying to aim the hot water on the sore spot where I fell. After I get dressed, I call in to work with my best congested sniffling voice saying that I would not be in today.

Once this hits the paper, the office will be going nuts, and they will ask a million questions that I won’t be able to answer. I take out Peet’s coffee from the freezer which will give me the jolt I need to wake up. There is a knock at my door, and I’m praying it is not the media.

“Ms. Benson, it is Detective McGarity from the San Francisco Police Department. I’m sure you remember me from yesterday.” I open the door a crack and he shows me his ID anyway. In the craziness of yesterday I didn’t see how attractive he was… very tall, burly, around fortyish with a short buzz cut. A young female officer in a dark blue police uniform is with him, and he asks if they can come in for a few more questions. I offer them coffee; but they decline. They are serious, and this is not a social visit.

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

7

Before they start I ask, “How is Veronica doing today? I want to go by and visit her.”

The female officer answers, “We just came from her house. She is frightened but is a feisty little girl who should get past this. We can give you her address later. Her mother is so grateful for what you did. They ask me to go over my whole story again and want me to come downtown to watch a line up to see if I can identify him. This reminds me so much of “Law and Order,” my favorite crime show.

I tell them I can go in about forty-five minutes but need to take Seymour out for a quick walk which I normally do first thing in the morning before work. They tell me they will return in an hour.

I apologize to Seymour that his morning outing is way shorter than usual, but I’ll make it up to him. We usually head to the beach in the morning but today it was just a couple of turns around the block.

When I get home, I change into dark slacks and a gray sweater. They knock. I grab my purse, follow them downstairs, and climb in their Crown Victoria. I’m interested in their computer system and other electronic gadgets in the car and ask questions during the drive. I’m uncomfortable in the crunched back seat especially with my sore tush, and they apologize when they see me squirming explaining that back seats in police cars are designed for criminals and not meant to be cozy.

When we get to the Hall of Justice, they take me to the fifth floor to a room with two-way glass that protects me from being seen. Six grubby men, all different sizes and descriptions, file in and line up and I get instantly queasy. I see him right away and identify him without any hesitation.

“Number four,” I say in a clear voice but shiver praying this really is two way glass like on TV and he can’t see me. Detective McGarity informs me that I will be asked to come in to give a formal statement and most likely will have to appear in court to identify him, but that won’t be for six or eight months. They have a rock solid case against him with evidence linking him to this case and at least six others around Northern California and Arizona. They have been looking for him for three years, and it is a huge win for the police to get him off the streets.

The female officer, Ms. Stuart, offers to drive me home. I’m bummed it isn’t the cute detective, but this time I sit in the front seat of a patrol car. I feel like a kid and want to ask her to put on the siren, but I control myself. When we make the turn up Cabrillo St. from Fulton to my apartment, I’m surprised to see the street filled with vans from the media. She asks me if there is a back entrance and drives me around the corner to the garage, in the back of the building where I can sneak in. As I get out of the car, she cautions me, “Don’t start in with the media. They won’t leave you alone, and you may get more attention that you want.”

When I make it to my door my neighbor, Mrs. Garfinkle, is holding up the morning paper. “Tracie dear, you’re a hero!’ There boldly in black and white is the front page headline, “City Employee Saves Child from Pedophile.” I’m speechless and thank Mrs. Garfinkle who gives me her copy. I’m too cheap to have a newspaper subscription myself because I can read any paper I want in the library or on-line.

I peek out the window at the trucks lined up. I suppose I’d be a big liar if I didn’t admit I’m a little tickled by this media attention. I get this crazy idea that this could be my “fifteen minutes” of fame. I fantasize about a dazzling makeover by a hip stylist with a stylish haircut and a drop dead wardrobe, just like I’ve seen on so many TV shows. Introducing the new and improved Tracie Benson! Finally, after an hour they get tired of waiting and pack up and leave.

My cell phone rings, and it is my hysterical parents telling me they are on their way and sounding like nervous wrecks. They live across the city near Twin Peaks and make it here in record time. When they arrive, I spend a half hour giving them a minute by minute account of what happened then another half hour assuring them I’m fine and don’t need to go to the hospital or see an orthopedic specialist to 8

have my back checked, even though I’m sore and stiff. I divert their attention by asking them to take Seymour for a walk. They gladly oblige their grand-dog, whom they spoil lavishly with doggie treats, and leave me mercifully alone.

The phone keeps ringing and I decide not to answer. Then it is my cell phone, and I think it might be my office, so I pick it up.

“Ms. Benson?”

“Yes, it’s Tracie Benson.”

“This is the Mayor’s Office. We want to present you with a Proclamation for Exemplary Citizen’s Involvement at a ceremony tomorrow at the steps of City Hall for helping Veronica Ramirez. Can you be there at 2pm?”

“I… uh….I…well, I suppose, but this is so not necessary.”

“We want to honor your courage and bravery and as a city employee you are a fine representative of the kind of civil servant that we are proud to have working for the city of San Francisco.”

“2:00 p.m.? Okay, okay… I’ll be there.”

I hang up and shake my head. I’m embarrassed by this hoopla, because, bottom line, I did what anyone would have done to save a precious child and don’t consider my actions heroic. I decide not to answer my cell phone for the rest of the day. My parents come back with Seymour, who behaved nicely they report, and I tell them about the ceremony. They are busting their buttons and can’t wait to leave and call everyone whom they have ever known in their life to have them come down to City Hall.

I take off and go to Veronica’s. Her family lives in a small neat house a few blocks from the beach. Her mother lets me in and tells me Veronica is sleeping. We have a few quiet words using her broken English and my high school Spanish, but we don’t require a lot of words to understand each other. I decide to leave and not wait for her to wake up. I think it may be better if she doesn’t see me to remind her of yesterday’s terrible events.

I get home and sit down with my laptop to see if there are any crises at work. In my inbox I’m startled to see emails from Mornings on Two, Good Morning America with at least seven other emails from television shows from around the country. They are asking me to appear on programs about pedophiles, citizen crime prevention, and heaven only knows what else. I have three emails from men who say they admire brave women and would like to marry me. How did these crackpots even get my email?

This is all overwhelming, and I decide to call an old friend Denise Parker, a publicist, who will know how to handle this onslaught from the media and advise me what I need to do. She agrees to meet me this evening at my apartment to evaluate the various requests. I ask her for the name of an upscale hair salon, and she gets me an emergency appointment for tomorrow morning and sets up a makeup artist for me as well. She will call a personal shopper at Macy’s to select some outfits and bring them over when she comes tonight. If I’m going to have my “fifteen minutes,” I figure I better look good.

My phone rings again and I reluctantly pick it up. Who could this be now? I chuckle to myself. Maybe it is the Governor himself calling. A male voice asks, “Is this Tracie?” I hear heavy breathing on the other end, and then this guy starts telling me explicitly what he would like to do to me and what I should do to him, and that he likes ”girls” of all ages. He informs me he is watching my apartment. I slam down the receiver, but I’m more mad than scared. I look for Officer McGarrity’s card that he left with me and call him and let him know about the call. He is sending over a squad car to check around my apartment building and calls me back in a half hour to report that the police have not found anything suspicious. They will put a trace on my phone if another call should come in and keep an officer on the street for the rest of the day and night. He says that events like this bring the rats out of the walls.

TOUGH LIT. VI

(Cont’d. on p. 29)

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Just Push Rewind

by D. L. Whitehead

“You know,” Donald Lee said, grinning menacingly, “if you would just do what I tell you when I tell you to do it, this kind of thing wouldn't happen.”

Allison Shales had been married to Donald Lee Shales for over four years, and she knew he was lying. This kind of thing happened all the time. For Donald Lee, “this kind of thing” entailed him losing his temper, usually after a few beers and “correcting” her for some perceived slight or mistake. Allison wasn't sure why she put up with it, being that Donald Lee was around five-feet-five-inches tall and she was nearly six feet. They weighed about the same, but he had a way of hitting her in just the right spot. “Correcting” her often consisted of a blow to a spot that didn't show while she was dressed. He never hit her anywhere that might show in public.

Allison knew when he talked to her like this that it was in her best interest to keep quiet. During these times, Donald Lee was at his most dangerous. She simply nodded her head and tried to catch her breath from the punch to her ribs.

“You knew I wanted the satellite system installed by the time my new big screen was delivered. What do you do with your day? All you had to do was call and schedule the installation.”

Once again, Allison stayed quiet. She didn’t tell him that she had called and found the satellite company's installers were backed up until next week. She had tried to tell him before he hit her, but he had refused to listen.

“Well,” Donald Lee said, “I’ll give those assholes a call tomorrow and see if I can light a fire under their ass. I need this installed by next Thursday for sure, before football season starts.”

Allison sat on her ass, leaning against the kitchen cabinet, tears running down her face, her ribs burning like fire where he had hit her. The thing was, through the pain, she realized he had heard her when she told him that the company had given her the install date.

He was pissed because she hadn’t sweet talked them into moving up the date. The lousy bastard had actually been listening to her. A smile must have touched her lips because instantly, his face darkened.

Using her legs, she tried to move her body farther away from him but couldn’t. Donald Lee stood over her, smiled and kicked her in the hip. He must have thought shock had set in, because he backed off, walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grabbed a can of beer.

“Christ, it's hot in here Time to turn on the air conditioning,” Donald Lee said absently, as he adjusted the thermostat, walked into the family room and settled in front of the television.

Eventually, she gained the strength to get to her feet and make her way upstairs. She washed her face in the bathroom then carefully raised her T-shirt over her bruised ribs and breasts. Removing her bra, she observed the damage he had done in his rage. Her left breast had an ugly and purple bruise below her nipple. She could actually see the imprint of his knuckles in her flesh. Removing her pants, she saw the angry red slash his work boot had left on her thigh. Allison was scared of Donald Lee. She didn't know what to do, and she couldn't leave. He had told her if she tried, he would find her and kill her. She believed him.

Creeping downstairs, she filled a bag of ice from the fridge and retreated back to their bedroom. Wrapping a towel around the ice, she applied it to her bruised breast and ribs as she lay down on the bed. She gritted her teeth as pain shot through the spot where the ice touched the contusion. Resting her head against the pillow, she closed her eyes.

At some point in the night, Donald Lee came into the bedroom, VOL 7, ISSUE 5

stared at her for nearly ten minutes, then left. Allison kept her eyes closed and prayed that he didn't notice she was awake. He often did this and then slept on the couch. She didn’t understand why he hated her. She exercised and kept her body in shape so he would still want her. She did everything he had ever asked, but still he victimized her. She had hidden the beatings from her family, but if her dad ever found out, she was afraid he would kill Donald Lee. She didn't want her Dad to go to prison because she was too weak to deal with her husband.

At some point she slipped off to sleep, and when she awoke the next morning, the sun was high on the horizon. Getting out of bed, she cried out in pain, her wounds painful and swollen. Gingerly, Allison stood up and hobbled to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, she saw the bruises, purple and red, where he had hit her. She didn't think any of her ribs were broken, but they were sore as hell. The prick had once again hit her only where it wouldn't show.

Allison took a long painful shower, and when she exited the tiny stall, felt a little better. Wrapping a towel around her body and another around her curly blond hair, she began applying make-up to hide the shadows under her eyes. She was not only tall for a woman, she had curves. Looking at herself in the mirror, she thought she was pretty. Not bombshell material, but certainly not painful to look at.

She had spent years working out to keep her body in shape, thinking it would raise her status in Donald Lee’s eyes, but it had only made him more suspicious. He restricted the amount of money she could have to only what he gave her to buy groceries. He signed the checks she wrote for the bills.

Allison dried her body and dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from her closet. Plugging in the blow dryer, she brushed her hair under the warm rush of air. The blow dryer made so much noise she failed to hear the doorbell when it rang the first two times. Turning off the dryer she heard the bell ring the third time. As the echo of the bell faded she stood frozen for a moment then went downstairs.

Allison was shocked when she opened the front door. A guy from the Satellite installer service stood on her porch. He was tall, darkhaired, about twenty-five and looked like he worked out a lot.

“Hi there, we have an install scheduled today for Allison Shales,” said the man. “Are you Allison Shales?”

“Uh... yeah,” Allison was afraid. The order should have been in Donald Lee’s name, not hers. “But that order should be for my husband.”

“No,” he said, showing her the order on his clipboard. “The name is Allison Shales, but no matter. We can fix that in the system. Can we begin installation?”

“Ssssure,” Allison said. “They said you wouldn't able to show up until late next week.”

“Someone expedited your order, ma’am,” he said. “My name is Bill. I’ll take care of installing the dish, then bring in your DVR’s and set them up. The process takes about two hours. Then you’ll be ready to roll.”

“Thank you,” Allison said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Not a thing,” Bill said, shooting her a smile that for some odd reason gave her comfort. “We’re here to help you! I'll knock when I'm ready to come in and set up your televisions.”

Allison watched him walk away then closed the door. Bill was really cute. She couldn’t believe she was reacting like this. She wanted a different life so badly she was willing to believe anyone could offer her an escape.

Allison went into the kitchen and made a pitcher of iced tea. Slicing a lemon, she put several into the pitcher and attached one to each of two glasses, added ice and filled them to the rim. When the doorbell rang she saw Bill standing on her porch, two unmarked boxes in his hands. Offering him a glass of tea, he accepted and she led him inside.

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9

In the family room where the big screen would be delivered later today, Bill hooked up the box to the existing television and showed her how to use it. He took extra care to properly program the DVR. “I certainly wouldn't want the picture to be off, considering whose television this is,” Bill mumbled just loud enough for her to hear, an expression of disgust crossing his face. Did Bill know about Donald Lee? How could he? Bill asked if she liked the picture and she said yes.

“Now for your bedroom. That, I assume, is where the television you use is located?”

Allison was scared. She hadn't said anything about a second television and they charged extra. Donald Lee would be really pissed if she installed a DVR in the bedroom and it cost extra.

“Oh, that's okay. I don't need a machine in the bedroom.”

“Allison, the DVR for the bedroom, for you, is included in the basic package. You signed up for it, so I must install it. You'll be amazed by the programming. So please, show me where to install it.”

Allison hesitated for a moment then showed him to the bedroom.

Bill spent a half hour showing her the features of the DVR. “One more thing. This DVR, unlike the other one has a special programming package. Channel 9699 is a special channel that I think you’ll love. I’ve been told the programming there can change your life.”

Allison led Bill downstairs and signed all of the paperwork for the installation. She offered him another glass of iced tea, but he declined. He smiled again and said, “Don't forget channel 9699. You'll find it enlightening, if nothing else.” With that, Bill excused himself and left, leaving Allison alone.

After the big screen was delivered a couple of hours later, Allison watched old movies late into the afternoon. Eventually, she fell asleep and awoke to gathering shadows. Checking her watch, she realized she needed to get dinner started.

Standing in the kitchen she began preparing fried chicken. It was easy and quick and would make him happy because it was one of his favorites. Having peeled the potatoes, she put them in a pot of boiling water. When the chicken had thawed she prepared the batter and coating, heated oil in a frying pan, and slowly added the chicken one piece at a time. While the chicken fried, she checked the clock and saw Donald Lee was half-an-hour late. Unless he had stopped at the bar, which made her hands shake with fear. If he’d stopped at the bar, he would be looking for a fight when he came home. At least the satellite TV had been installed she thought.

As the chicken finished cooking, she placed it on a paper towel to drain and began working on the mashed potatoes. Removing the biscuits from the oven, she heard the door slam. Her blood ran cold in anticipation of the fight to come. She didn't think she would survive another beating.

“Wow, nice picture,” Donald Lee slurred as he wavered in front of the television and stared at the picture of his favorite baseball team on the large screen. “What's for dinner?”

“Fried chicken,” Allison said. He turned to her, swaying on his feet.

“They must have gotten the message at the Satellite comp’ny. I called this morning and screamed at some bitch for fifteen minutes about taking so fuckin’ long,” Donald Lee was so drunk, she could barely understand him. Seeing an opportunity to get out of this, she took the initiative.

“I just finished dinner. I’ve a plate made for you if you’re ready to eat.”

“Hmm?” Donald Lee said, seemingly coming out of a trance. “Yeah, okay.”

Donald Lee stumbled into the kitchen headed for the dining room.

As he passed her, he slapped her hard on the ass. More surprised than injured, she launched the plate of chicken, potatoes and gravy in her hand into the air. The potatoes hit the low ceiling and stuck 10

there, but everything else hit the floor. She couldn't help it, she screamed.

Donald Lee lost it. Turning toward her, he slapped her hard across the face. Falling, she landed on her sore butt and he waded in, kicking and punching her. Allison tried rolling into a protective ball, but he grabbed her long hair and pulled her upright, slamming her head against the cabinet. Using his right hand to keep her standing, he slapped at her with the back of his hand but missed. His hand whiffed past her head close enough to move her hair. His momentum sent him into the mess on the floor, causing him to fall and drag her down on top of him. When she landed on him, her left knee caught him in the crotch, and he screamed.

"You fuckin’ bitch, I'll kill you," Donald Lee squealed, trying at the same time to push her away, but at the same time keep control of her. Allison struggled in his grasp and he slapped her again, knocking her away.

Donald Lee moaned, grabbing his package, allowing Allison to get to her feet and run. Once inside the sanctuary of her bedroom, she locked the door behind her and placed a chair under the doorknob.

Before long she heard him moving around in the kitchen, sounding like an angry rhinoceros, but after a while he was quiet.

When she caught her breath, Allison stripped off her blouse and inspected her body. New bruises overlapped the old ones. This time Donald Lee hadn’t been careful. Her lips were split but there was only a little blood. But the bruises and injuries were visible. She was certain this skirmish wasn’t over, but she hoped he passed out before coming upstairs to finish her.

Allison sat in the corner of the bedroom the entire night, expecting Donald Lee to come upstairs and kill her. She wished she had run out the front door, but where would she go?

At some point, Allison fell into a fitful sleep. As dawn broke, Donald Lee’s truck started and drove away, awakening her from a nightmare. She held her breath until the sound dissipated.

Standing, she walked to the vanity and inspected the damage in daylight. Her lips were swollen and her right eye was bruised. The bastard was so drunk he couldn’t control where he hit her.

Ice seemed to be her best friend these days and she filled another bag full of crushed cubes from the refrigerator, pressed it to her cheek and sobbed. She had to get out before he killed her.

Overcome with nausea and dizziness, Allison ran up the stairs barely making it to the toilet where she emptied what little was in her stomach into the bowl. In the vomit, she saw threads of blood.

Donald Lee had hurt something inside her during last night’s beating.

It made her furious.

Allison flushed the toilet and lay down on the bed. Placing the ice on her cheek, she drew her knees to her chest and cried. She felt so hopeless, but she couldn’t afford to give up. She was glad she had never gotten pregnant. She couldn't knowingly bring a child into this situation.

Retrieving the remote from the nightstand she turned on the television. She had once gone to college with dreams of becoming an archeologist. She had loved the idea of traveling around the world.

Now she was part of the ruins.

At some point, Allison drifted off but only slept an hour. Standing gingerly, she went to the bathroom and found blood decorating her urine.

Allison lay back down on the bed and began to surf through the channels, settling on an old movie. Before long she went downstairs to get a glass of water. When she went back upstairs the screen on the television was black, except for a message saying searching for signal. She tried a couple of other channels but they displayed the same message. Remembering what Bill the installer told her about channel 9699 she punched the numbers into the remote and immediately a picture came up.

TOUGH LIT. VI

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

What appeared on the screen halted Allison’s breath. She saw herself, lying on the bed asleep. She realized there must be a delay, because she was standing not lying on the bed now. She awakened and walked into the bathroom. The camera followed her into the small water closet. When the other her saw the blood in the toilet, a look of anger and disgust blanketed her face. Wow, she thought, I actually look pissed.

Pressing the pause button she saw the picture on the screen stop moving. She realized that the sounds she could hear through the open window had also ceased. Raising the blind, she saw that the slight breeze that had been blowing outside had stilled. It even seemed that the color had gone out of the day. Even the smells were stale. Moving away from the window, she closed the blind and noticed that even the sound seemed off, spoiled in a way. She marveled at the fact she had stopped time just by pressing the pause button on the DVR. She wondered if she continued pressing the back button, would the DVR disappear when she reached the point when Bill had installed it. She found the help button, but there was no mention of a stop time feature associated with the pause button. Pressing play, sound returned all around her and it seemed freshened by having been paused, but she was sure it was just illusion.

Allison continued watching, fascinated as the camera followed her downstairs when she retrieved the glass of water, then she pressed pause again. Picking up the glass of water with a shaky hand she took a drink, then returned it to the nightstand. She wondered if she could back the scenes up farther. Using her thumb she pressed the back button on the remote until the camera followed her upstairs to lie down.

"So I can rewind my life to any point I want," Allison said, to no one but herself. Reaching for the water glass again, she was surprised that it wasn't there. Snapping her head around, she searched the room, but the glass was gone. The gravity of what was happening hit her like ice water splashing in her face.

Allison hit play and dropped the remote on the bed and moved quickly away from it. Watching the screen, the scene moved forward and she saw herself once again sleeping on her bed, but she wasn't peaceful. She whimpered like an animal, roiling through the covers like she was being chased.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she once again aimed the remote at the television and pressed the rewind program button. Unlike a VCR, the effect was instant, and it was dark outside. For a moment, she could almost see a ghost of herself cowering in the corner, but it was gone as fast as she saw it. Hitting the button several more times, the sun was bright again, but everything felt different. Walking into the bathroom she looked in the mirror and saw that her swollen face now looked normal.

Tenderly, Allison pressed her fingers to where Donald Lee had hit her in the face, but found no swelling, no pain and no cracks in her lips. Raising her shirt she didn’t see any of the damage from the fight last night. Staring at the remote, she felt afraid, but excited at the same time. What if’s crept unbidden into her mind.

When she returned to the television she saw a message displayed.

1. Return to normal timeframe 2. Reset to current timeframe?

She realized by pressing the number next to the option, she could choose either option. She thought for a moment, and pressed the number one. Immediately, Allison doubled over as pain slammed into her like a runaway bus. She felt the wounds on her face reappear. Walking to the vanity, she looked at her face and saw that the cracked lip and bruise that had disappeared when she reversed the scene on the DVR had returned.

Once again, Allison wondered how far back she could go with the DVR, but there was no way to find out without testing it. Whatever she did, she was certain she only had one chance to make the decision. Moving back to the bed, she picked up the remote and VOL 7, ISSUE 5

started to press pause, then changed her mind. She remembered the night she met Donald Lee. Allison had been dating a man named Gerry Klinger at the time.

Gerry was a great guy, polite, a good cook and had tried to grant Allison’s every wish. Gerry was always positive, using his even temper to deal with the worst of situations with style and grace. She had watched as he diffused arguments that normally would have ended in bar fights, and worked the aggressors into buying rounds of drinks not only for each other but the whole bar.

One night, during an argument he had tried to diffuse her anger, but she wanted none of it, prodding him until he told her if she was so ashamed of him, she should leave. She had gone to a bar and met a moderately inebriated Donald Lee, went home with him and had an almost violent sexual experience. The next day she had called Gerry and left a message breaking up with him and began dating Donald Lee. Now, she stood staring at the image on the screen and made her decision.

“Let's see how far back I can take this thing,” Allison said, smiling weakly through her cracked lip.

It took a long time to get through almost five years of time on the DVR, but eventually, she saw the inside of the bar where she had met Donald Lee that fateful night. She saw herself sitting at the bar staring at him across the room where he played darts with his buddies. Stopping the picture she noticed this time her timeframe stayed as it was. She could still hear sound through the open windows. Apparently the farther back you reversed the recording, reduced the effect on the present.

Allison stared at the stopped picture, remembering how angry she had been at Gerry. She wondered if she would make the same choices she had that night, or if she would have enough of her current memories to keep her from leaving with Donald Lee again.

Once again, the message to keep the current timeframe or return to normal popped up on the screen. Allison hesitated a few moments wondering if she should rewind further to a point before the fight with Gerry, but before she could make a decision she heard a door slam and Donald Lee’s voice carrying through the house.

"Allison, get your ass down here, bitch. It's time for a chat, right fuckin’ now."

Allison had hoped the day would calm her husband down, but from the sound of his voice, his anger had only conflagrated. Certain he would kill her this time, she hit the play button, then pressed number one.

Immediately her surroundings changed and she felt like she was falling. Her stomach leapt into her throat causing her to gag then her feet hit solid ground. Staring around, she heard clinking glasses, smelled stale beer and sweat. Loud music echoed all around her. Her brain said she should be standing in her bedroom, but that memory seemed as false as the faux hardwood floor she stood on. Reaching into her purse she felt something odd, a remote control to a television lay in the bottom of the clutch bag she carried. Now why would she have put that in there?

Opening her eyes, she saw herself in a mirror behind the bar, sitting on a stool with a margarita in front of her. Across the room she saw a guy who perked her interest. She was so mad at Gerry she couldn't see straight. She was tempted to walk over and talk to the guy playing darts on the other side of the room, but decided against it. She continued watching the group as they became progressively more intoxicated and louder. The guy’s shoulder length hair hung in strings down his face, his watery eyes lacking focus. When Allison got up to leave at midnight, she saw him weaving towards her through the crowd. After slurring quite a few words and tossing three tens on the bar, he shot her an appraising glance and stumbled to the door.

Allison couldn’t believe she had almost gone over to talk with the drunk. There was something about him that seemed familiar, but

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11

Margaret

by Lorna Brown

The house was narrow and painted a light pink color. There was one window to the right of the front door with wooden blinds. It looked innocent, tucked between two non-descript buildings, a few yards from the train station Margaret had to walk to every morning.

She’d passed the house seventeen times before she noticed the bronze plaque. Her degree in graphic design made her pause to look at the letters which, elegant and bold, rose from the color of soil.

The words surprised her but not as much as they might have eight months ago when she imagined the seediest thing she’d ever have to contend with were the roaming eyes of drunks she served at the local pub or how they’d call her with a quick movement of the head.

She’d have to lean forward to hear their order and feel their beersodden breath on her cheek.

She peeked into the side window and thought there was nothing innocent about that room with the armchairs hidden behind the door so the men waiting would have the benefit of seeing the ladies enter from behind.

But there was nothing innocent about Margaret either.

That’s why she left home and flew to the other side of the world to Australia. She could have gone to the States. She had relatives there, but she wanted to go where no one knew her, where she could start from scratch, build herself up into someone different. In the sunshattered window, her eyes met the reflection—dark-haired, heavyboned, big-eyed, and loose of shoulder. She turned and moved on.

Margaret was staying in a hostel up the road where she’d been living out of her suitcase since arriving in the country. For the last months at home while she waited for her visa to come through, she’d hardly left her bedroom. Days were slept away, and nights were spent watching the small portable TV she’d bought when her parents’ silent existence started to get on her nerves.

After what happened, little could be said about her behavior. She ignored calls from her friends who, since she’d arrived home after finishing her degree in Letter Kenny, had been distant. They were phoning now because their parents said they should. Margaret needed some support, a shoulder to lean on.

She knew the calls were their parents’ idea because they stopped there. No one bothered to come to her front door.

Margaret had imagined the neighbors’ shaking heads and whispering to each other that no one would be right after finding him like that, with all that blood and all. She knew that’s what people were thinking. The pity in their eyes made her go cold. There was no curiosity because she, Margaret Sheehy, the big quiet girl with the pretty brown eyes, had found him.

If it had been Louise, they’d have wondered why he was there in the first place. They would have looked at Louise’s slim figure and blonde hair and come up with a different answer.

But it wasn’t Louise who liked to flirt behind the counter. It was Margaret who, on her first night tending bar, couldn’t talk. Words got caught in her throat. Simple questions were smiled at and left unanswered until the customers gave up.

The hostel was quiet, just after 2:00 p.m. Her shift in the café finished at twelve. Margaret used to hate this time of day. Now she got through listless afternoons by napping. She could sleep until five if her roommate, an English girl who spent most of her time on the roof smoking, didn’t come in to rummage around her rucksack. Then she’d walk around the city for hours. She went all the way to Bondi once. She had lost weight since she got here but could do nothing about those big thigh bones. She’d walk and think about that night, wonder if people saw it on her face, wondered if it was possible to keep pretending to be someone else.

VOL 7, ISSUE 5

Her hostel room smelt of sweat and beer, the English girls input, and grease, which was Margaret’s. The café she worked in was a busy fast-food place and suited her perfectly. From the moment she entered at 6:00 a.m., she was kept busy, preparing food, serving customers, and cleaning their mess. The owners didn’t keep her a minute past needing her. She got her lunch when she finished, ate on the high counter while gazing out the window. To anyone who entered, she looked like any other customer, someone unknown.

The air was hot and muggy, but this never bothered her. At night, she tossed and turned from fitful dreams with flashes of skin and blood. The feel of cold stone against her palm made her sit up more than once, expecting to see it before her, the rock finding her oceans away. The afternoon sun, though hot and intrusive, kept the dreams back and let her drift back to sleep unhindered.

But not today. Today she saw the bronze sign and thought of the women behind it, which made her think of the parish priest at home.

Hidden inside the red curtain, his face made up of tiny squares from the screen that divided him and his confessors, the quiet grey-haired man became someone different every Saturday evening. He was the voice of power. His stutter disappeared as he made the figure of the cross with a flattened hand and gave penance. He never looked you in the eye, as if he couldn’t help being a little ashamed. One “Our Father” and three “Hail Marys” was his usual prescription. How much would he have given Margaret?

Her knees would have been raw by the end of it, even if he understood, even if he knew she had no choice because that’s the way she would have told it. She’d lied too many times for him to let her off easy. There were the future lies too.

If she’d let the full truth come out in the confession box, every time she saw the priest, she’d remember who she was. Every time she passed the church, her words would come back to her. When she didn’t look in the mirror, she could go for days believing that she had found him when he was already gone.

The police knew the man been in a fight before he died. They came to Margaret’s house to interview her a second time. They apologized for making her think of that night, but they needed to know if he’d been with anyone earlier or if she’d seen anything suspicious. She’d started crying. One of the policemen, a young red-cheeked man with watery eyes, let slip that the injuries to the man’s head couldn’t have been from a fall. When she looked wide-eyed at the officer, he’d apologized for upsetting her and dropped his gaze.

She’d heard the rumors about an affair, though it was hard to imagine how they’d reached her behind the locked door of her bedroom. She might have heard the whisperings the day she gave her notice in the pub.

No doubt the moment she entered, people started talking as if all she needed was a bit of a push to get dirty with the facts. Margaret knew the dead man’s wife had been more angry than hurt. With her two young children asleep upstairs and the bruise on her cheek a faded yellow, she’d told police it was probably some jealous husband and that she’d known the deceased to wait in the dark for someone else’s wife to come along.

Still, no one thought of Margaret. Maybe that’s why she decided to leave because at home she was so easy to overlook. When she applied for the visa and booked the ticket, she thought she was saying good-bye to the notion that she was the type of woman nothing ever happened to.

The misconception seemed to follow her though. So each time Margaret passed the building with its bronze plaque, its lie of the pink, childlike exterior pulled at her.

On the sixth day, she couldn’t sleep. The English girl had moved out, and Margaret was surprised at her loneliness. She got up, dressed in a long black skirt and a sweater, and went to the small shop tucked in front of the train station to buy a pencil and writing pad. She looked through the newspapers, just in case.

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13

The door to the parlor opened to a blonde woman dressed in a business suit. Her narrow eyes moved up and down Margaret as if she’d gotten a free pass.

“I’d like to interview the girls for an article”.

“That’s what they all say,” the blonde answered before stepping back to allow Margaret entry. “You’re in luck. It’s quiet, and Taylor likes to talk. You thinking of trying it?”

Margaret wasn’t sure if she meant talking, but she nodded, letting the pad fall to her side. She followed the petite figure down a narrow corridor that smelt of air freshener and perfume. Her gaze slipped from the stairs that fell into the hall, as if it was something perverse she shouldn’t see.

She was brought into the sitting room where a girl with long red hair was painting her toes.

“This is Taylor,” the blonde said, looking at Margaret in the way she wasn’t accustomed to, the appraising way she’d seen men look at Louise. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Margaret.”

“Is that your real name?”

Margaret nodded.

The woman smiled, said she thought so, and that Taylor would tell her everything she needed to know.

Taylor was too small, too young, too full of her life. Margaret listened and wouldn’t have said anything about herself even if she got the chance. There was too much dirt to spill. She would have buried Taylor in it.

Besides, once Taylor got started there was no stopping her.

Margaret was awed by the rapid movement of her thin painted lips as she talked about moving from Queensland with her father after spending years in the wrong company. She’d started young. At the tender age of fourteen, she had sex in the back of a car and was paid with crumpled bills.

Taylor’s father tried to keep her on the straight and narrow, but there were too many windows to watch and too many people waiting on corners. Finally, he packed up and moved across the sprawling country, putting the desert between his daughter and those dark unknowns.

Taylor worked in different jobs, a Laundromat for a couple of weeks, a café for three days, but she couldn’t stand the idea of putting in so many hours for measly pay when in Queensland she made a few hundred in a day. When she stopped talking, the small parting of her lips looked like a full stop.

It was early afternoon, and there was only the flighty redhead and one other girl who was busy in one of the rooms upstairs where Margaret hadn’t even wanted to look. After a half an hour and most of Taylor’s life story, the doorbell signaled the end of their conversation.

Margaret had to wait until a male client was brought upstairs before she could leave. Walking back through that narrow corridor, she felt too much like the priest, seeing only the patterns people want him to see and showing nothing of himself.

“Can I come tomorrow?” she asked.

The blonde shrugged. “You could try it out. See if you like it.” She smiled at Margaret’s surprised expression. “Girls will get fed up talking. You’ll have to make up your mind soon.”

Margaret nodded, not knowing if she felt flattered or not.

The next day, the sitting room was empty. The unfriendly blonde turned left, leading Margaret into a small courtyard which was surrounded by high walls. A young woman was sitting at the only table. Her legs were stretched before her, the high-heels slipping off her naked feet, like children grasping a mother’s dress as she tries to leave. The blonde introduced her as Sam, a masseuse.

The tall walls made Margaret think of a prison, as did with the way Sam smoked. With each pull of her cigarette, her cheeks were drawn in to leave a whirlpool of lips. Wavy trails of smoke rose above her 14

rouged cheeks and heavily painted eyelids. Her brown lipstick was thick and smudged. Margaret imagined this carelessness might be sexy to some of the men who came to this place. It hinted at a kind of risqué-ness. But to Margaret, it made her look as if she had been playing dress-up, and the game had gone on too long, the borders and boundaries erasing themselves so the girl hadn’t known when to stop. That was why the woman ended up in this courtyard in the middle of a city to wait for a doorbell to ring.

Margaret told her she was interviewing all the girls for an article.

Sam smiled and put out her cigarette in the crowded ashtray.

Margaret expected her to ask about the paper she worked for, like Taylor had done with the excitement in her brown eyes dimming upon hearing, “The Herald,” as if she had hoped for better.

Sam’s lack of curiosity made Margaret feel transparent. A line of sweat tickled her upper lip. She resisted the urge to wipe it. The gesture reminded her of how the dead man had wiped the white foam of Guinness from his lips, a hint of aggression that she hadn’t thought of until it was too late.

“So, what do you want?” The woman asked her as her thumb and pointer fingers, both adorned with silver rings, let go of the butt in the ashtray. Blue dying smoke slowly slithered from it. Margaret thought of a soldier lying in the battle field and taking his last breaths.

Sam’s blue eyes, so distant and humorless, pulled at the nerves in Margaret’s stomach.

“I talked to Taylor yesterday,” she said in an effort to deflate the woman’s boredom with common ground. Sam was looking at Margaret as if nothing about her visitor might interest her, as if she knew everything there was to know because she was big-boned and plain.

“Yeah…”

“Yes,” Margaret’s mouth had gone dry. The belief that she could be honest with these women dissolved at her feet and made her want to cry.

“What did she tell you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Margaret mumbled, looking down at the ground, trying to ignore the muscles of Sam’s calves and the certainty in them. She knew by the higher pitch of Sam’s question and quick smile that the two had talked about her, no doubt laughing at her expense.

Sam’s fringe came down over one eye. The rest of her hair was cropped short around her head. She leaned forward. “You know that Taylor’s dad didn’t bring her to Sydney.”

Margaret remembered the red hair lying loose around Taylor’s neck, her vest top clinging to her flat “boyish” breasts, her short crossed legs. She remembered the glint in her brown eyes, the smile of self-ridicule.

“Taylor came here by herself,” Sam told her. “Her pimp followed, saying he loved her but wasn’t happy with the deduction in funds when she started to go straight. He brought her to work here.” Sam looked Margaret over, her gaze traveling her long skirt and tights, the long-sleeved blouse, and the lack of naked skin.

“Taylor thought you’d follow your dad before a lover. She’s used to pleasing people.”

Margaret couldn’t answer. Her nerves had flattened and hardened inside her, making her so angry at this young woman with the smooth skin and rotting self-assurance, this woman who was someone else behind these walls.

Sam knew what it was like to pretend, and yet she looked at Margaret and came up with the same conclusion as those fools on the other side of the world. She pulled another cigarette from the carton.

Margaret watched her lift the clear lighter, watched the flame sprout from the tip. She felt the same irritation as she did when she

TOUGH LIT. VI

(Cont’d. on p. 27)

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

The Flight of the Galloping Goose

by M. G. Coolidge

Autumn winds are howling tonight around this vine-covered Cape Cod house near a small airfield in Massachusetts. The chimney resounds with whistling and wailing. Rain beats against the living room window as I sit before the fireplace.

It was just such a night as this that Don, my husband, bid me goodbye and flew off in the Galloping Goose.

Brakes squealed as the old truck's motor gurgled banged and sputtered to a halt in front of our house. Don smiled, took my hand and we walked to the door together.

"Rather ugly weather, isn't it...to be flying?" I queried anxiously.

"Uh-huh," he muttered, tugging down his leather flying jacket and stomping his boots.

"Such are the hazards of cargo runs, milady," he said with a sweeping bow. "At your service, come sunshine or storm." His hazel eyes glistened as he slipped his cap over his thick wavy brown hair.

We had been married several years by then, but I was still dazzled by this six -foot hunk of man.

Don opened the door, and though coatless, I stepped outside with him. The wind took our breath away, and for a moment, we clung to each other on the flagstone walk. Then he held me at arm’s length, winked rakishly and tossed off a flippant, "See you later, honey doll."

He rarely used my given name, Louise.

"Don't be late, darling," I answered, which was part of our own private joke. There seemed to be an endless amount of details in delivering cargo in an old plane. He was always late.

As Don ran down the walk, Dier, the skinny freckled-faced redhead who bumbled about the field doing all sorts of errands in exchange for flying lessons, waited in the battered company truck at the white picket gate. They exchanged hasty greetings. As Don swung into the cab and waved to me, Dier called out, "Nice night for flying, eh, Mrs. Jennings?"

"Why not?" I answered cheerily, but his greeting reflected the doubts in my mind.

The sky was threatening, and little beads of rain were beginning to dribble down. With a mechanical cough the truck roared into motion and they were gone.

I turned toward the house, frowned at the long gray clouds that scudded across the darkening sky. As I reached the door, frisky breezes flipped the edges of my skirt. I got inside, slotted the lock on the door.

I made attempts at finishing eating my Indian pudding and stirred my coffee cold. We had ordered a new TV, but it hadn't arrived yet.

Oh, would I ever get used to being alone?

I went to the study and tuned up the ham radio. I had my General Class operator's license and, like many other pilots’ wives, kept in touch with my husband in this way. When Don was flying, I would also while away otherwise lonely hours communicating on the radio.

My favorite pastime was clicking conversations on my telegraph key.

There always were some CW aficionados out there on the airwaves to hear my, "CQ, CQ, CQ," and answer the invitation to gab in code.

But with a storm heading our way and heavy lightning in the offing, I found the static too annoying and switched off the radio. As an added safety factor, I disconnected the lead line from the transmitter and hung it out the window on the alligator clip attached to the ground rod. If lightning hit our antenna, it would go into the ground.

I reached for the shutters and looked out, remembering sunny days when Don would dip his plane's wings as he flew over the house on a northern run. But now, I could see nothing outside. Rain began beating a slow rhythm against the shutters as I latched them.

I returned to the living room, felt a chill and put another log on the fire. I settled on the couch in front of the fireplace and pulled a blanket over me. Just as I was beginning to feel the warmth of the fire, rain began beating down hard and I remembered the bedroom windows were still open.

I ran upstairs and secured them.

On the way down, my heart started thumping. The stairs creaked and groaned under my feet with the rapidly changing temperature. I gripped the banister. The house seemed too big, too empty.

I could spend the night with Mitch and Jenny. Mitch was Don's airline partner. Don would be checking in with him before coming home. When they were buddies in the Air Force, Jenny and I had become fast friends. Their place still seemed like home.

I tried phoning them, but the line was dead. I hurriedly changed my clothing, packed my overnight bag, pulled on my hooded raincoat and grabbed my purse.

The wind tugged at the door as I leaned against it to release the lock. I turned the knob and started to open the door; it blew wide open. I pushed it back against the wind and rain.

Once outside, I thought I heard the phone ringing and I fumbled with the lock. But by the time the key turned, the ringing abruptly stopped.

The wind ripped at my raincoat and tugged at my hood. Before I was halfway to the gate the fire I had banked in the fireplace suddenly seemed cozy and inviting. But I needed company.

I raised my hand to tuck in my hood and somehow off-balance, tripped on a flagstone and went down. My hands slid into puddles that were forming on the edges of the path. I shuddered as the cold water soaked my palms and began running into my sleeves. I clambered to my feet, shook my arms, and picked up my overnight bag and purse. A clap of thunder caught me off guard and I reeled, slipped and fell again. I must have passed out, and when I came to, there was a hollow ringing in my ears. I couldn't hear a sound.

Again, I picked up my overnight bag and purse from the water and once more awkwardly got to my feet.

I stumbled down the path. My face partially protected by my hood, I felt the rain as it stung my cheeks. I could hear rain then, splashing on the flagstones, but the sound was muted. I knew that I would have to cross the footbridge down the road before the river rose.

Stupid, I thought, not to use the car, but it was a long drive to another bridge that crossed the river. It was only a short walk from the footbridge to Jenny's home.

Stepping cautiously, I hurried on.

Lightning flashed across the path. A dark form hurried toward me. I stood rooted, my eyes darting about wildly. A voice, muffled by the storm, called out to me. I held my breath and listened. Then I heard it again. I cried out: "Don, Don, my darling!"

I almost couldn't believe that he had returned at that moment. But I questioned nothing as I swayed dizzily toward him. Then his arms were around me, warm and reassuring. He was safe and whole, and as we turned back toward the house, my heart gladdened.

"What happened? Did Mitch feel it was too stormy for the trip? Did something happen to the plane? Is the flight scrapped...? Oh, you can't imagine what I feared," I babbled, bubbling over with relief.

Don too seemed relieved, scolded me for venturing out on such a night, and promised he would explain all, once inside. He opened the door and reached for the light switch. Nothing. He tried the switch again. "I guess lightning must have hit the transformer," he suggested.

"Would you light the candles on the table, dear?" I requested as I shook out our raincoats and hung them in the hallway. "What did you say happened to the flight?" I called out. Don put another log on the fire as I happily huddled once again on the couch in front of the fireplace.

(Cont’d. on p. 27)

VOL 7, ISSUE 5

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15

Dark Water

by Janna Vought

I like to trace the pathways of condensation resting on the glass next to me, twenty droplets inching their way across the subtle curve of the crystal. They nestle themselves at the base of my cup, seeking refuge from my oppressive grasp. I never sleep. Sleep is my enemy. It lures me into caverns dripping evil waters milked from the devil's tooth into my eyes bleeding tears. They wait for me to come. I no longer dream. Dreams are portals into my mind, access to my soul into which they come crawling—seeking. I used to sleep. Now I wait, listening for the noises rumbling, a flare signaling their arrival.

The rustling upstairs was my first clue to their presence. I was sorting through boxes in the attic, looking for the sewing kit my grandmother gave me so I could stitch a button on Michael's shirt.

He always pops buttons on his dress shirts that fit a little too snug across his belly. The threads loosen under the continual pressure the mass beneath them creates, their fibers screaming, fighting to keep their hold on the dangling button. Sooner or later, the tension pries the last desperate attempt to stay strong apart, popping the thread, sending the button plummeting to its unfound doom, lost under the sofa or down a vent—forgotten. I had a bevy of buttons of various sizes and shapes stashed away for this exact occasion. Since our move, I neglected to unpack such trivial items, opting to focus my energies on more pertinent articles like bed sheets and pans. While doing laundry, I discovered his shirt was absent a member, reminding me of the piles of untouched boxes tossed in the attic by the movers in their haste. I never understood why they felt uneasy here, rushed to escape my gilded tower. I pulled the rope handle that dangled from the small door hidden away in the upstairs hall, nestled flush with the ceiling, camouflaged in the same ashen color as the rest of the house, a ghastly hole waiting to ingest me into the house's belly. I lowered the stairs, snapping them into place to assure my footing, and ascended into the gloom.

Air thick with dust and years of neglect filled my lungs with an ancient musk as I stood half stooped in the darkness. The only light came filtering through a tiny window high up in the apex of the roofline, carving imagined silhouettes in the pitch. Outside, a distant rumbling announced the approaching storm spitting flecks of water upon the glass—so many drops clinging. I turned on the flashlight I toted with me, sweeping the beam across scribbling on the sides of boxes announcing the hidden treasures stored within: camping gear, Mike's baseball cards, Megan's winter clothes, Christmas decorations, sewing kit. I scurried across the wood board moaning under my feet, half afraid that one misstep would send me plunging to the hallway below. I grabbed the box, pulling back the packing tape, revealing the contents within. As I rifled through skeins of yarn, pieces of quilting waiting to join together in solidarity, and spools of vibrant colored thread rioting against segregation in the bottom of the box, I heard the slightest noise behind me, so faint, like air escaping from a pinprick in a balloon. I paused, trapping my breath behind my teeth, unsure if I heard something. The room was calm.

No sound rose from the inked space. I continued with my task, interrupted again by another sound, this time louder, a sharp metallic sound that reminded me of steel bars raking across a concrete floor, a prison door dragging, closing the door on lost souls for the final goodbye. What creature lurked in the shadows? Ebony exhalations blew down upon my neck, lifting my skin to attention, flesh soldiers on alert to the enemy—closing. It refused my ignorance, waiting for me to acknowledge its presence. I swung my light around, scanning the horizon of box tops behind me. "Hello?

Who's there?" I half expected to hear a response. A chill ran through me, a frigid blast rolling across my skin and sank into my body, gripping my heart with a frosted hand. My breath hitched, a death 16

rattle gurgling in my chest. I turned back to my box, scooped up my buttons and thread and hurried back down the stairs, my feet skimming the stairs in my haste, unaware of what followed me.

I dropped my cache in the bedroom and headed straight to the bathroom. I needed to gain perspective on what happened upstairs and take a hot shower sounded the perfect remedy to cleanse myself of the thoughts weaving into my mind like worms burrowing into corrupted flesh slumbering in damp soil—searching. The stream of water upon me soothed my troubled mind, its lyrical spray bouncing off my skin—liquid pearls sublime. I could not shut off the darkness in the attic. What secrets sought refuge in corners left forgotten?

What lies festered, seeping poison into the alabaster walls? I stood in the water until the heat faded into cool showers that awakened me from my steamed haze. I stepped out from the stall and wrapped myself in a towel, wiping the condensation from the mirror. I found my reflection among the droplets descending down the silvered face.

My eyes peered back—hollow. If I cried, do you think I could spot my tears? They wander often, merging with the condensation on the looking glass, erasing all traces of me.

That night after dinner, I told Mike about my experience in the attic. "I felt something watching me, studying me," I told him, clearing the aftermath from his plate, watching the hot water purge the remains into the chasm below, grinding chicken bones to dust.

"Maybe we have a mouse problem. I'll call an exterminator tomorrow to come check things out," he said, dismissing any other notion as false. He walked over to the sink and patted me on top of my head, the doting father and the wayward child. He padded off, seeking harbor in front of the television, anesthetized by the basketball game.

I hate when he patronizes me. I knew whatever lurked upstairs was not a mouse. I felt its malice; its evil coated my tongue, an oiled eel slipping in and out from the watered grave. Something was here. I went to bed that night feeling a shift in the atmosphere in the house, a low humming like a surge of electricity piercing through clouds pregnant with rain—drowning. The house lived.

Do you know how it feels to fall, to plunge into possibility, light as the dew upon the native rose blooming in the early spring sun? I fell.

I fell in love with the house from the first time I drove by it on my way home from school. I decided on a different route that day since road crews were paving my usual way back to our apartment from campus. Winding through the old downtown area, I spotted it on a corner lot, maple tree titans standing guard among an overgrown hedge half obscuring it from the road. It stood with all its majestic glory of yesterday, its faded siding the color of the deep and endless cobalt sea shimmering in the dying light, still holding the images of a beautiful home within its frayed board. A large stained glass window reigned over the shambles of the home, the last remaining piece of its revelry. The window captured a troupe of angels gowned in ethereal snow, floating behind them like clouds chasing the sun, trumpets raised, trapped in a perpetual exaltation, no frown ever allowed to steal upon their face, their fate frozen in the transparent colored panes.

A cedar porch embraced the front of the house. A white swing suspended above the wooden slats completed its perfection. Don't you think that would serve for a perfect spot for a late summer evening, drinking iced tea and listening to cricket symphonies play their concertos in the warm night air? A sign perched in the front yard announced an estate sale and private auction taking place in a week for both the house and all of its contents. I sped home, spilling over with excitement. Perhaps this would be a chance to buy a house we could grow in to and abandon our one bedroom apartment we had lived in for the past five years. Maybe I could finally escape the heaviness that suffocated me. School was unbearable. I could hardly wait before my classes ended and I could break free into the fresh air and brush away the spiders scurrying underneath my skin. Each day

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IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

was more difficult than the last, each breath harder to inhale, a steady descent into a murky river baptizing me with melted fire.

I drove Michael by the house the same night, infusing him with enthusiasm over the prospect of owning our own home. We had always talked about buying a house that we could fix up, putting our signature on it, our personal flair. Here presented the perfect opportunity, our future family's home. This was sure to put an end to my woes. I could focus my energy on restoring the house to its glory, risen from the ash and mire to shine once more, my beautiful house upon the hill. Our bid was accepted the next week. Mike thought it strange that no one countered our offer, but I paid it no mind. One month later, we moved in.

After my encounter in the attic, things began... happening. At first, the incidents were small, so minute that I shrugged them off— initially. I found the back door open after closing it only a moment before, the lights glowing on in the bedroom after I was sure I turned them off, strange scuttling noises coming from different parts of the house, cold breezes sweeping through hallways in the middle of a sweltering July day, water trickling from faucets turned off, the liquid tinged with a garnet hue. Mike dismissed the events, saying surely my mind was playing tricks on me: wind gusts blowing the doors open, faulty wiring in an old house, rust in the pipes. He had an explanation for everything that haunted me, patting me on the head before he padded off to watch his basketball, condescension his companion. I seethed, anger eating holes in my stomach ravaged with a biting pain, a thousand teeth gnawing. I was ashamed for buying into such clichéd events, but I refused to deny my experiences. How could he not believe me? I am not a liar! Do you find my story false?

The first night I saw them, I had returned home from a late night study group, sneaking into the bedroom so as not to awaken Mike, bear rumblings coming from the crumpled heap in the bed. I undressed and brushed my teeth using bottled water. I refused to drink the water in our home. It was filled with poisons, I was certain.

As I lay down and switched off my lamp, a movement caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. Our dog Harley, asleep at the bottom of the bed, raised his head and gave a low growl as he stared at the doorway out into the hall. Never the watchdog but always the fool, Harley was eighty pounds of goofiness, a coal black lab who loved to play, his tongue always lolling out of his grin. That night, however, was a different story. A low growl rattled in his chest, the hair on his back raised up like a dorsal fin. "Hush, Harley!" I whispered, stroking his side, "There's nothing there." He turned to me and whimpered, jumping off the bed and bolting out of the room. Ridiculous dog, I thought, a thatch of wired hair in my hand. I lay back down, shooing the thought of his uneasiness from my mind.

I lay there in the dark, straining my ears for any noise unfamiliar to the usual sounds of our home, the ice maker turning on, the air conditioner running, our fish tank bubbling, nothing more. Looking at the wall across from me, I saw a slight shift in the shadows, a bend in the black. Perhaps it was tree stirring in the wind. My heart skipped and lodged itself in my throat like a stone wedged into the loam atop the grave. I stared at the spot on the wall, waiting for something, though what I did not know. After several minutes of stillness, I knew that my tired eyes were playing tricks on me, and then it appeared.

I watched the black wisp slip up the wall onto the ceiling, hovering for a moment before it descended upon me. It drifted across our bed with a languid flow like long ripples of glass atop diamond water. I couldn't move, frozen in terror as I waited for it to come. It hung in the air next to me for a moment, contemplating its next move before it spread across my chest. I ensnared my breath as it fought to escape my lips, thinking if I feigned my own demise, it would continue on, searching for another victim. The mass unfurled raven billows that crept spindles along my body like vines, weaving across VOL 7, ISSUE 5

my chest. I tried to scream, but the weight of the transparent form compressed my ribs, constricting my lungs like a vice. I knew it wanted to kill me. I felt its intent. I willed my leaden arms to move, begging my rigid body to awaken from the fear—flee. I sat up in bed shrieking, a banshee's cry over the moor echoing.

Mike bolted out of bed, thinking an intruder was in our home assaulting me. He was not at all pleased with me when I recounted what occurred. "Stop playing games with me Meg. It's getting tiresome." He pulled the covers over his head and returned to his slumber. I crawled into the bathroom and vomited, splaying my dinner across the floor, a portrait of my fear. My tears splashed down into the waste, thirty beads of sorrow mixing with pain. If only he knew.

That night unleashed a fury upon me unlike anything I could imagine. My experiences in the house escalated, each more severe and frightening than the last. I woke up to find dark forms standing at the foot of the bed, faceless masses watching me with vacant eyes, much like the ones I saw peering back from my reflection, odd isn't it? On their first visit, only one appeared, but with each encounter, their numbers grew. Congregations of glass figures taunted me. I saw them everywhere. They stood behind Mike as he watched television. They watched me shower, lurking just beyond the opaque glass that encased the stall. They sat in corners, their broken spines twisted into humps rising from the shadows. Their silhouettes smeared across the walls, leaving imprints that no amount of my scrubbing could clean. My hands cracked and bled from hours doused in buckets filled with bleach and scalding water, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, trying to erase them from my memory.

Voices sought me with soft whispers that feathered my ears with promises and hate, tempting me to commit the most wretched deeds. One morning, I awoke to find myself clutching the pearl handled carving knife from the kitchen, eager to fulfill its destiny, smooth and cool against my supple hand: Bleed the man. One afternoon after returning from a run, I found Harley digging up flower bulbs in the garden, a mischievous routine he performed daily much to my amusement. This day, however, my body engorged with rage: Sever its head. I grabbed the spade propped next to the shed, and brought it down like an axe swinging it at his head placed in my guillotine. I missed my mark by half a foot as he fled from my rampage. Stupid dog. Later, when Mike returned home from work, he asked me why Harley refused to come inside. I shrugged it off, dismissing his question with an incoherent mumble, pretending that I was too far entrenched in the textbook in front of me to answer his question, while I imagined how sweet the blood would flow from the dog had I succeeded, ruby rivers sticky and warm like the most divine honey. I was the reason, but please, don't tell.

Although Mike was obtuse to the events unfolding in our home, he noticed a change in me. He stared at me across the dinner table, studying my face etched with lines of worry and sleep deprivation. I awakened him in the night screaming, soaked in sweat. He sat and stroked my back, silent as he retrieved another night shirt for me, depositing the one drenched in my terror in the bathroom hamper.

Instead of studying, I sat and sketched the shadows. I tucked myself into hovels in the library, pouring over research, articles, texts… anything I could find that dealt with the paranormal and occult. I wanted to understand my gift, my burden, the powers that allow me to step into the spirit realm and walk among the dead. I am a seer.

How could he ever understand my complexities? He never questioned behavior. He never asked what was wrong, perhaps frightened by the answers awaiting him. Mike is that way—selfish.

His concern lies with himself, never with me. I showed him, though, when I refused to eat. Food was but another way with which they could harm me. They told me so. I did not want anything touched by their corruption entering my body. I only ate raw fruits and vegetables. I didn't cook anything. They contaminated the cookware.

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17

Mike acted like the hero, ending his silent vigil to take control of my chaotic world. What a fool.

The first psychiatrist tried crawling into every crevasse of my mind, attempting to unearth the disease festering, smothering me. I spit on him and threatened to kill his wife. The next one was a bit more subtle in his approach, so I agreed to speak with him. I sat for hours telling tales of my childhood, the doctor asking me probing questions in effort to explain away my infestation with a plausible cause: "Did your father molest you? Did your mother beat you? Were you a solitary child? Have you ever done illicit drugs? Did you suffer a head injury in your youth? When did the voices and visions begin?"

I responded to each inquiry, growing more frustrated by the moment: "Why don't you ask me about the house? Why don't you ask about the noises, the incessant banging from the attic? It never stops, a mallet pounding upon my brain. Don't you want to know about the shadows? They follow me. They listen to everything I say.

They watch me when I sleep."

Mike and the doctor looked at each other like two school girls who shared a secret not divulged to me. "Megan, I have never seen or heard anything in the house," Mike said in an irritatingly calm voice.

"But they're real," I said. "They follow me. They whisper to me.

They're always there. How can you not see them?" I cried, tears dropping into rivulets upon my sweatshirt, the same red one I'd worn for the past three days. I didn't shower anymore. The water burned my skin, a thousand hot needles boring into me.

They told me that I was a paranoid schizophrenic with psychotic tendencies who suffered from debilitating hallucinations that prohibited my ability to function. I didn't believe them—liars. They said the figures that haunt me were no more than projections from my fractured mind. That was their professional opinion, spoken with forked tongues. They armed Mike with an arsenal of psychotropic medications—Lithium, Thorazine, Seroquel—enough drugs to tranquilize an elephant and quell my lunatic screams. They assured Mike that if I was a good girl and took my medication every day, the shadows would fade away, a distant memory lost in my troubled mind. With a pat on my head and a wave goodbye, they sent me packing, returning me into Satan's yaw—home.

My first days draped in my medicated fog passed without incident.

I spent most of my time asleep on the couch in the living room soothed by game show and soap opera lullabies. Mike came home from work during lunch to check in, making sure that I had taken my fistfuls of pills, keeping me paralyzed to the world—spinning. He left with a kiss on my cheek and a pat on my head, removed from my shattered days. Distant memories of my former self drifted in and out of my haze. I recalled my laughter, my smile, relics of my past buried beneath the terror and pain, sneering specters with waxen faces. Why did these souls seek my company? Why was I targeted for their misery? I knew deep within me that I was sane, witnessing the other side of creation, proof of life beyond a corporeal existence.

Spirit vapors drift about, weaving in and out of sight, always among us, watching us, coveting what they left behind. I could never escape their grasp, for I was their conduit, a doorway into life. They would never leave my sight.

On an afternoon soaked in cool November rain, I awoke from my dreamless repose to an explosion of sound above me. I sat up, rousing myself from my dim witted state, a tortoise swimming through cotton plumes in rivers stagnant with oil and sand. I arose from the couch, the television blaring, changing channels in rapid succession with invisible hands. I remember hearing the dog yelping at the screen door, frightened screams as he watched me ascend the back stairs, as though he knew my fate lay waiting for my arrival, crouched in the corner of the hallway. The raucous flooded from the bedroom at the top of the stairs, the one I used for an office when I was still functioning, finishing my graduate degree in history, a 18

professor in the making. I chose that room for its open space and the view from the west window, the same beautiful stained glass image that first caught my eye so many months ago. Many afternoons I would break from working to peer through the angel's eyes and watch the sun setting atop the roses in the garden below, setting them ablaze in fired glory. I walked to the door, pausing just outside to listen. The room quieted, awaiting my audience to the horror within. I opened the door. It hissed with an ancient breath of the hundreds who passed through the gateway before me. In the center of the room stood my ending. A pulsating black mass hung in the air, a backdrop of chaos set its stage.

My books lay scattered about the floor, the lamp on my desk smashed into the computer screen, creating a black mouth gasping at the horror unfolding, the monitor swallowing the light up to its cord left dangling like a severed tongue. Photos capturing my misplaced happiness found disfavor, torn to pieces, a mosaic of my life littering the braided rug I chose with care to complement my studious appearance. I stared at the demon, the nexus of my demise.

"What do you want from me?" I screamed standing rigid, ready for war. The voices came low like growling thunder across the ashen sky.

“Megan, Megan, Megan, Megan, run!” The figure in front of me split into many, swirling about me in a frenzy. “Megan, Megan, Megan, Megan, run!”

"Please, no!" I screamed, "Let me go!"

It moved faster and faster around me. I couldn't breathe. My legs crumbled beneath me, failing my will. “Megan, Megan, Megan, Megan, run!” Gaping mouths fluttered open and shut on each maniac void, tormenting my dying soul. They chanted, “Megan, Megan, Megan, Megan, run!” It would never end, never stop.

I had to run, escape the lyrics bellowing, and silence them for good. I closed my eyes to the spectacle, refusing to cast my gaze upon the evil ever more.

“Look, Megan! Look at me!”

I turned to face the voice, casting my glance into the window across from me. The angels poised in celebration of my downfall glared through me with glass eyes.

“Look, look, Megan. What do you see?”

I stared into the window, searching for the source of the mockery.

Was God speaking to me, caught in the folds of glass? A faint silhouette formed, lingering behind the demon cherubs taunting. I stepped closer, adjusting my gaze in the dark room, the rain streaming down the panes.

“See, Megan, see?” Mahogany hair framed a gaunt face deprived of food and light. The neck spiraled up from bones jutting through a garnet cloak. No eyes. There were no eyes, only black holes swimming with pestilence and death. God help me, the image in the window was me. “See, Megan? Run!” I inhaled the liberating air, coiled my body and sprung, soaring into tranquil blue, glass sparkles and angel bodies cascading. I fell down, crashing through the window into my beautiful vision, the sun breaking through the storm, casting my shadow on the earth below.

So, here I am, with you. How sad for you to be strapped to this sterile bed. The doctors say you pose too much of a threat, that you are not capable of living outside these walls. They never silenced my shadows. Did they quiet yours? There, there, do not fret. I will comfort you. We come only to ease your misery, to lead you into the light. You are special—a treasure in our secret world. Rest your eyes, now, do not fear. Listen to my voice, it can be so soothing. Take my hand, dark and divine. See my reflection in the droplets, falling from the glass. I am waiting for you.  Janna Vought is currently an MFA who lives me in Colorado Springs, CO where she lives with her husband, two daughters, and two dogs. Her nonfiction work has been published in Imperfect Parent Magazine and her poetry has been featured in The Eagle Literary Journal and fiction in IdeaGems Magazine.

TOUGH LIT. VI

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Immortal with a Kiss

by Harry J. Lowther

Kate and Toby spent luxurious mornings in bed pleasing each other. They would wake and make love slowly, gently, tenderly, then hold each other, fondle each other until they were ready again.

Afterward they would talk about love and literature and eventually about business, which was almost as good as their lovemaking.

In the afternoon, after a leisurely late breakfast, they would ride out to a shady spot along the river where they read to each other and discussed what they had read.

When the shadows were long they rode back to town and went to work. Toby was the chief bartender at the largest gambling house and brothel in town. Kate was the owner/manager of that establishment.

One morning as they lay in bed Kate said, "I want you to teach me to shoot."

"You have that little Derringer," said Toby. "Don't you know how it works?"

She smiled and kissed him. "Of course I know, but it isn't much of a gun."

"It will kill," he observed.

"It will," she said. "If you are close enough to stick it up his nose."

Toby laughed. "That's a bit extreme. It'll do fine in a small room. It's a lady's gun."

She ran her hand down across his bare body. "You may have noticed, lover, that I'm no lady."

He gently stroked her breasts. "You're far more than that, my sweet. You're a woman."

"You're leading me astray." She kissed him. "After I've been led astray a couple of times, I’ll still want you to teach me to shoot."

That afternoon when they rode out Toby brought several guns including a carbine.

He laid out the weapons and set a book of poetry beside them.

"War or love, my dear."

"Indeed it is," she said. "Which shall we have first?"

He picked up a revolver with a very long barrel. "Let's do the guns first. This one is heavy and a bit awkward. Most women would have difficulty thumbing the hammer back. I know you're strong because I've wrestled you."

Kate's laughter broke the desert silence. "Is that what you call it?

The way we do it is a lot more fun than any wrestling I've ever seen."

He put the revolver down and slipped his arm around her waist.

"Right as always, my little cupcake."

"I'm no cupcake, sweetie. I 'm more like French bread."

He kissed her neck. "I love French bread."

"Of course you do, but you are here to teach me to shoot.

Continue your lecture, please."

He picked up a revolver with a shorter barrel. "This one is lighter and easier to handle, much easier to draw from a holster. It's a .38 rather than a .44. It could be concealed under one of your fancy fullskirted dresses. Let's give it a try."

At first the gun felt heavy in Kate's hand. She got accustomed to the weight as she learned how to load it and how to get a round into the chamber. "There are places for six bullets," she said. "Why only load five?"

"Safety," said Toby. "It's wise not to carry it on your person with a round in the chamber."

Kate easily understood the principle of the revolver and was fascinated by the simple mechanics. By the time she was ready to shoot she had become accustomed to the weight and was able to hold the gun straight out without having it pull her arm down.

Toby set a half dozen beer bottles on a flat rock. He came to stand behind her and said, "Have at it, sugar."

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Her first shot sailed off into the vastness of western Texas. Her fifth shot shattered one of the bottles. She turned and melted into his arms. "You're a good teacher, darling. You do everything well."

"Bravo, my dear," he said. "You are an apt pupil." He picked up another gun.

"Are you ready for this?"

"A rifle?"

"It's a carbine." He said. "A modified version of this weapon was used by Polly."

"Polly?"

"Polly Stanhope, trick shot artist. Her husband is the sheriff over in Dos Padres."

"There's a town named Two Fathers?"

"Where I've been the last three years," said Toby. "The place had two founding fathers, guys who came up from Mexico."

"Towns out here have funny names," said Kate. "So, are you going to make me a trick shot artist?"

"No, we're going to do it the army way—aim and shoot to kill," said Toby. 'In a shooting situation you don't want to just make somebody mad."

Kate took the gun. "That makes sense. If you have to shoot somebody, the sooner he can't shoot back the better." She found the balance and hefted the gun with one hand.

"This isn't as heavy as it looks."

"It's a sweet weapon," said Toby, "and it's rapid fire."

Kate lifted the gun to her shoulder and sighted along the barrel. "Is that good?"

"Sometimes it's very good." Toby stepped behind her and pushed her right elbow up. "That's it. Now tuck the butt comfortably into your shoulder. Good, now look through here and line up the front sight. Wonderful. Okay, now break some bottles."

On her third shot she shattered a bottle, then, after a miss, broke two more.

"You're a natural," said Toby. "Now we can get to some poems."

"Not so fast, lover, I need to practice more with the revolver." Kate blazed away and took out another bottle. She reloaded twice more and fired until she had turned all the bottles into bits of shattered brown glass on the desert floor. "Now for some love poems."

During the next three months they wore ever heavier clothing when they rode out into the desert. They always took one of the guns with which Kate was becoming quite proficient. One day after firing a dozen practice rounds she came and sat beside Toby.

She rested her head against his shoulder. "Are you comfortable?" she asked.

"Sure, we sit like this a lot."

"Not what I meant, lover. Are you comfortable being with me all the time?"

"I wouldn't be anywhere else with anybody else," he said.

"I love you," she said.

"That's good," he said. "You're getting to be a helluva shot."

Kate laughed. "I hope you know I'd never shoot you."

He kissed her cheek. "I do appreciate that, but you never did tell me why you wanted to learn how to handle guns."

"Just because I called the business a gentlemen's club hardly guarantees that all our customers will be gentlemen," she said. "The general rowdiness can turn dangerous in a matter of minutes."

"That's why I keep a gun behind the bar," he said.

Kate nestled her head against his neck. "And I want to be able to back you up."

He sat up and took hold of her shoulders. "No, I don't want anybody shooting at you."

"Anybody starts shooting in that place," she said, "I want him taken out fast."

That evening a storm blew in off the desert. The wind howled down the streets, and the temperature dropped below freezing.

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19

Divided

by Gabrielle Wilson

“Hold her down!” the Witch screamed. One of her goblin servants did as he was told.

Ransom, gold hair fanned out behind her as she lay on the stone platform, screamed in terror, struggling against the vice-like grip of the creature holding her down.

Malum the Witch held an enormous glass knife over her head. She cackled and slapped Ransom across the cheek. The little girl hissed and spit in the Witch's face. She cried out in surprise. A look of loathing flashed across her eyes. She raised the knife and with an enormous slash, cut a large gash over Ransom's heart. The girl screamed once before passing out from the pain.

“Give me the other heart,” the Witch ordered.

A goblin lifted a platter, a heart beating atop it. With a precise motion, the Witch chopped the heart in half. She reached into the girl's chest, and using magic, removed half the girl's heart. Taking the severed half from the platter, she replaced the new piece, attaching it to the girl's original heart. She waved her hand over the flesh and it sealed itself, leaving a long, red scar behind.

“Take the other two pieces and hide them,” she ordered. “Don't let them be destroyed. I'll put a ward up in a moment to provide further protection.”

The goblins scampered off, leaving the Witch and the little girl alone.

The Witch lowered her mouth next to the little girl's ear. “I will cast you out,” the Witch whispered. “I will throw you from this world onto the retched place called Earth. Stay there and rot.

“Take your prophecy of fulfilling peace with you. Leave me and this world be. Never return, or I will reap havoc on you and all those you love, in this world and the next.”

The little girl moaned, turning her head in her unconsciousness.

“You will remember nothing,” the Witch Malum hissed. “Nothing.

And he who you leave behind will grow cold as ice, unable to feel for anyone but himself.”

With a last cackle of laughter, the Witch shoved the girl, and she flew, breaking the barrier between worlds. * * * It happened when I was eight years old. I was in second grade, and we were all out for recess on the playground. It's hard to explain, but I had these extremely strong urges to eat. Like I was absolutely starving. All the time. I just remember swinging on the swings, thinking to myself about how hungry I was, when all of a sudden, one of my good friends, Hannah, started smelling like heaven.

I thought, Why not? If she smelt so good, she must taste that good.

So I bit her. Right on the arm. Hard enough that she still has the scar today. As soon as I bit her and tasted her blood, I knew I was in trouble. I let go about two seconds after I bit her. Hannah was shrieking at the top of her lungs that I was a monster. Michael, my best friend, had been swinging on the other side of me. He fell off his swing and rolled on the ground in laughter. I got sent to the office, where my adopted mom sat, shaking her head at me in dismay. I didn't really feel guilty about it.

The bite had quenched my hunger, and I was happy again.

I now eat excessively. All the time. Almost every four hours I need a big snack or another meal.

If not, I am a danger to those around me. Besides that – and the enormous red scar over my heart – I am an ordinary teenage girl.

You see, I was found by the side of Fair View Lake. We weren't sure of my exact age, but I was around six years old when an early morning jogger found me on the shore of the lake. My first memory was of me riding in the ambulance, with no knowledge as to who I VOL 7, ISSUE 5

was or where I had come from.

Except my name. For some reason I remembered my name.

I'm now a senior at Valley High, and today is the first day of the second month of my senior year.

I drove up in my absolutely adorable and spectacular white Jeep, the doors and top off for the heat, and jumped out. I was wearing my favorite gold shirt and my gray leather jacket, a piece I had just bought a few days ago. My blond hair was loose, falling in its natural blonde waves around my shoulders. I fluffed it up a little, checked my face in the mirror, and threw my backpack over my shoulder.

As if on cue, my best friend Michael pulled up beside me, his sleek black Mustang purring before he turned it off. Man, do I love that car.

I suppose you could say Michael is the sort of slick, cool type, almost as though he had been plucked straight from a rock or pop music video. His black hair was hanging down, brushing his neck.

It was slightly spiked on top today, his pale skin standing out against it. He rolled his broad shoulders once before throwing his backpack over his shoulder. He tugged his white V-neck down with one hand, waving at me with the other. We met in between our cars before walking in. I smiled and he grinned back, his slanted eyes gleaming with joy.

“Did you do the homework?” I asked Michael, looking up at him.

He was almost a whole head taller than me, and his black, molten eyes scanned the parking lot as we walked, the lashes so thick it almost looked as though he were wearing eyeliner. I couldn't believe it, but he was almost six-foot-four now. Suddenly my measly little five nine seemed tiny compared to him.

In order to let a car go by, he put his hand on my waist to stop me from walking. He nudged me ahead, and we kept walking, his signature black leather jacket gleaming dully in the sunlight. “Yeah.

It was a bitch though. I mean, fifty pages?” he scowled. “That book's not even worth reading. I hate English.”

I laughed. “You're such a dork. The fifty pages were easy. And the book is great! Plus, I love English. The math however...” I rolled my eyes as I trailed off.

Michael smiled, his face transforming over his flawless skin. “Math is a piece of cake. Took me ten minutes to do it.”

We splashed through a puddle from the previous night’s rain, Michael's black high-tops managing to step lightly through the water, while the sides of my converse got wet. Michael held the door open for me as we went inside.

“Ransom!” someone yelled. At the same time, Michael and I looked up. His gaze so intense it almost looked as though he could see straight through everyone he set his eyes on.

Hannah Gray – someone I'd go as far to say was my best girlfriend—came running up.

She beamed at Michael. “Hey, you,” she said.

Michael raised an eyebrow in greeting, putting a hand in the pocket of his gray, white-washed jeans.

“So,” Hannah said, turning her attention back to me, “are you guys going to homecoming this weekend? Because I hate dances, and if you aren't going then neither am I.” I laughed. “Yeah, we're going.”

“Together?” Hannah asked.

“Of course,” Michael said before I could answer.

When I glanced up at him, he was careful to avoid my eyes.

Hannah nodded, eyeing me once. “Yeah, I guess I'll go alone. I'm not really going to be there for that long anyways.”

“Wait,” I said. “You aren't coming to my house after the dance with everyone else?”

Hannah shook her head. “No. I'm going with Brittany to her boyfriend's party.”

Michael and I shared a knowing look. “I see,” I said, my voice bitter.

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21

“Look, Ransom,” Hannah said, her mood switching from bright to pissed-off in an instant. “I can do whatever I want, all right? Don't judge me just because I'm being normal and going to a party.”

I snorted. “I didn't even say anything.”

“You didn't have to,” Hannah said.

Suddenly I was mad, too. What right did she have to get so moody all of a sudden? She was the one who promised me she'd come over.

“Well, sorry,” I said. “I can't help it if I'm upset that you're throwing your life away by smoking pot and drinking and doing all kinds of bad stuff. Plus, you promised you'd come over. You're the one who messed up here.”

“Shut up, Ransom!” Hannah said. “You've never even smoked pot or anything! You don't even know what it's like. You're just a—” “That's enough,” Michael said, his voice quiet. His eyes sliced over Hannah, and she shut her mouth.

“Whatever. I'll just ride with Jessica or someone else. Forget it.”

She stormed away.

Jessica was the person I called President Bitch. She led all the girls in their dramatic, gossipy, and cruel antics. Hannah was, for some unknown reason, enthralled by her. No matter what I did for her, it was always overshadowed by President Bitch.

Michael scowled at Hannah's back. “Screw her. I didn't want her moodiness with us all night anyways. Come on, the bell's about to ring, and I hate sitting in the front. We gotta grab seats in the back.”

I nodded, but I couldn't help but feel dejected. I never could figure it out, but Hannah always had some hold over me. Without her approval, I felt I was inadequate.

Michael saw my expression and elbowed me softly. “Hey, don't worry about it, yeah?” I managed to give him a small smile as we walked into English. We managed to grab the last two seats in the back.

As we sat down, Michael frowned, looking at the front of the classroom. “Look,” he said, motioning with his chin towards the front of the classroom. I craned my head to see what it was he was looking at.

A boy, slender, and about as tall as me, stood next to the teacher's desk. He was so good looking, I thought. His brown hair was longer on one side than the other, a little shaved in the back, and his eyes were a bright, liquid gold. He had a small diamond in his ear on the side where the hair was shorter, and his face was all angles.

Wow, I thought, as I watched his large, almond shaped eyes survey the class in one clean sweep. That right there is one of the bestlooking people I have ever seen.

I watched his lips as he smiled at the teacher and nodded his head as she spoke. They looked perfect. Smooth and angular so that it looked like he was always half smiling – or sneering. He was dressed in dark-blue jeans, hugging his hips in just the right way, and a gold shirt. He cocked his hip to the side, clearly understanding the effect his appearance was having all the females in the class.

I snorted as the boy winked at a girl in the front row. She blushed and ducked her head down to continue sketching in her notebook.

Cocky bastard, I thought.

Before I could ask Michael who he thought it was, our teacher, Mrs. Lark, stood up. “We have a new student today,” she said. The boy looked at the teacher from the corner of his eye, and she smiled.

“This is Jack, everyone. I trust that you will treat him well and help him out.”

Jack inclined his head and gave a small smile to the whole room. As he sat down, I saw him looking at me from one corner of his eye, and I couldn't help but feel he knew exactly who I was.

Michael jerked, jumping slightly in his seat. Jack chuckled and took his seat in the front.

I frowned, looking over at Michael, and saw that his fist was clenched. Michael had never been what I would call super-muscular.

He was strong, but it was more of a cat-like grace. He had muscle but 22

more of a long, sinewy, lethal muscle. Not like a dog, I thought idly.

The tendons bulged on his forearm and the top of his fist. I cocked my head as I looked at him.

“What's the matter?” I whispered to him as Mrs. Lark began the lesson.

“Nothing,” he said, his jaw tight with tension. His eyes flashed once, and I thought I heard him say some curse words under his breath. But I wasn't sure.

After English, Michael grabbed his bag quickly. “I have to go to the bathroom. I feel like crap. I'll meet you next period. Go ahead without me.” He rushed out of the room before I could say anything.

I huffed. “What's his problem anyways?” I said. Michael never let me walk alone.

Jack rose from his seat. He moved like liquid, as though what tied the rest of us down to Earth didn't hinder his movements.

He looked over his shoulder at me, his gaze so intense I looked away. He smiled, and as I moved towards the door he did as well.

When we got to the door, he nodded his head, letting me go out first since we both wouldn't fit through at the same time.

“Thanks,” I said. I didn't know why, but he made me nervous.

“No problem,” he said, his voice deeper than I thought it would be.

It was a deep, rough, bass, and I wondered how he had the lung power to filter such a voice. “What class do you have next?” he asked, his voice merely curious. He could have just been a new student making small talk, but… it was that burning look in his eyes.

A look that said he knew me. A look that said I was soon going to find things out I didn't want to know.

“Um…,” I cleared my throat. He chuckled softly, turning it into a cough as I gave him a strange look. “I have art next.”

“That's strange,” Jack said. “So do I. Does your friend, the one you sat next to in English, have art too?”

I nodded. “We have every class together.”

“Interesting,” Jack said, his eyes flashing as he looked down the hall towards the boys’ bathroom. “Well, I suppose I'll see you in there.”

I nodded, and he gave me a slight bow, almost as though he were thanking me for my time. He walked away, moving like air as he disappeared into the crowd of children.

“How do you like the new kid?” a voice asked.

I jumped. “Christ, Michael,” I said. “You scared me have to death.”

“Well?” he asked.

I stared up at my best friend, but he didn't look back. I shrugged.

“He's strange. Hot though. But he definitely knows it, which makes him just another cocky bastard.”

Michael rolled his shoulders and sighed. He ran a hand through his black hair before gesturing for me to go in front of him.

After school that day, I returned home to an empty house. My dad was still at work, and my mother was out with a friend. I decided that I was going to procrastinate on doing my math homework, so I changed into some comfy leggings and a sweatshirt, grabbed my English book and headed for our back porch. I slid the sliding glass door shut behind me and curled up in the rocking chair. Our back porch was raised about ten feet off the ground, overlooking the mountains and woods behind us. I took a deep breath, soaked in the fresh mountain air, and opened my book.

Just as I was preparing to read, I heard a terrible scream, as though an animal was being killed. I jumped out of my chair and dropped my book to the ground. Everything was silent, and I ran towards the rail of our porch. I leaned to look down at the forest. For a moment, I didn't hear anything, and I listened. Another terrible scream echoed through the forest, and I shivered.

I jerked away from the rail, my heart beating fast. I hesitated for just a moment, my mind racing as it tried to get me to think logically, but it was already too late. I raced back inside. By the door I kept a

TOUGH LIT. VI

(Cont’d. on p. 28)

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

End of the Line

by Jessie Bishop Powell

I woke up cold in my bathroom, half-wedged between tub and sink. But I hadn’t pissed myself. And I didn’t see any puke. I could have made the bowl. I might have flushed. I got to my knees, then pulled up to standing. I avoided looking at my reflection. I ran water and drank from my hands, then splashed my face and slicked back my hair. I still didn’t check the mirror. I didn’t really want to know. I was still cold. My mouth was still dry. The strongest thing in the cabinets was Ibuprofen. And when I went to leave the room, I had to force my fingers to work because in my stupor, it seemed I had locked myself in.

Sharp air blasted under last night’s loose-fitting shirt as soon as I stepped on the porch. And when I reached my street, I realized my car was gone. It had snowed last night, and the cars were parked tightly. Nobody wanted to walk far in the cold. After another few minutes, in which I dumped my tiny purse’s entire contents all over the white-dusted sidewalk and did not turn up the keys, I stopped and did deep breathing. OK, no car. I must have left the keys in it. No wonder it’s been stolen… or maybe not stolen. Maybe I parked in the no-no zone across the street and got towed.

Car got towed. OK. I wished I didn’t have to do this with ice picks digging into the base of my skull, but I thought I could probably get it back. I wouldn’t be getting anything stronger than Ibuprofen for my headache after all though, and I was going to have to figure out how things worked when the cops impounded a vehicle. I scooped up my stuff, returned everything but my phone to the purse, and headed inside to make the call.

“No, hon.” The woman repeated my license number for the third time and told me again the vehicle was not sitting in any of her impound lots. Her voice suggested that, having spoken to me, this was only because such decisions were not hers to make.

“Well, thanks,” I said and hung up.

Not wanting to deal with “stolen” yet, I next considered the possibility that I just had no idea where I parked, that I had left it jammed against some curb and staggered home. This meant walking the neighborhood with a hangover in the winter. I texted my sister: FML, then found my coat before I went back out.

I was on the third street when the phone bleeped with her answer.

You N Roy Get 2 Wild? Agn? “Roy, Christ!” I said it out loud. I had started out the evening with Roy. Thinking about him finally started my sobering process. We went to the bar, sat down with Maddie and David and... what? Everything after the second drink was a blur, if “blur” was even sufficient to describe my memories. Last night was gone.

I called Roy. He answered just before I bounced to voicemail.

“Well, return of the prodigal,” he greeted me. He did not sound amused.

“Do you know what I did with my car?” I asked him.

“You mean the one you plowed into a hydrant?”

“What?”

“Nah. You would have, though.”

Oh, thank God. I didn’t drive. And would I have driven? Would I seriously have even considered getting behind the wheel?

“Babe, you gave me the keys when we walked in the bar.”

I did? “Thank God.” I held the phone tucked between my ear and shoulder and rummaged through my purse again while hoping I had maybe a packet of Excedrin. I still smelled of secondhand smoke, and Roy was talking again, something about maturity and alcoholism and difficult decisions. Nothing I wanted to hear, so I let the phone fall into the snow while I emptied out the purse. It was a Friday purse.

VOL 7, ISSUE 5

Not much inside, but even when small, my bag always had too much junk.

Two tampons and a compact later, I stopped chucking things out beside the phone and sat down on the sidewalk to root. My thighs burned with the wet freezing cold that seeped at once into my jeans.

I hoped I wasn’t wasting my time looking for pills while I froze to the concrete.

Make-up pouch. Lipstick that should have been in the pouch. Nail file. That probably belonged in the pouch, too. ID and credit card, tucked together in a little zipper pocket. And, at the very bottom, somewhat wet from having been poured out onto the sidewalk a little while ago, hand lotion, mace, and hello, one cherry-flavored condom, courtesy of my lover. But no Excedrin. Damn.

I picked up the phone again, and by now Roy was ranting.

“Goddamn it! You were jumping off the bar!”

“I think somebody spiked my drink.”

That stopped him. But only for a moment. He came back pretty fast with, “Don’t bullshit yourself. We’ve gone out just about every Friday, and you’ve gotten drunker every time, and I’m just about done with it. Are you listening to me?”

I tucked the phone back against my shoulder, awkwardly because cell phones are too little for comfortable wedging, and stuffed my belongings back into my purse. Roy’s voice was painful against my ear, just as the angle of my neck was sore against my headache.

“So you want to dump me because of one bad night?”

“Not one bad night,” he told me, “and I didn’t say anything about breaking up.”

I snapped. “You said you were just about done with it, and what does that mean if you don’t mean breaking up?”

“You need help,” he told me.

“I need to find out who slipped me a mickey,” I told him.

“Jesus, are you listening to me?” I stood up and spent a minute dusting the snow off my pants. Then, dangling the purse over my shoulder by its inadequate strap, I started back for the house. I straightened my neck and switched the phone to my other ear. He asked, “Who would spike your booze?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve never been so drunk I couldn’t remember what I did. And I don’t remember any jumping off the bar.”

“Just as well, hon, because it was awful. If David hadn’t been standing right there, I swear you would have broken something. You got up, yelled ‘Crowd surf!’ and fell forward like there were a dozen people there to catch you.”

“Er...” I was struggling now, because I had on last night’s shoes, too, and they were heels, and I was suddenly remembering that I don’t sober up well when I’m trying to balance. The ground was waving around, and my ankles kept wanting to twist. At least I’m short. The ground wasn’t far away if I did fall. I’d been searching for the car on autopilot because I’d come pretty far in the damned things without going down, but now it seemed like the whole world was spinning under me. “I don’t remember that,” I told Roy. “Well, it happened,” he snarled.

“Not saying it didn’t. “ “You need help,” he told me again.

“Look, will you just bring by my damned car and take me to the bar so I can figure out what did happen? I need to cut back on my drinking? Fine. I’d been thinking about that anyway. But I do not remember what happened after we sat down, and that isn’t right. I think I blacked out, if that’s even what you call it when you’re crowd surfing with invisible people and can’t remember it. And that… isn’t right.” I suddenly lost my steam. What if it was exactly right? What if I did this to myself?

“Call a cab and meet me there,” he said. “The car’s still at the bar.

You left ahead of everybody.”

“I did?”

“Yeah. After you jumped, I sent you home.”

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23

Screw you, Daddy-biscuits, I thought. Some boyfriend. “And did what with my car later?”

“It’s still there. I shared a cab with Maddie and David later. I’ll bring you the keys.” And he hung up.

In rapid succession, I called a taxi service, the bar, and David and Maddie. I struck out on that last one and had to leave a message on my friends’ voicemails. But it was nearly noon, and Chuck at the bar was willing to call up Sergei and Liv to see what they could remember about our table. While I waited for the cab, I changed my pants, got on some sensible shoes, ate a roll of Tums, washed my face properly, and took more Ibuprofen than the bottle suggested was wise. I made sure to flip the bottle a bird on my way out of the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting next to the bartender, Sergei, nursing a seltzer-water he’d doctored into a surprisingly effective hangover cure for me. He lived nearby, and Chuck’s call had alarmed him enough to bring him over in person. This was one of the joys of life in a college town. Nobody was far away, and my status as a bar regular meant something. I’d been going to Chuck’s since before my ID was real, and not one member of the staff had batted an eyelash when I’d celebrated the big passage into legality some three years earlier. My parents didn’t like it when I ultimately refused to either move on or go to grad school, and they liked it even less when I financed myself into homeownership six months ago.

“Are you going to work in the registrar’s office your whole life?”

Mom wanted to know.

I told her I could think of worse things to do, then left a pointed silence at the end of the sentence so we both could contemplate my aunt Amiee, who, at 52 was still hooking hot tricks and bragging about it at family functions.

Mom said, “Point taken,” and sent along a nice present.

She would probably not have been impressed to see me bar-diving last night. I wasn’t impressed either. I just wanted to remember it.

Sergei’s first question was, “You think somebody messed with the drinks, but you want to know if I can mix up something for your hangover?”

“Well, something non-alcoholic,” I said.

“I mean you trust that I didn’t mess with the drinks.” Sergei was from New York City. I’d been a regular longer than he’d been tending bar, and I doubted he would have served me back before my ID had been real. He couldn’t wait to graduate and get back home. He worried about anything at all, any potential threat to the job that paid his living expenses.

“Yes!” I told him. What kind of a paranoid freak did he think I was anyway? “I do not think the bartender screwed with things.”

“But you think somebody did.”

“Yeah.”

He shook together his cure then joined me on a stool. We watched a little of the news, which was full of the usual collection of politics, sensationalism, and gloom and doom. The lunch crowd was pretty light, but we stayed at the bar, side by side, waiting for Roy to come in. “So,” I said to Sergei, “What do you think? Do I drink too much?”

He seemed surprised by the question, jerking his head to the right to look me over as if for evidence. “Dunno,” he said, then “My major’s sports medicine, not psych.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been serving me drinks for a year. What’s your sense?”

He thought about the question while we both watched the TV. The woman on the news desk said, “Now to Nick for our live report.”

The image switched to a parking lot where a slick-haired, middleaged reporter stood frozen in tableau for a moment before suddenly coming to life to say, “Thanks, Arianne,” to the news desk lady, as if they could see each other. Nearly immediately, the camera switched to a split screen, enhancing the illusion that Nick and Arianne were actually together.

24

Nick went on, “I’m at the Gas-N-Go on the corner of Harris and Broad where police say the cashier was abducted last night.”

Arianne asked, “Do they think the Carbine Ridge Killer is involved?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head against the television’s glare.

In the last few months, six young women had been abducted from their jobs at convenience stores. Three of them had been found alive, raped and badly wounded, with no memory of what had happened. Three others had been found dead, their bodies dumped in weeds and off bridges. It seemed like “sadist” might be a more appropriate term, but that didn’t have the same alliterative cachet as “Carbine Ridge Killer” or “Carbine killer” for short.

Sergei went on watching the report. So did I. Nick was saying that it was too soon to tell and that the MO was different since this abductor had entered the store wearing a ski mask and pointing a sawed off shotgun at the clerk. He pointed out that the Carbine Killer had never been seen on tape and had always taken his victims from behind the stores. He said “behind the stores” in a tone of such deep significance that I had to bite back a chorus of Don Henley’s “Dirty Laundry.” Nick added that none of the survivors had been able to describe their captor, though one hazily remembered being raped.

So if this was the Carbine Killer, then perhaps he was getting bolder.

After all, this entire abduction had been caught on security tape (which Nick and Arianne were more than happy to play for us). While Sergei and I quietly shook our heads in mutual disgust for the whole affair, Nick added, “Unlike the Carbine Killer’s confirmed victims, this clerk was a man.”

“What do you think that means?” Arianne asked him.

“Well, it’s difficult to say,” he told her. “It’s another difference, to be sure.”

In the end, Nick and Arianne couldn’t decide what the clerk’s gender meant, but they discussed it for some time and agreed the Carbine Killer could just as easily rape a man as a woman. Arianne got to say “Sexual violence has nothing to do with sexual orientation” twice, prompting me to finally mutter, “Kick ‘em all around,” to her.

“Gotta love the media,” Sergei agreed.

He still hadn’t answered my question. As the news channel flashed the clerk’s photo, followed by a blown-up picture of his abductor taken from the security footage, Roy walked into the bar with a jingle of the bell. He slammed my keys down in front of me as he studied my drink.

“That better not have anything meaningful in it,” he said.

“I love you, too,” I answered him. “It’s seltzer water. Not that I consider that your business. What took you so long? You walk?”

“Sergei, would you tell her how much she guzzled last night?” Roy demanded. He didn’t answer my question at all.

“See, I can’t remember,” Sergei said. “I had only sent out two pitchers of beer before things got out of control. And both of them were for your table, if I’m remembering right. She didn’t drink all of that, right? And you don’t add anything yourselves, right?”

Roy snapped, “Of course not,” in that belligerent way of his that suggested I wasn’t going to get useful answers from him for some time.

I talked to Sergei instead, saying, “OK, I remember getting here.

And I remember the pitchers.” I paused, tapping one finger on the bar top and watching Nick and Arianne go through the motions of looking for the missing clerk from right there exactly where they were standing... or in Arianne’s case, sitting back in the newsroom.

Nick interviewed some people coming out of the store who thought it was perfectly safe there in broad daylight but couldn’t say much about the night before. Nick made much of the fact that the clerk had managed to trip the silent alarm but had not succeeded in stalling his own abduction long enough for police to respond.

Here was a man, perfectly sober, working his job, probably dead.

The thought that somebody so drunk she couldn’t remember her

TOUGH LIT. VI

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

evening would make an even easier target gnawed me. Maybe Roy was right. Maybe I needed help.

“See, that’s the thing!” I burst out. “I made a point to start slow last night. Damn it, I knew we were going to hit the dance club later.”

Roy said, “The rest of us did hit the dance club.”

“Just shut up if you don’t have anything helpful to say,” I told him.

“And what the hell business did you have just shoving me in some cab with that,” I waved at the TV, “out there?” It seemed irrelevant to me that the Carbine Killer only targeted convenience store clerks just then. “Exactly how responsible do you think it was to leave me alone if I was doing headers off the bar?”

Roy shook off my suggestion with a hand motion and sat on my other side. “I think you’d started before we came in,” he said. “Why else would you just hand me your keys right off the bat like that?”

“No,” I said, straining to remember. “No way was I drinking early. I got off work, went home, changed and came out again.” I thought some more. “I gave you the keys because you asked for them.”

Roy seemed a bit surprised by that. But he said, “Well you’d obviously already been—” “Not even!” I snapped. “I was stone-cold sober when we sat down last night. You took my keys because you figured I’d get drunk and thought you’d just take extra precautions against me doing something dumb.”

“And what if I did? When have you not gotten drunk in here on a Friday night?”

He had me there. It had been a long time, possibly too long, since Friday-night drinking didn’t mean Friday-night drunk. But… “When have I ever driven someplace shitfaced?” I wanted to know. And when had I ever forgotten getting shitfaced in the first place.

“Normally, you don’t drive on Fridays at all,” he said. His voice was slowly returning to something approaching reasonable. So maybe he was letting me have a point, too.

“True,” I conceded. We usually all crowded into David’s big SUV and rode as a group. But David hadn’t wanted to be designated last night, and we’d all planned to meet at the bar and share a cab. “So the fact that I drove to the bar in the first place made you think I’d be dumb enough to drive off later?”

He shrugged. He was sitting with his arms crossed looking at the TV. Everything in his body language said “leave it alone.” So I did.

“OK, fine,” I said. “We got here, sat down, and ordered our beer.”

Liv, our waitress, had confirmed that much on the phone. I pointed at the table where we’d been seated and said, “I drank two, and then … what … I just sauntered over to the bar and started climbing?”

A new voice said, “Pretty much, yeah.” It was Maddie. “Hey, babe,” she greeted me. “I thought I’d come down when I got your message.

I don’t think you had anything else to drink after those first couple of beers.”

“So you think maybe somebody did put something in my cup?

Where’s David?”

She nodded. “It would have had to have been the second one.

Dave’s still sleeping off the dance club. Do you remember the bathroom?”

“Yeah, vaguely.” Maddie and I hit the toilets when?

Maddie supplied, “That was just after we’d poured our second round. So our drinks would have been just sitting there, and anybody that walked by the table could have popped something into yours.”

“But David and Roy were there,” I protested.

“Doing the guy thing,” she said. “Somebody could have slipped a thermonuclear detonator into your drink, and they wouldn’t have noticed as long as the NFL schedule didn’t get upset.”

“But why?” I asked.

Maddie shrugged. “Random,” she said. She was standing behind me now, rubbing my shoulders while we talked. We had been roommates starting in our freshman year, had moved off campus together, and shared an apartment through graduation. She had VOL 7, ISSUE 5

started a master’s degree program, and it suited her needs perfectly when I stayed around after college. I’d held onto that apartment for a little while after she and David moved in together last year, but I had jumped to buy one of the beat-up homes formerly owned by a fraternity as the college trimmed its Greek program.

I asked, “So you figure somebody just cruised past the table and popped something in when we were in the toilet?”

“Yup,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think somebody targeted me deliberately, Maddie.”

“But who?” she asked.

Beside me, Roy had gone very still watching the news.

Nick and Arianne had gone back to showing the bad convenience store security footage, zooming in on the suspect’s anonymous coat and ski mask. The screen shifted, and now Nick was interviewing a homeless man who was sure he’d seen a white sedan in a nearby alley around the time the clerk was taken—though he wasn’t sure what time that was and he hadn’t seen the actual abduction. It didn’t seem like much to go on, but Nick and Arianne were treating it like a positive ID. “Slow news day,” I told my boyfriend. “Do you believe me yet?”

He didn’t answer. Too caught up in the news. “Hey, Undercover Condom Distributor,” I said, “you still think I drink too much?”

He wasn’t listening to me. All his attention was for the anchors, and when I reached for his face to physically turn him away, I realized that he was smiling. Not a big smile. Nothing a stranger would even recognize for happy. Just a very small smile, playing around the corners of his lips. He wasn’t laughing at the anchors like Sergei and I had been close to doing. The expression on his face said something altogether different.

Slowly, instead of touching him, I redirected my hand to lay it flat over my car keys. I waited a few more seconds for him to snap back into himself, but when it didn’t happen, I looked up instead at Maddie, who had stopped the shoulder massage. She was looking at Roy, too, back and forth between him and the television. When she looked at me, her lips were tight.

We were both thinking about my white Civic sitting out in Chuck’s parking lot. The one Roy had just given me back the keys to.

“Maddie,” I said, trying not to squeak, “What time…?”

“Three o’clock,” she said, “Dave and I rolled in a little after three.

The cab dropped Roy off at a quarter ‘til.”

The clerk had been abducted at 3:30. It would have been tight but not impossible. Roy had taken his time walking to the bar this afternoon, but he’d run track back in his own college days. I hadn’t known him well then, though we’d had a couple of classes together.

We’d really connected because he was, like me, still working at the college two and a half years after graduation, even though he wasn’t pursuing any kind of graduate degree either.

Suddenly, the things I didn’t know about Roy stretched out long between us on the bar. I didn’t know his hobbies or how he spent his time when we weren’t together. Eight months, and I still hadn’t met his family, hadn’t even really talked about them with him. That long, and the only thing I really knew was that he liked to go out drinking just about any time I was up for it, and that he’d managed to tuck the stupid cherry-flavored rubber into my purse sometime last night.

I knew those things, and I knew he still ran. He could cover the distance from his home to the bar in under ten minutes.

He could have done it. He could have taken my keys, drugged my drink, gone dancing, then jumped out of the cab, run up to the bar, and been on the edge of town to kidnap that young man by the time shown on that security tape. Roy was still watching the tube with that frightening, small smile—still completely oblivious to me sitting beside him and to Sergei listening to all of this on the other side of me.

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(Cont’d. on p. 29)

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embers. I was chilled; my clothes and the blankets were damp. My bones ached as the shrill ring of the phone startled me. I crossed the room to the hall and lifted the phone to my ear.

It was Sheriff Barlow.

His voice was somber. "I've been trying to get through to you all night.

Thought I'd go over to tell you myself, ma'am, but the bridge is washed out.

I'm calling about Don's flight. There's been an accident..."

His words gagged me. I felt like retching. I wanted to tell him there wasn't any flight that night. I could see into the living room, and frantically looked about. It was empty. I had a sinking feeling as though murky waters were closing in around me.

The sheriff’s voice pierced the swirling void. "Don's plane never left the airfield last night."

"I know, he..."

"Crashed, just after takeoff, ma'am.... Hello, hello… Are you all right Mrs. Jennings?" His tone was fatherly, compassionate.

"Yes, I heard you," I answered, my voice suddenly wooden, hypnotic.

"We don't know what happened yet, Mrs. Jennings. Got investigators working on it. Suppose you got to know sometime, ma'am. He's gone. Don's dead."

His words were lost in a rush of last night's memory, one that belied what he said. It wasn't true. It couldn't be! Don, my darling, you did come back, you did… you did!

But there was no sign of Don's return. * * * The storm is heading eastward now, and with it goes the vividness of that night.

Little Donald, my son, is restless in his crib. He's making purring sounds like a well-tuned motor as he plays with his favorite toy, an airplane. It's a wooden model Don had carved of the ill-fated Galloping Goose.  (See M.G.’s bio. on p. 29) Divided (cont’d. from p. 22) pair of black work boots, and I shoved my feet into them. I slammed the front door behind me as I raced around our house and sprinted down the hill. I stopped just at the edge of the tree line, my feet inches away from its green depths. I listed once more, and I got goose bumps as I heard another scream.

I plunged ahead, tearing through the underbrush as quietly and quickly as I could. For a moment, I thought I saw something dark jumping from tree to tree above me. A flash of scale, a glint of red eye, and it was gone. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I felt that someone was watching me.

I followed the sounds of the screaming, when finally, I crashed through the underbrush into a small alcove. The branches of the trees intertwined above me, creating a branch ceiling, and the thorny brambles created a half circle wall around the small space. The only way out was the way I had just come. A small pool of still water stood in a small depression of rock.

What I saw made me back away, nearly tripping over my feet as I did. I fell back out of the alcove, landing on my back. I rolled and stood, walking in a crouch to peer through the bramble.

There, lying in a pool of his own blood, was Jack. Only, he wasn't human.

He was nearly naked, the cloth lying about his lower body barely managed to cover the front of him. His enormously tall body shivered in pain. He looked out of place. A giant in a world of humans. His body was tanned, and hard, coarse muscle moved under his skin as another scream left his body. A huge, bloody hole was slashed across his stomach, and some of his intestines hung out. I could see he was slowly bleeding to death. Yet all of this was not what had surprised me.

Sprouting out of the top of his head, as though they had somehow melted from his brown colored hair, was a pair of ears. They were long and slightly floppy, almost like a dog’s. From his tailbone protruded a thick, hairy tail, exactly like a dog’s. Long claws were present in place of fingernails.

He screamed again, desperately dragging himself towards the pool of water. I realized I was trembling as I watched, and I clamped my hands together to stop myself.

Tears ran down his face as he cried in pain, and I felt a rush of pity for the boy.

I was hesitant to help him, afraid he may be dangerous. Behind me, a bird screeched, frantically flying away from its post. I glanced behind me, seeing two dark masses in the trees. I swallowed hard and walked around to enter the alcove again. As I walked into the small space, Jack's ears perked up. He looked over his shoulder and snarled at me.

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I shrunk back, putting my hands up. “I won't hurt you,” I managed to choke out.

His snarl turned into an expression of pain, and his body writhed as he screamed in pain again.

He pointed at the water. “Please...”

I looked over my shoulder, and there were three hunched forms now, standing in the entrance. I sighed and walked around toward Jack. I looked at how big he was and at how small my arms were. I may be taller than all the other girls, but it didn't mean I was strong. The man cried out again, and I jumped into action.

“This is going to hurt,” I said.

Jack nodded. “Just hurry.”

I gripped him under the arms and heaved. He let out a piercing shriek.

Startled, I dropped him.

“Don't stop!” he growled.

I nodded and took hold of him again. I heaved, digging my heels into the forest floor. He was heavy, but he pushed with his own heels, helping as much as he could. I wondered how he could still be alive, but seeing as how he had ears and a tail, I figured he was more durable than normal humans.

Finally, sweat dripping from my face and gleaming all over Jack's body, we reached the pool of water.

“What now?” I asked.

“Help me into it,” he said.

“What?” I asked, bewildered.

He snapped his jaw, the muscles bulging. “Don't argue, girl.”

I nodded and heaved his leg into the water. It sunk in—much deeper than I thought it should—as though the pool didn't have a bottom. Jack's eyes rolled in the back of his head as his insides scraped against the rock.

I shook him. “Stay awake!” I said, raising my voice. I looked up in the branches of the alcove and saw more dark shapes. I slapped his face, and he started awake.

He moaned. “Hurry,” he whispered.

Just as I reached to heave his leg into the pool, I heard a noise at the entrance of the cave. I let out a scream of surprise, and Jack, his face sweating from pain, rolled his head to the side to see what I was looking at. A mass of creatures, goblins, stood in the entrance. Above me, they cackled, dangling by long arms like monkeys from trees.

With an effort that I will never understand, Jack let out the most ferocious and terrifying snarl I had ever heard. It was almost a growl and almost a roar.

The goblins immediately stopped laughing.

The ones in the trees pulled themselves back up, their red eyes glowing down at us from in between the branches. The sun was fast setting in the distance, and the darker it got, the braver the beasts at the cave were getting, approaching closer and closer with each passing moment. Without another word, I lifted Jack's other leg into the pool.

At that moment many things happened all at once. All of the goblins shrieked in protest, and they rushed forward, surging forth from the entrance and flying down from their perches in the trees. Jack fell, going through the pool, and at the last second, just as the water reached past his head, he grabbed my wrist. He jerked me forward so that I was also, somehow, no matter how impossible, falling through a pool of water. The last image I had was of the ugly, sneering faces of goblins as they reached their hands towards me. * * * I woke up on a hill with soft green grass under me. Where the pool of water had taken me, I didn't know, but I instantly knew I was no longer on Earth. I peered up at a sky with more stars then I had ever seen. I saw two enormous twin moons: one red, the other yellow. I sat up, somehow unhurt and dry.

Cautiously, I stood and surveyed the land around me when I heard a sound from behind.

A man, maybe twenty-one, came out of the trees from behind me. He was both beautiful and somehow – almost unnaturally – deadly looking. He was enormously tall. I could see that if Michael were here, he would be at least an inch or two taller. He had soft, fiery orange hair layering against his neck and framing his face. His slanted eyes were a dark, dangerous green, and they pierced through me as he looked at me.

He crossed his long arms, corded through with sleek muscle. A pair of catlike ears melted from the orange hair. Behind him I saw a long, sleek, orange tail with a tuft of white fur at the end flicker into being.

He grinned. And then, with a deep voice that vibrated through my very bones, he said, “It's about time you came back. I've been waiting for you.”  (See Gabriele’s bio. on p. 29)

TOUGH LIT. VI

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

My Fifteen Minutes (cont’d. from p. 8) I’m pacing in my living room still mad about that call but have a stunning realization. I’m not the same Tracie Benson I was yesterday. She’d be cowering behind the curtains or running over to her parents’ house. This incident at the park has unleashed a part of me that has always been there but needed to come out and is going to last a lifetime, not just for fifteen minutes of media attention. My actions saved Veronica Ramirez and I’m competent, smart and I’ve got guts. Who cares if I’m ten pounds overweight?

That has nothing to do with who I am inside. Then I make a decision. I’m taking a leave of absence from work before I need to be back for the trial. I’m going on a long trip out of the country… more than a “trip”… an adventure on trains and boats to exotic places and I’m going to ask Felix to come with me.

It’s time I tell him what I want out of life and what I need from him. I’m willing to give our relationship another chance but he has to want to change too.

“Felix, it’s Tracie. Oh, I guess you read what happened. I’m fine, a little sore.

It was very scary but I’m really okay. Can you come over? Yes, I do mean now. I have something important to talk over with you. Is your passport current? Great. We’ll talk when you get here.”

I go to the window and open the curtains and let the bright fall sunshine in.

A police car is parked on the street, but I don’t need him here. I talk to Seymour. “Honey, you’re going to your grandparents for a long visit… you know they love you and you’ll have a great time with them. Let’s call and tell them to expect you “  (See Joanne’s bio. in column 2) End of the Line (cont’d. from p. 25) I flicked my eyes to the young bartender and tried to ask without words if he understood what Maddie and I were talking about. The news was showing the security camera footage in police-zoom again, and Sergei was looking from Roy to the television and sizing up my boyfriend in relationship to a grainy picture that offered no real specific evidence of anything.

Roy could have done it. He might have drugged me to get his hands on my car and get me out of the way, kidnapped that poor young man in my car, then returned the car to the bar parking lot and headed home on foot himself, leaving that clerk where? Alive? Dead?

He could have done it. He could have done me. He had a copy of the house key. Did I remember one thing from after I got home? As much as I wracked my brain, I could not. Did I take myself to my bathroom? What time if I did?

And why did I take the time to lock myself in? How did I get down between the sink and tub like that? When did Roy give me his damned condom? The hangover made it so very hard to think.

The report suddenly ended, and Arianne turned things over to the weather anchor. Roy’s attention returned to us at the bar. “So,” he said to me, “do you get it yet that you have an alcohol problem?”

And then he realized how we were all looking at him, our eyes still moving involuntarily from him back to the screen, where Dianne was gesticulating at a weather chart. “What?” he said. “I miss something?”

And then he leapt away from the bar in a single fluid movement, pausing only long enough to seize the keys out from under my palm. He bolted down the aisle, shoving past Chuck, who was delivering lunch to one of the tables.

“Stop him!” Maddie shouted, as Chuck, having been set off balance by Roy’s sudden advance, staggered and nearly fell under his own ponderous weight.

Sergei surged suddenly to life and bounded after Roy, in time to seize his forearm before he reached the door. Then Chuck regained control and used his own enormous girth to crush Roy against the wall while he shouted, “What, what, what? He stiff you on a tip?”

Maddie said, “Call the cops!”

I lowered my head to the bar and started to cry, wishing that I thought the police, when they came, might find that poor clerk alive in my trunk or back seat. “Maddie,” I said without raising my head because I wasn’t really talking to my friend at all, “I think it’s time I stopped drinking.”  (See Jessie’s bio.in column 2)

Authors’ Bios.

BOOK LOOK FEATURED AUTHOR Chuck Hoyle is a chemist by schooling and a writer by passion. He is also an avid adventurer and has spent many a year overseas working and traveling. Mr. Hoyle spent ten weeks living in an Eskimo village fishing for salmon in Western Alaska at a young age. He has served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa, worked as VOL 7, ISSUE 5

a high school science teacher in Micronesia and as an English teacher in South Korea. Chuck has taken two extensive motorcycle tours across Western and Eastern Europe and into Northern Africa. He spent two years as a rescue diver on a SCUBA dive boat on Catalina Island. All these experiences have given perspective to his writing. Currently, Chuck lives in Maine with his wife.

Vince McDermott was born in New Jersey and now lives with his wife in Brunswick, ME. He was a meteorologist for over thirty years, retiring in 1998. Vince writes humorous poetry, pieces on nature, and attempts to write mysteries and comic historical fiction. His inspiration comes from Stephen King, Ogden Nash, and Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

Daniel Roche was born in Sturbridge, MA and still resides there with his brother and 3 nephews. He was educated at Becker College in Worcester, MA and currently writes fiction in a variety of genres, including literary fiction, horror, and humor. Email Dan at: danroche@charter.net Ben Macnair was born in 1976 in Nottingham, and now resides in Staffordshire, UK. He has been writing creatively on and off for the last seven or eight years. His poetry has appeared in Purple Patch, Raw Edge, and various other small print publications, and websites. His Short Stories have appeared in Twisted Tongue, and in two Forward Press Anthologies, whilst journalism and reviews have appeared in Blues in Britain Magazine, Verbal Magazine, and various local newspapers and The Independent. Three of his short plays have been performed in London and America.

Gaye Buzzo Dunn is a former business manager formerly employed by large and small, public and private corporations. A graduate of The College of St. Rose, Albany, New York, she is a free-lance writer residing in upstate New York. You can reach Gaye at her writer blog: www.penandpatience.wordpress.com Joanne Jagoda of Oakland California, since retiring in 2009, has embarked on a long-postponed journey into the world of creative writing taking inspiring workshops and classes and has published short stories, poetry and nonfiction. In 2012, her work has appeared in Pure Slush, Writing Raw, and in Poetica Magazine, Holocaust Edition.

Lorna Brown was born in Dublin, Ireland. After studying Social Psychology and Sociology, Lorna traveled extensively before settling in Galway to start writing. She is a published author with Renaissance ebooks and Lyrical Press, under her pen name Marianne Brun. Margaret is from a collection Lorna is currently working on. She lives in Winchester, MA with her husband and three daughters.

M. G. Coolidge’s background includes feature writing for newspapers in The Newton Graphic in Massachusetts where she won the United Press Prize for Best in New England. In Florida, she published in the Sarasota Breeze and The St. Petersburg Independent. With her late husband Ralph, she sailed on a ketch-rigged catamaran sailboat and wrote freelance articles on sailing, camping, and the outdoors. Having written feature films, plays, short stories, poetry and songs, she now concentrates on novels and short stories.

Gabrielle Wilson is a senior in high-school planning to attend the University of North Carolina at Greensboro in the fall. There she will major in both English and Asian studies, and hopes to one day move to South Korea. She loves to play lacrosse, draw, sing/act, and work on her novel. She is the oldest of four children and is currently living with her parents in North Carolina.

Jessie Bishop Powell has been writing since age ten, when she used an old Remington Rand manual typewriter. She has been through umpteen typewriters, word processors, and computers since then. She holds Master’s degrees in English and Library Science from the University of Kentucky. Her novel Divorce: A Love Story was published by Throwaway Lines in December 2011 and is available for download in Kindle and Nook format. You can find more of Jessie’s writing on her blog at http://jesterqueen.com.

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