Tough Lit X

Invitation to Murder

by L. D. Eytchison

Bob ran down the stairs. “Jan, hey Jan, can you answer the phone?” As he reached the foyer he noticed his girlfriend, Janet Jordan, had left and that the doorbell rang, not the phone. He hurried to open the door.

“Hey, Doug. Is something wrong?” Bob asked.

“Everything is fine, I think. May I come in, or are we going to talk on your porch? By the way, what delayed you?”

“I apologize. Come on in. Want a beer?”

“Thanks.”

They entered the living room where Doug settled into a cobalt blue club chair. “You didn’t answer my question. Why did you delay in answering the door?” he asked.

“The doorbell and the telephone sound alike. I answered the phone before I realized the doorbell had made the sound. Will you eat that pretzel or grind it to dust?” Bob answered.

Doug gave a feeble smile. “Eat it,” he said. “See?” He crunched the pretzel a few minutes then said, “So, is Jan okay?”

“Yes. We’re both okay, but you seem a little anxious. What’s wrong?”

“You know Jan is okay? You’re positive?” Doug asked.

“She was two hours ago, and when she cooked breakfast this morning. Do you know something I don’t? Did something happen to Jan?” “I don’t know, Bob. I came to ask you.”

“Why ask me if she’s okay when nothing caused you to think she wasn’t?” Bob asked.

Doug broke another pretzel into pieces and placed them in the crystal ashtray on the table. “Why do you own ashtrays if neither of you smokes?” He asked.

“Janet’s force of habit. Stan smoked, so she sets ashtrays out everywhere, not that he ever used them, of course. He always flicked the ashes to the floor. What is going on, Doug? Is Janet okay or isn’t she?”

Bob and Doug jumped when the rear door banged shut and Janet called from the kitchen, “I’m home now, Bob.” Doug and Bob grinned at one another and both sighed. “I guess she’s okay,” Doug said. “Let’s go see her.” He rushed to the kitchen.

Bob trailed after him in bemused silence.

When Bob arrived in the kitchen he saw Doug reach up to place the food dehydrator above the refrigerator.

“Jan, hon, is there anything I can help you do?” he asked.

Janet flashed him a wide grin. “No, I’m okay,” she said.

“Where did you go this morning?” Bob asked.

Janet laughed as Doug rounded the corner with two bags of groceries in his arms. Janet said, “When I cooked breakfast this morning I noticed we didn’t have much food, so I ran out to the supermarket and stocked up. Doug’s here.”

“I know. I let him in. He seems concerned about your health,” Bob said.

Janet laughed again while she filled the refrigerator with vegetables and meat. “Why, Doug, how nice of you to worry, but I’m all right now, really. I’m quite over losing the baby.”

Bob looked at Doug. “Is that why you came all the way over here?

Are you still concerned about her after she lost our baby?” he asked.

Doug looked out the front window to the expanse of green lawn.

“No. I had a dreadful dream. It got to me. You know those dreams that seem so real you think they are? This nightmare was one of those,” he said.

Janet placed bags of pretzels, a case of beer, and a case of cola in the pantry. Then she placed two heads of leaf lettuce, a bag of 2

TOUGH LIT. X

tomatoes, two green bell peppers, and a bag of shredded Monterey Jack cheese in the refrigerator. “Tell us your dream, Doug. It will help. After I lost the baby I had horrid dreams. Talking with Bob and my doctor helped ease the fear and the feeling of guilt I had. Let’s go into the living room,” Janet said.

“Okay, but you’re going to laugh. It seems so silly now,” Doug said.

Bob placed his hand on Dough’s shoulder. “I will not laugh at something that has upset a friend of mine. I’m pleased you came to check on us, Doug. Tell us your dream, and we’ll put it away forever,” he said.

Janet came in from the kitchen and placed a tray containing Rye Krisp crackers, Monterey Jack and Cheddar cheese slices, pepperoni, and bowls of pretzels and mustard on the table. She set two steins of beer before the men, and taking a large glass of cola, she sat next to Bob on the sofa. Doug sat in the same club chair he had sat in earlier.

Doug placed cheese and pepperoni on a cracker, spread mustard on top, and bit into it. He swallowed and said, “Okay, if you insist, here goes. I dreamt I was sitting down to eat and I looked up from my plate and saw Janet, drenched in blood, standing before the plate glass window. She said, ‘Bob didn’t, Bob didn’t’ and vanished. I woke up all sweaty and took a cool shower. When I fell asleep the dream returned, only a little different this time. I still sat at the table when Janet appeared again. She wore the same long dress and was covered in blood. She looked around, said, ‘Stan, Stan,’ and looked right at me. I woke up, showered, dressed, and rushed to your old place. When I realized what I’d done, I rushed over here. And you are both fine.”

Bob and Janet looked at each other. Janet said, “I think I’ll go telephone Stan.”

“What? You think there’s something in my dream?” Doug asked.

“You were so worried you came to make sure we were okay. And Stan was in the dream,” Bob said.

“No, Bob, he wasn’t. I did not see him or you, only Janet all covered in blood. She was looking for Stan.”

Janet returned. “Stan couldn’t be better. I asked him to dinner next Tuesday as a reason for my phone call. You don’t mind, do you Bob?” she said.

Bob laughed. “Of course not, honey. I trust you.” He kissed the back of her hand.

Janet showed Doug out. The telephone rang and Bob answered it.

Janet entered the kitchen carrying the tray from the living room.

“Who was on the phone?” she asked.

“Quinn,” Bob replied, his hand still resting on the phone.

“Isn’t he your lawyer friend? What did he want?” Janet asked.

“He wants to visit. He said something happened that causes him concern and he needs to speak to us about it.”

“Will we need more snacks?” Janet asked.

“No, I don’t think so, but if the iced tea is ready, Quinn will enjoy it.

I think we’ll go out by the lake, hmm?”

“He’s your friend, Bob. I don’t know him that well. I’ve only met him twice now.”

The doorbell rang.

“Get the tea, I’ll get Quinn and meet you by the lake,” Bob said.

When they had seated themselves, Quinn raked a hand through his thick iron gray hair and said, “I don’t know where to begin. It’s a meeting I had, you see…”

“What happened?” Bob and Janet asked.

Quinn looked at both of them, the piercing look he had that could make a witness wilt. He continued, his tone clipped. “I was entertaining a client in an expensive restaurant. George. You met him, Bob. He planned to take over my practice when Dolores and I moved. He seems to have known Janet before you met her and when he found out that you’re engaged to Janet he asked me what happened to Stan. He wanted to know how long Stan would be in jail this time, and if I planned to represent him. This was such a shock I IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

drove straight to your house. I telephoned while I drove. Has Stan ever exhibited a violent side to you, Janet?”

“No,” Janet said.

“Doug had a frightening dream about Janet drenched in blood and looking for Stan. I’m sure it’s only coincidence. We’ll both be careful, though, to play it safe,” Bob said.

They walked Quinn to his car.

Quinn got in, started the car, and said, “I’m glad you’re both safe and happy together.” He drove off with a wave of his hand, and Bob and Janet returned to the lake.

Tuesday evening Bob entered the bedroom he shared with Janet.

He paused near the door and whistled. Janet twirled before the fulllength mirror and the skirt of her floor length ivory dress flared out.

She secured aquamarine teardrop earrings into her ears and clasped a matching pendant around her neck. She stepped into champagne kid leather pumps and said, “Do I pass muster, sir?”

Bob caressed her walnut hair and said, “You look devastating. I’m not sure, now, if I trust Stan to keep his hands to himself tonight.”

Janet’s hazel eyes flashed. “If Stan so much as gets an idea, out he goes. I’ve had my fill and more of him,” she said.

The doorbell rang as Bob put the finishing touches on his seal brown slacks, cream shirt, and camel hair sport coat. He stepped into light brown loafers and they went down to answer the door.

Stan wore a navy blue suit and carried a bottle of champagne. “My contribution to the evening’s festivities,” he said, extending the bottle. “Show me where your bar is, and I’ll pop this puppy in to cool.”

Bob took Stan into the living room. He gestured to the corner by the fireplace. “We turned that curio cabinet into a bar. You’ll find everything you need right there. If you’ll be okay, Stan, I think I’ll go help Janet in the kitchen.”

“That’s okay. You two lovebirds go ahead and don’t mind me. I’ll be okay here by myself for a while, but don’t be too long, huh Bob ol buddy? And don’t get too loud.”

Bob curled his fingers into a fist and managed to grind out, “I’m going to help her with the roast. I’ll be right back.”

He returned and they sat down with their drinks. Fifteen minutes later, Janet called to them that dinner was served. They walked into the room and Stan said, “I don’t think your new lover boy can hold his liquor, Jan. He’s about to pass out.”

Janet rushed to help Bob to the table. “Bob, are you okay?” she whispered.

“Huh? Yeah, Janet honey, I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all.” Bob passed out, his left hand still clutching the knife he had picked up to carve the roast.

Bob opened his eyes, closed them again, and listened to the unfamiliar sounds of a hospital. He became more frightened every minute. Footsteps approached the bed.

“Bob? Bob, are you awake yet?” Doug asked.

His eyes flickered open. His gaze fastened on the face of his friend Doug. Metal clanked as he reached toward Doug. “Doug, what’s happened?” he asked.

“Shhh,” Doug said, placing a calming hand on Bob’s shoulder.

“Everything will be okay. Close your eyes and rest for a while. I’ve called Quinn. Rest until he gets here. I’ll let you know…”

“Doug, Janet. Where is Janet?”

“Not now, Bob. I’ll explain everything to you when Quinn arrives.

Until then, pretend you are asleep.”

Bob looked at his left wrist, handcuffed to the bed rail. His eyes widened, and metal clanked.

Doug said, “Shhh. Trust me Bob. Try to quiet down. Don’t move so much. Just rest.”

An hour that seemed like an eternity later, Bob heard footsteps approach his bed. Doug’s voice brought his eyes open. Doug and VOL 8, ISSUE 6

Quinn stood by the bed. Doug, Bob thought, looks like he missed a night of sleep, and Quinn looks every inch the professional lawyer.

Quinn said, “Have you seen any police, Bob?” “Police? Quinn, what’s going on? Why am I in the hospital?

Where’s Janet?”

Doug said, “I’ve managed to persuade the doctor to keep the police away from Bob. He said that Bob is as much a victim as Janet.”

“That is a good start, Doug, and may prove to be the case. As things stand now, the situation looks bleak for Bob,” Quinn said.

Bob tossed his head side to side on the pillow. “Will you two please tell me what the hell is going on, and where is Janet?”

A police officer entered. “I see you’re awake, Mr. Travers. Now I can advise you of your rights. You’re under arrest for the murder of Janet Jordan. You have the right to remain silent…”

His voice droned on and on. Bob felt himself sink into a black void where the only reality was that Janet was dead and he was under arrest for her murder.

“Doug? Quinn?” he whispered.

“Not another word, Bob. I’m here as your lawyer. First thing to do is put up your bail. That’s already taken care of. And we’re going to get you acquitted of this crime.”

That evening at Doug’s house, Bob ran his hands through his chestnut hair and said, “Doug what happened? What happened?

How did Janet die? Do you know? Can you tell me anything?”

Doug sipped his Martini, shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t know what happened, Bob. The last time I was there, Saturday when I told you about my dream, I left my leather driving gloves on the oak console in your front hall. I didn’t miss them until I arrived home so I called and told Janet I’d drop in to pick them up the next time I was in your area, which turned out to be Tuesday night on the way home.

I had to pass close to your house so I stopped. When I didn’t get any answer I opened the door and went in. I found you on the floor unconscious, dinner cooling on the table, and Janet dead. She wore the same dress I saw in that eerie dream I told you about. Weird, huh?”

“Where was Stan? Did you see him at all?” Bob said.

“Stan, Janet’s ex? How does he figure in?” Doug asked.

“He came to dinner that night. Don’t you remember Janet calling him on Saturday because of your dream?”

“Sure I remember, Bob, but I thought…that is…I mean…I saw two places at the table so I thought he took a rain check,” Doug said.

“What do you mean two places at the table? Doug, Stan was there.

We had drinks and I--” “Wait, Bob. Let’s call Quinn with this. We’ll call him first thing in the morning. You can explain everything to him then. Okay? Good.

Let’s get some sleep.”

The next morning they called Quinn, who rushed to Doug’s house.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

“Quinn, Stan dined with us the night Janet died. We had drinks; he, rum and coke; I, whiskey and soda; Janet, cherry brandy. She served.

I felt woozy and passed out. That is all I remember,” Bob said.

“Bob, I want to believe you, but there were only two places set at the table. If Stan had been there wouldn’t Janet have set three?”

Doug said.

“There were three…”

“Then there is only one explanation,” Quinn said.

“What’s that?” Bob and Doug asked.

“That Stan is framing Bob for the murder.”

Bob’s eyes gleamed. “That’s it, that has to be it,” he said.

“Nonsense. Why would he do that?” Doug said.

“Revenge maybe,” Bob said. “Hell, Doug, I don’t know why he did it, just that he did. It couldn’t be anyone else. Unless you do think I killed Janet.”

Doug snorted. “Of course I don’t think you killed her,” he said.

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3

“Then we must prove my innocence. We have to discover a way to reveal the truth,” Bob said.

“I like your idea, Bob, but how do we do it? Where do we start?”

Doug asked.

Quinn lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and said, “We start with the police files and pictures of the crime scene. Maybe even the police report. We have certain knowledge the police don’t have, like Stan smoking. If the police found any ashes in the house, then it’s a lead. I’m due in court this afternoon. Let’s get started on this first thing in the morning.”

The next morning Quinn called. “Bob,” he said, “I’ve got most of what we want. I have some things I need to do this morning concerning my current case but I will definitely finish by early afternoon. I’ll see you at Doug’s place between one and two this afternoon.”

At one forty-five that afternoon Quinn parked his car in Doug’s drive.

Bob stepped off the porch and met him halfway to the house.

“What did you get?” he asked.

“Let’s go inside,” Quinn said.

They sat down in the living room and Bob once more queried Quinn.

Quinn said, “I’ve got copies of the crime scene photos and the lists of evidence collected at the scene.” He handed the papers to Bob and Doug, who studied them.

Bob studied the lists with more attention than he did the photographs. He stood up and went to the kitchen to get a beer.

“Is something bothering you, Bob?” Quinn asked.

“Yes.” Bob returned and sat on the pearl gray sofa.

“What?” Doug asked.

“I can’t place it, but something feels off about these…” he threw the papers on to the aluminum and glass table in front of him, and then went to the patio door.

Doug, about to stop him, fell silent when Quinn motioned to him.

“Let him go out. The fresh air may loosen the something in his mind,” Quinn said.

They turned toward the door when Bob bounded in. “I think I’ve got it.” He picked up the photos. “Yes. It’s not here.” He dropped them on the table and picked up the list. “And it’s not here, either.

We have something.”

“What do we have? Or perhaps I should say what do we have not.

What’s missing, Bob?” Quinn asked.

“His ring,” Bob said.

“Whose ring?” Doug asked.

“Stan’s. It’s an oval emerald surrounded by diamonds. Stan insisted Janet keep it when they broke up. She wore it around her neck,” Bob said.

“I remember. I thought you bought it for her but she didn’t wear it because she didn’t want to get engaged yet,” Doug said.

“Could it be at the house?” Quinn asked.

“We can go look, if the police will allow us in,” Bob said.

“They will. We will tell them you need to get a change of clothes and other personal things,” Quinn said.

“Great. Let’s go,” Bob said, rising and striding to the front door.

Quinn parked his car outside Bob’s house. A police officer approached. “Have you some business here, sir?” he asked Quinn.

“This is a crime scene under investigation.”

“I understand officer. Bob Travers owns this house and requires some personal things. Is it all right to go in and get them?” Quinn asked.

The officer shook his head. “No one goes in unless I go with him.”

“Okay,” Quinn said, shooting Bob a look that said go along with this.

4

They entered the house. The foyer overlooked the dining room.

Bob walked to the railing. “I can’t believe my Janet is dead,” he said, scanning the room for the familiar gold chain and ring.

He turned and went up the stairs to the bedroom. He stopped by the bed and idly fingered the fringe on the lampshade of the old fashioned lamp as he scanned the area for her chain.

He turned to the dresser, walked over and opened the top and center drawers. He pulled out under clothes, socks, jeans, and Tshirts. He sat on the bed and stared at Janet’s jewelry box. He opened it and fingered the jewels inside, bringing them out to look at them. He closed it and said, “She’ll never wear them again. If either of you know someone who might want…”

“Are you ready, sir?” asked the officer.

“Yes. Let’s go.” Bob picked up the pile of clothes, added a jacket off the back of a chair, and a pair of tennis shoes from in front of the chair. They left.

As they neared the front door, they heard a commotion. They rushed outside, and found a tall slender blonde woman wrestling with the other officer.

“Excuse me,” Bob said, “the woman you’re fighting with is a friend of my dead wife. Hello, Sue. How are things in ’Frisco?”

“Hot. Where’s Janet?” Sue asked.

“Whatever you heard, it may be true. Janet is dead and they think I killed her. If you’d like to discuss this further, we can do it at my friend Doug’s house.”

Bob, Doug, and Quinn got into Quinn’s car.

“I’ll follow you,” Sue said, getting into her own car.

At Doug’s house, Quinn placed his beer on the table next to the chair he sat in. “Any sign of her neck chain with Stan’s ring on it?” he asked.

“No. Every time I stopped and spoke of how things were, or of Janet, that’s when I looked for it. I didn’t see it in the dining room, on her night table, or in her jewelry box,” Bob said.

“Those all sound like likely places to find it, too. Did you notice anything out of place?” Quinn said.

“No. Things seemed to be just as we left them. That sounds strange. We didn’t leave.”

Into the silence, Sue said, “Excuse me, Bob, but what is going on?”

Bob introduced her to Doug and Quinn, and all three explained the situation to her.

Sue said, “Quinn, you said you got a list of evidence they took from the scene. Where is that list?”

“In my car, but if you want to know what’s on it I can tell you,” he said.

Sue looked at him. Two minutes went by.

“What was on it?” Sue finally asked.

“Oh, you do want to know. They list the butcher knife, which had Bob’s fingerprints on it, no other prints found on anything in the dining room, and some ashes swept up off the table at the end where Bob sat. An ashtray, clean, was on the table,” Quinn said.

“Were any cigarettes or cigars found?” Sue asked.

Quinn thought. “No,” he said. “The report said the ashtray was clean and that the ashes were swept off the table and vacuumed up from the floor.”

Doug returned with Chinese food. “Hope everybody’s hungry. Hey Bob, maybe when we get you cleared we can pop open that bottle of champagne I saw on your bar when we were at your house.”

Bob stared at him.

Quinn said, “You seem surprised to find there’s an unopened bottle of champagne on your bar, Bob. Why?” Bob rose and went to the window. He stared into the deepening twilight and remained silent.

“Bob?” Sue said.

Shrugging, Bob returned to the table. “I forgot about that. Stan

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Dairy of a Female Serial Killer, Part 1

by John Novotny I'm not your typical girl that writes all her thoughts and dreams and things she has done throughout the day. Nor will I resort to using the usual opening, “Dear Diary,” when writing this down. This is merely an account of all the things I have committed against society and the law. I have never written or even thought of writing a diary, but I will tell you how this insanity began for me. Let me see. Oh, yeah…

It all started the day I saw my parents and older siblings get slaughtered by this family serial killer. He would go around stalking families from afar. Then when he thought he had the family's routine, he would break in, sneak upstairs, tie up the husband and place him in a chair. He did this so the husband could watch him mutilate his wife in every way.

Then he would bring in the oldest child and have him or her watch him slice open their father and yank out his innards. Then he'd drown the oldest and burn the other two in their sleep… but he didn't know I was there. I hid in the hallway closet watching him slaughter my family. When he was killing my last sibling, I grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen counter. I was only four years old, so I had to climb up and jump down to get off the counter. When he thought he had done everyone in, he did his routine going through my family’s things, keeping whatever for a trophy. That's when I attacked.

I stabbed him in the back of the kneecap at first, making him howl and fall to one knee. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "You got that look, kid, like I did. You got that killer instinct." Then I plunged the knife into his throat, then his eye, piercing it into his brain. The blood flushed over me like a river, covering me totally, I liked what I had done. If he's watching now from hell or heaven, I would like to thank him.

I called the police. They came and saw all the carnage.

"My God! I 'm surprised that this little girl is not in shock or crying her eyes out," said one police woman.

"Yep, but she'll definitely be needing some therapy, that's for sure," said a child services worker.

They placed me in an orphanage. After they had looked me over physically and mentally and deemed me fit for society, they released me into the custody and care of the nuns who ran orphanage. Now let's jump ahead about four years, when I was eight…

I was still at the orphanage because I was basically a lost cause for adoption. People thought I was “damaged goods” because of what I went through, even though the nuns would insist I was strong-willed and smarter than anyone they knew, even among adults. They taught me how to be a proper lady, a good Catholic. I went to church, received my first communion, and later down the road went through confirmation, in school. I surpassed the other children in my class by two grades. At the age I should have been at the third-grade level, I was at the fifth-grade level instead. But enough about my schooling and living in the orphanage. Let me tell you what morbid things that I did at that age.

I would collect things. Normally you would think a little girl would collect pretty things or stamps or coins or even seashells, but not me.

I collected dead things, like bugs, spiders, mice, and rats and saved them all in a shoebox. I even named them. Then I discovered puppets one day the nuns had thrown a show for a Catholic holiday.

So I went out and collected dead cats, squirrels, raccoons, and even opossums and stuck nails into their paws, heads, and mouths and then placed strings on them and connected them to sticks, making them into morbid marionettes. One day when we had outside time, I went to an area where there was an old shed where I hid my toys. I 8

started to play with them. It was make-believe time. The nuns were looking for me for lunch. A young nun by the name of Sister Amanda came stumbling into the old shed and saw me playing and talking to myself with the dead animals all stringed up like that. "Sarah, Sarah Marshall!"

That is my birth name, by the way, if I didn't tell you in the beginning of my story. I have gone by many since.

"Sarah Marshall, how could you do such a thing to God's creatures like that?" she whispered to me.

“I didn't kill them! They were already dead!" I argued.

"So they were dead when you found them? That doesn't give you the right to play with them in such a way. I want you to place all those poor animals into boxes and bury them out back. They'll make good fertilizer. Who taught you or told you to do those things?"

"My friends, Thomas and Melissa." I said.

"Oh, your make-believe friends. Well, they shouldn't tell you to do those type of things. Now go wash up for lunch, and right afterwards, you and I will bury these poor animals and then I want you to go pray for God's forgiveness."

"Yes, Sister Amanda." I ran back into the orphanage to wash up and eat lunch.

Sister Amanda was waiting for me with two shovels. "Come, Sarah, let's do that gardening project!"

I looked at her quizzically and then saw her wink and smile.

"Okay, Sister."

That day I had three friends, instead of my two friends. Yeah, I do have voices in my head that talk to me, not what you normal people or psychologists will say is your good and bad conscience. They were both bad. They taught me many things. They told me how to take out that family serial killer, then many other things down the line, but as for Sister Amanda was concerned, she was just like me. She helped me bury the dead creatures. Once we were done, we washed up, and I prayed for forgiveness.

"Let's not pretend anymore, shall we Sarah? Tomorrow after class, come meet me at our new secret place, shall we my dear?"

"Yes, Sister Amanda."

Throughout the whole school day, I was excited to go to the shed and talk to Sister Amanda. She wasn't a predator in a sexual sense, but she was defiantly a predator, like a lioness in sheep's clothing. As soon as the bell rang, I dashed out to the old shed. She was out there waiting for me. "Ah, my little puppeteer is here… very good. Sarah, can I tell you a secret, my dear? I 'm not really a nun." She said while smoking a cigarette. "Hell I don't even believe in this shit. The only reason why I 'm even here is for you. I read your story in the newspaper and tried looking for you by pretending to be a different nun at each orphanage. I would kill the new nun that was going to that orphanage and pretend to be her. Once I found out you weren't there, I'd do a new orphanage. There are about twelve nuns dead because of my fascination with you. So now you know the truth. Do you have any questions my dear?"

"Yes, I do. Where did you hide the bodies? How did you kill those nuns? Why are you looking for me? What is your real name?" I asked.

"Very well, I will tell you. I did many things to hide the bodies of the nuns, I placed heavy chains on some of them and threw them into the Chicago river or lake Michigan or I would use a chainsaw and chop them to bits and feed some farmer's pigs the remains out in the country somewhere or I would bury them in the woods. To answer your second question, I would slice their throats, stomachs, hearts, shoot them in the head, or smother them with plastic bags, choke them out, or even break their necks. To answer your third question, it was to get you out of this place. This place won't help you. I've got plenty of money and knowledge to store in you. So how about it, Sarah? Would you like to leave this place and come live with me and learn from me? I'm Tammy Jefferies, by the way. You're the only

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person that knows my real name… well, besides my parents… and they're dead."

The voices of Thomas and Melissa had me ask her. "How are we going to get away from leaving this place without the police on our tails?"

She gave me a diabolical grin and said. "Oh, you'll know, I'll wake you about an hour after lights out. You'll like what I do, I promise you, my dear."

We left each other; I headed out the shed first. What happened to her the rest of the night, I do not know. But I was awakened by her covering my mouth. "Put these on, sweetie, I hope they fit," she said as she gave me a pair of black pants, shirt, and boots, I could also smell gasoline throughout the sleeping area.

"Come on, sweetie" Whispered Tammy. Once we stealthily made it out, she chained the double doors shut and poured a trail of gasoline down the hall splashing some on the walls, then locked the front doors with more chains. "Don't worry sweetie they won't feel it.

They'll die in their sleep, and no one will get out. All the doors are chained. Here, you do the honors." She gave me a book of matches, I hesitated for a moment but my friends edged me on, so I lit the whole pack of matches and threw it on the puddle of gasoline. It ignited so fast we had to run out of the blaze.

As we ran to the main gates, we heard the screams and cries of agony over the roaming fire. I thought it was the most beautiful thing ever. "Come child, before the police and firemen come," Tammy said. As we exited the gates and hopped into her blazer, we drove off into the night. Fire trucks and police cars zoomed past us. Tammy took me to a hotel and she discussed our plans. “I thought this through, Sarah. We are going to change our appearances, we are going to color your blonde hair red, as well as mine, and I 'm going to give you the name Amanda Grey. How's that?"

"Oh, beautiful." I said.

"I thought it would be a great name for you, and let me just say I never would want you to call me mother… always aunt something.

So this time around I 'm going to be Laura Grey, Aunt Laura, you'll be going to school too, and I've got tons of fake school transcripts with different names just for you, and when you come back from school, the real schooling begins," she said.

We would watch the news reports which said that everyone had perished at the orphanage fire, and it was arson, and the police were looking into all suspects with a modus operandi.

"Well, we're safe aren't we?" she said. We then packed up and left, and that is how I got out of the orphanage, but now the real fun began for me.

Every city we would go to, we would change up our hair color. I would go to school at day, and at night she would work for meat factories and such. She taught me how to use a knife effectively by using a pig, but she would diagram the body of a human. She even worked for an undertaker at nights so she really showed me the ropes.

She taught me about the many poisons out there in the world, how to use firearms and do martial arts. She was a fine killing machine.

Then one day of the many months of training, she said. "You have done well, my young apprentice. You are now ten years of age. I say you’re ready. I will now show you how to use your assets once you get older. I'll tell you more tomorrow," she said.

After school, I came home and saw her in a short skirt and tight, low-cut blouse. You could actually see her nipples and double-D-cup sized breasts. "Why are you dressed like that?" I asked.

"This is one of the lessons. You'll need to know how to trick a victim. Now, a rich businessman is coming over thinking I'm a call girl. That is a high-priced hooker, sweetie, if you didn't know, and

VOL 8, ISSUE 6

you'll watch from my closet. That is why I drilled a peep hole for you."

"Okay."

We ate dinner and about eight in the evening the doorbell rang.

"It's him. Now go upstairs and do as I told you. Above all, no noise!"

“Yes, Tammy." I ran upstairs and went into her closet. I heard her laughter as she came into the bedroom, I heard a man's voice telling her how beautiful she was and how much he was going to enjoy tearing into her. "Oh you're a bad boy. Does the bad boy like to get spanked?" I heard her say.

"Oh, God yes, yes I do!"

"Then take off your clothes and get into the position, as Momma gets her paddle."

"Yes, Mommy."

I saw his clothes fling off and the man on all fours, naked and bareassed.

Tammy came around with a large paddle, turned my way and smiled and winked. With one long swing, she placed the paddle right between the man’s ass-crack. The guy howled in pain, but he loved it. After she was done the guy's behind was a beet red color.

Then she ordered him to lie on his back and the she cuffed his hands and feet to the bed.

She stripped in front of the man, getting him excited. Then she straddled him as she bounced on him, up and down. She slowly pulled out two letter openers that were actually holding up her hair.

With two powerful blows, she stuck one into the man's eyeball then the other into his left ear. Both had penetrated his brain. She went into an orgasm as the man went into his convulsed death throes and then finally went still. "Oh, you're such a dead fuck, you bastard!"

She got off of him and put on a robe, then tossed a sheet over the dead man's body.

I came out of the closet.

She said. "Now, the lesson of the day is this, it is that you could easily bluff a man with your sex appeal into doing whatever you want, and second one is getting rid of the evidence." She got into dark clothing and told me to do the same.

Once we were dressed, we dragged the body down into the basement. Then she explained the many ways of getting rid of a body, as she placed plastic on the floor and flipped the body upon it.

"It so happens we are renting a house that has its own crematory in the form of this here furnace. Pass me that axe over there in the corner, would you please."

I gave her the axe and she hacked the body into pieces. Blood splattered on our clothes, then we placed the pieces into the furnace and got rid of all evidence: the plastic, his clothing, and so forth. We took the money out of his wallet—a little over three thousand—and burnt the rest, followed by our clothing. We watched, dressed only in our under-garments, as everything burned.

The smell of flesh burning excited me. Once everything was ash, she stirred it up to make sure that nothing but ash was there. When she was satisfied we went upstairs. "In two days, Sarah, you'll get your first, well, in your eyes, about your fifteenth victim. The serial killer you killed when you were younger was your first and then a half a point for each person killed at the fire at the orphanage. But after your training with me, I would consider it your first."

I was so excited that on the second day I kept asking her, “Who, when, and where it will be?”

She kept telling me, "Don't worry about it. I'll tell you when…"

(This chilling serial story to be continued…)

“Diary of a Female Serial Killer” is John Novotony’s first attempt at writing a short story thriller. We are proud to feature his work!

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9

Acquiesce

by Brian Robertson Natalija zipped open her purse halfway so the other passengers on the rattling Belgrade city bus couldn’t see her cell phone, Italian sunglasses, and the foreign fashion magazine that she had received in the mail that morning. The sun shot through the windows, sizzling the seats, handlebars, and passengers like insects under a magnifying glass. The back of her designer t-shirt stuck to the wooden seat, and the thick air let no smell—from armpits, sweaty clothes, a burek in a paper bag—fade away. The bus driver’s radio blared news about last night’s NATO bombings. The announcer called nineteen ninety-nine a bad year for the new Serbia.

Plagued by the barrage of odours, trivial talk, and the bumping of the bus on the uneven roads, she rummaged through her purse for Aspirin. She saw the face of the model on the cover of the magazine, and knew that flipping through it would give her some comfort. But she also knew that some passengers might object to her reading a magazine written in English. Someone might admonish her, or voice a political opinion. She wished she were downtown already, alone in a restaurant or café. There, she could contemplate the magazine’s photos of models in far-off retreats and metropolises. She could daydream about living in those places, and having hoards of admirers who would try to woo her.

She found the Aspirin container—empty—and rolled her eyes. She remembered having taken the last two earlier that morning, to relieve the hangover from the night before.

By late evening yesterday, she was sitting on the bunker’s concrete floor next to Sasha, her favourite pursuer, and also a neighbour and fellow student, except that he studied Yugoslav literature, not business. The refuge held everyone from the apartment complex’s five buildings. He managed to read and somehow ignore the babies’ crying, the smell from the shelter’s one toilet, the endless chatter.

The bunker trembled around two in the morning, and the lights went on and off for a few seconds. People yelled. She hugged him and dug her face into his neck. From his knapsack, he pulled out a bottle of rakija. After four or five shots each, they held hands, told each other jokes, and gave the bottle to strangers to be passed around and finished. When her cheek rubbed against his in a fit of laughter, he touched his lips to hers. She pulled away and slowly released his hand.

This isn’t a bus, she thought. It’s a fucking microwave. I bet busses in Vienna or Rome have air conditioning. To see the traffic, she looked out the window, past the labourer sitting next to her who wore construction boots and sipped a can of beer. She saw ambulances and the remains of an apartment building, sprawled out into the street like a skirt. Volunteers in blue vests screamed, “Medic, Medic,” and carried a bleeding man in his underwear. She turned away, but there was nowhere to rest her eyes. A girl standing next to her in the white jacket of a baker or butcher eyed Natalija’s matching purple bracelets and earrings. The bus took a detour down a narrow street with idling cars locked in place.

Her cell phone rang. The elderly couple sitting in front of her glanced back curiously. She fumbled for the phone.

“We’re not meeting at the square,” her friend Tijana said. “There might be another demonstration, so we’ll study at the traffic engineering library. It’s supposed to open today, sometime around eleven.”

“I don’t know,” Natalija said softly, aware of a priest staring at her.

“Don’t come crying when university starts again and there’s exam after exam.”

“I know,” Natalija said and thought, What the hell makes you think our university will ever start again?

10

“Sasha said he’ll be there.”

“I still don’t know. I’ll call you later,” she said and hung up.

She stood abruptly and squeezed through the crowd to wait by the bus driver for her stop. She felt this would make her arrive downtown sooner.

A breeze scattered red leaflets, with President Milošević’s face and his denouncement of illegal NATO aggression, all over the downtown sidewalks. Vexed from the bus ride, she hurried by café-bistros and kafanas like a wind-up toy set loose. She approached McDonald’s.

Five gypsy kids, dark skinned and their clothes blotched with dirt smudges, stood in front of the restaurant speaking Romany. One of them, a girl of thirteen or fourteen, had her back to Natalija and faced a tourism ad in a bus shelter. The model in the ad wore a matching turquoise bikini and bandanna, and watched Montenegro’s sea waves from a beach chair. Natalija turned up her nose at this— she had been to Montenegro a dozen times.

The girl turned around, very pregnant, and used her teeth to pull a cigarette out of a pack she was holding. Her other arm was curled around a baby as if it were a plastic doll. She barked an order at the boys. The tallest of them mouthed back, pointed to Natalija, looked down at her ass, and laughed with the other boys. The girl slowly put the cigarettes in her pocket, and instantly slapped his face. He lowered his head and frowned. She turned and gazed at Natalija, who rushed inside the restaurant.

Armed with a coffee and apple turnover, she took the only free spot, a corner table. She breathed deeply and told herself she’d leave when the gypsies dispersed, and find a quiet, empty café. She pulled out the fashion magazine and a mini English dictionary. Her mail fell from the magazine’s pages. One letter from the Italian embassy, another from the Austrian University Student Exchange Service. Excitement swelled in her. As she opened the letter from Austria, she noticed a McDonald’s employee writing on the front windows with a marker, “We are Serbs,” and “Serbs work here.”

Duh, she thought, who else would work here? Foreign students? Aid workers?

The Austrians, “regretfully” they wrote, required more documents from her: an extra police check from Novi Sad for the months she had lived there—nine years ago—and an additional recommendation letter from one of her professors. Idiots, she thought. When the war’s done, then—then they’ll come back for our top brains with their precious exchange programs and internships. She held the letter from the Italians in both hands like a winning lottery ticket. She spoke no Italian, but understood the answer to her visa application, the one line under Dear Ms. Natalija Ličina. “Visto per studenti rifiutato.” Refused. She felt the world was shooing her away. She held back tears and tore the letters. Keep calm, she told herself.

There are other countries, quiet ones that need people—Finland, Canada. But who the hell wants to go there, and who knows for how long?

The gypsy girl shuffled through the restaurant’s front door, her baby sleeping soundly, as quiet as death. It had always amazed Natalija how those babies slept through honking horns and sirens as their mothers entered traffic, striding from car to car with open, begging hands. The girl’s red sweater and filthy yellow skirt matched the restaurant’s colors.

Natalija lost her appetite. Barefoot, the girl walked from table to table with a sixth sense. She avoided a woman stuffing herself with a Big Mac before the lady could wave a finger at her. From a man in a suit, behind a newspaper, she got fries. Natalija felt the girl’s eyes land on her. She pretended to read the magazine and moved her purse to her lap. The girl made straight for Natalija’s table and stood before it. After twenty seconds, Natalija’s panic seethed to capacity.

She looked up. The girl smiled, even after an employee touched her arm and said, Scram.

“Beat it,” he said, lightly kicking the girl’s shin. “Now.”

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Natalija swallowed in relief and felt shielded by the man. He pushed the girl’s shoulders. The baby—none of this fazed the baby.

The girl kept staring at Natalija and grabbed a cheeseburger wrapper from another table. The employee then closed the glass door on her face, forcing her out beyond the threshold. The girl sniffed the wrapper and watched Natalija through the glass. Natalija agonized and stopped herself from biting her manicured nails.

In the library, Natalija regretted having come there and shook her head as she listened to Dimitar and Miloje arguing. Textbooks waited on the desk, all open to the first page of the chapter on international marketing. Sasha read a novel by Ivo Andrić.

“Natalija,” Tijana said. “Dimitar is still bomb flying.”

“You’re going to get killed,” Natalija told him.

“Always exaggerating,” Dimitar said, shaking his head. “I told you, we know which buildings will get hit. Anybody can find out—just check the NATO website.”

“Sure, but they miss,” she said, remembering her bus ride. “They supposedly miss their targets … . Anyways, this is depressing.”

“You’re judging me,” he said. “When I do it, I wear three jackets: two winter coats, one rain jacket. Also, my old skateboarding pads and helmet. A guy last night called me a pussy. This guy—he stands in front of the building. I never do that. I stand down the street from the building. That way you fly straight down the street, and not upwards.”

“I think,” Sasha said calmly, looking up from the book, “that you guys are fucked in the brain.”

Natalija smiled. She wished he would glance at her instead of slowly lowering his eyes back to the novel.

“That’s what you guys do instead of studying,” Tijana said.

“Like you’re someone to talk,” Dimitar said. “You think you can study in a bunker with the whole world down there talking, drinking, twitching?”

“Like there’s any difference,” Natalija said, “You don’t have a job waiting for you, do you?”

“What about the uranium from those explosions?” Tijana told Dimitar. “You’re not afraid of cancer?”

“Now that makes no difference,” he said. “It’s in the air. You’re as vulnerable as I am.”

The library doors opened and heavy, quick footsteps resounded throughout the room. Three students wearing jeans and t-shirts stormed in. The one with a beard and a black bandanna, the leader, called out from the front of the library.

“We need you all to come to the demonstration. It’s for everyone’s benefit. We’re all students, and that’s what students do. It all starts with us—we … .”

Annoyed by this, Natalija sighed as he tried to remember his words.

“We raise society’s consciousness,” he continued. “They see us, they get courage. All of us, every night—we all hear the sirens, the planes. Now it’s time to send back a message.”

A group of girls sitting by the entrance slunk out the door with their books. The leader approached Natalija’s table.

“You five are with us, right?” he said.

“I am,” Sasha said. He closed his book, and stood.

No, what are you doing? Natalija thought. Dimitar looked around at the others.

“Not now,” Dimitar told the guy. “Later. We’re studying.”

Why does Sasha want to go? Natalija asked herself.

“The time is now,” the guy said and jammed the desk with his finger.

Students at other desks rose and waited at the front of the library.

Another group walked out. The leader scowled at them.

“The way some people sit back,” he said. “Always. Until they feel it, first hand. Then they know.”

VOL 8, ISSUE 6

Dimitar now nodded in agreement. Natalija felt ashamed of him for having no backbone. He stood and looked expectantly at his friends.

When she saw the McDonald’s sign, the guy with the bandanna stopped walking, told the twenty of them to wait at the corner, and looked around at the crowd of people standing in the street, blocking traffic. After hopefully checking the sign of the last bus in sight, and then seeing it marked “Garage,” she felt her anxiety peaking and looked around for Sasha. She noticed the writing on the windows of the McDonald’s, “Serbs work here,” when a chair flew through the window, into the restaurant. A man in his forties who looked like a taxi driver threw a heavy flower pot through another window.

That started the riot, like a gunshot at a track and field race. The gypsy kids appeared out of nowhere and darted inside the restaurant. Natalija felt faint. Two men, with t-shirts wrapped around their heads, joined the kids and smashed the cash registers on the marble floors. Down Bulevar Kralja Aleksandra, people bellowed and ran with signs, sticks, bottles, chairs, and pipes towards the row of embassies.

From the alleyway behind the restaurant, McDonald’s employees emerged in white undershirts, along with another man, shirtless.

Natalija figured they wanted to conceal their employment. Students, waiters, hair stylists, bus drivers, construction workers—everyone merged into a wave that surged down the boulevard. Police stood alongside the streets, nudging one another and chuckling as the crowd boiled itself into uncontrollable rage. Now and then the police sprayed the crowd with water, but with an arc-like motion that showered instead of pelted. From a nearby bombed building, people removed stones, sticks, pieces of metal, and broken furniture.

Natalija found herself surrounded by strangers who threw everything they could find against the walls and recently cemented windows of the embassies. She closed her eyes, wishing to block the sight of the garbage cans on fire and the bottles, salt and pepper dispensers, dirt, and spray paint cans flying overhead. She turned around with the desperate hope of seeing Sasha, and instead saw the gypsy girl standing ten feet away. She chewed on a hamburger, holding the baby in the crook of her other arm and a rock in her hand. She approached Natalija, staring at her shoes. She held out the rock to her, slowly, as if extending her arm to a wild horse’s muzzle.

Natalija felt adrenaline course through her, and looked around frantically, suspecting another gypsy would snatch her purse.

“Throw it,” the gypsy girl said, cocking her head towards the German embassy.

Natalija shifted her purse diagonally across her chest, and seized the rock. She felt its weight and gripped it tightly, her eyes taking in the girl, the buildings, the stream of water circling over the crowd.

She glimpsed the flag of Italy, still not removed from the building next to the German embassy, and tossed the rock at one of its barred windows.

The girl laughed. Natalija looked around, faced the girl, and smiled.

She felt someone lay a hand on her shoulder and turned around abruptly. Sasha wiped sweat from his forehead, grabbed the back of her head with both hands, and kissed her. A thick spray of water fell on them. She wrapped her arms around him and pushed her hips into his.

Raised in Ottawa, Brian Robertson studied in Toronto and Rio de Janeiro, and currently writing a doctoral thesis in green economics with a German university. Brian has been writing fiction since 2006. In 2010 he won an Award of Artistic Merit from the Rhode Island Writer’s Circle. Since then the university student-run magazine Persephonyx has published two of his short stories (“Confetti” and “Lapse”) and five flash-fiction pieces.

Haiku Heute and Lynx Poetry Journal (AHA Poetry) will be publishing some of his German-language haiku in July and October 2012.

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11

A Rendering

by Janna Vought

The house was like an ember glowing in the dark, every light ablaze summoning me home. I coasted into the driveway, headlights swallowed by the floodlights mounted atop the wrought iron gate. I switched off the ignition; sputtered exhaust faded into the silence of the night. My palms stuck to the steering wheel, tacky with perspiration. I glanced at my watch, quarter past nine, fifteen minutes past my curfew. I grabbed my bags from beside me, opened the door and heaved my bloated body out of the car. I had lost track of time, a deadly error, but I hadn't been able to resist when she asked if we could stop at Baskin Robbins and share a banana split. *** I hadn't seen my sister, Megan, in months; he forbade any contact with her. She moved from Florida to be closer to me, but the journey across the country had only resulted in the chasm between us growing vaster. I had managed to arrange small outings with her now and again, days when he made plans with colleagues or signed up for league sports. In these moments of weakness, he'd lapse and let me out of his sight, if only for a while. I'd sneak a phone call to her from my bedroom closet, "I can go out tonight!"

"Are you sure? He doesn't like for you to see me."

"He won't even know." We'd make our plans in hushed whispers like convicts hatching an escape plan.

On this particular evening, it was an excursion to the mall. I dictated a detailed itinerary to him before his departure for drinks at the club, just as I rehearsed in the bathroom mirror only a few hours prior. "I have some errands to run. I need to go to the mall and find a dress for the Stevens' cocktail party and pick up some wine for your brother's visit on Sunday."

"Pick something tasteful, not too revealing. Something with sleeves, understood?"

I nodded, my head bowed like a penitent parochial school girl. "Do you plan to go anywhere else?" he'd asked as he brushed back his ebony hair flecked with strands of silver, still wet from his evening shower. I swallowed, careful to recall if we discussed any other destination other than the mall. In the past, he documented the mileage on my car before I left and calculated the distances I travelled when I returned. Any deviation was not allowed.

"Yes, that's it," I had assured him.

"Fine, be home by nine." Without a glance in my direction he turned from the mirror and left the bathroom.

Megan and I had spent the evening sampling perfume and trying on designer cocktail dresses. We strolled through the pet store, admiring the kaleidoscope of tropical fish swimming about in giant tanks and fawning over the tiny teacup Chihuahua puppies bundled together in a ball of fluff, sleeping in the storefront window. We talked endlessly, trying to catch up on the lost months without contact.

"I'm worried about you, Ginni. He never lets you out of his sight."

"I'm fine, he's just protective of me, that's all," I'd said, careful not to pique her concern. Secrecy was my best defense. If others knew, I didn't know what he'd do.

We left the mall and spent the rest of our time laughing ourselves silly in the back of the ice cream shop, both of us on the brink of a sugar induced coma from all of the caramel, hot fudge, and whipped cream. Tension released its strangle hold on me. His anger and resentment that cloaked me in a black shroud lifted from my body. In that moment, I was free.

When I pulled up to Megan's condominium later that night, she paused, hesitant to open the door. "Are you sure you're okay?"

12

"Positive, I'll see you soon, okay? I'm so tired right now. I just want to go home and take a hot bath and fall into bed." I mustered a small smile for her benefit.

"If you ever need me, you know I'm here." She squeezed my hand and shut the door.

I honked the horn; she waved to me from the front drive and shouted, "I love you, Ginni!" *** I mounted the stairs to the enormous mahogany door that led into the darkness like the gates of Hades. Skilled hands had cut images of hawks in flight into the rich wood. Before I put my key into the lock, the door flew wide. He stood in the doorway; his large frame eclipsed all but a sliver of light from inside the house.

"Where were you?"

"Running errands...I'm only fifteen minutes late. I decided to stop and get an ice cream on my way home." I crept past him into the foyer. I slipped off my sling backs; my toes burrowed into the thick pile of the Persian rug covering a section of the marbled tile entryway. Tile is cold, unforgiving with its slick cool surface. I sought the comfort of fibers wherever I found it in the expanse of the house.

"Why didn't you answer my calls?"

I fingered my phone tucked inside the folds of my purse. "I must have turned the ringer off by mistake; I'm sorry." I bent over to retrieve my shoes. I couldn't wait to immerse myself in mounds of bubbles, watch the transparent spheres surface and collapse in the glow of scented beeswax candles. My hand brushed the strap of my shoe when a force lifted me and threw me across the entryway. My head hit the tile floor. Pain radiated from the left side of my face.

Clouds lifted before my eyes like thunderheads gathering in a late spring sky.

"Stupid bitch, don't get smart with me!" His voice boomed in the cavernous space of the house. I tried to right myself against the wall, gather my feet beneath me and stand; he punched me in the face, sending a shower of garnet droplets across his dark blue shirt. "I've had enough of your shit!"

"Wait, please!" Blood flowed from my nose. Hard bits of enamel peppered my tongue, remnants of my front tooth. He brought an aluminum bat from behind his back, the one he played league baseball with on Tuesday and Friday nights. I knew it well. He grasped the metal stick in his hands, twisting it about with ease like a Spartan preparing for battle.

"This ought to take care of things."

I spun away, trying to slide my body across the hard floor, but his hand was quicker as it swung with precision. Metal met bone; my arm crunched. I could not find my voice to scream. A mewling sound escaped me as I writhed on the ground. He brought the bat up again, a blow down to my belly, striking hard against my uterine wall. My body ignited in flames; I couldn't breathe. The bat clanged against the tiles when he dropped it, rolling to a stop beside my head.

Through the haze, I saw his bare feet receding. A moment later, I heard Sportscenter from his den right before I fell into darkness. *** I awoke the next morning in our bed, my arm encased in a plaster cast. My head throbbed; a shallow breath sent pain streaking through my sternum. I tried to lift myself from the mountain of pillows beneath me, but a gentle hand on my shoulder stopped me.

"Shhh, baby, you need to rest." I recoiled from the sound. I cast a glance to my left with my eye not obscured with swelling and saw him seated next to the bed, a book on his lap, reading glasses perched atop his broad nose. The look of concern made me nauseous; bile coated my throat.

"I set your arm and gave you a hit of Vicodin so you could rest comfortably." He cleared his throat. "Listen, I'm sorry for last night. I lost my temper. I had a bad day at the hospital and wasn't in my right

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mind. You know I never meant to hurt you, right?" His slate grey eyes penetrated mine. I remembered the first time he had looked at me with those eyes. The warmth in them could have melted the ages. I nodded, too tired to say anything. He stood and placed his lips against my forehead. "Good, we'll forget this ever happened, okay?

Now, how about some of the tomato bisque from Woody's I ordered earlier? I know it's your favorite. You know I'll do anything for you." *** Violence comes to me in waves. When I first married him, I couldn't imagine a life more perfect. The wife of an orthopedic surgeon, I wanted for nothing. We lived atop a bluff in Laguna Beach.

We built a fake estate ocean side, filled it with an ivory Steinway, Waterford crystal, Picassos, a Jaguar parked in the driveway, far removed from my early days as the daughter of an orange famer in Myakka City, a small farming and ranching community in Florida.

Growing up, I spent time wandering rows of trees in the groves searching flowering trees for fallen fruit. They dropped with a soft thump onto sandy ground dotted with cylindrical homes of doodle bugs that burrowed underneath the loam. I took whatever I wanted; there was always enough then. I ferried plump carcasses through groves thick with the aroma of orange blossoms and bees drunk with nectar to my mother who stood in the kitchen preparing Sunday supper: fried Grouper and black-eyed peas with cornbread. As the fish sizzled in the hot cast iron skillet, she carved the rind away from the soft skin, exposing sweet tart flesh hidden within. I bit into succulent wedges, juices dripping down my chin. I never wanted anything more.

Age corrupts a soul; soon my thoughts of pleasure had turned to discontent. I tired of long days spent doing chores required to keep an agricultural business running. I wanted more for myself than a sunburned face, cracked hands, and jeans covered with the day's grime. Following a dream and a clichÊ, I moved to southern California when I turned twenty-two, away from my younger sister, my parents, my friends—my security. High on will and determination, I worked fifty hours a week at Denny's serving coffee and pancakes to strung out teenagers and homeless men at two thirty in the morning so I could pay to attend real estate classes. My studio apartment offered me a view of the Holiday Inn off of Interstate 5. Two years and hundreds of ass grabs and puke stains later, I received my license to sell real estate in California.

I torched my nametag and replaced it with casual business suits, turned in my Keds for high heels. Success came from my enthusiasm and drive. It was here, in the throes of my new found identity that I met him. He came to an open house I held at a beachfront condominium complex. He sauntered in his surgical scrubs, fresh from his afternoon rounds. He came to the open house in search of a weekend retreat, a means to escape the intense stress endured by a surgeon. I was enamored. The shock of dark hair woven with steel gray gave him an air of sophistication. His eyes held within them the answers to mysteries of the generation. When he spoke, the calm baritone resonated deep within me. Once captured in his embrace, there was no escape. *** Our marriage began on a whim. Two weeks after we started dating, he proposed to me over Eggs Benedict and mimosas shared at a bed and breakfast carved on a hillside in Napa where we had escaped for a weekend of passion and carnal sin. "You're a wonderful woman, Virginia. You intoxicate me. In all my searching, I never met anyone like you."

I grabbed a plump strawberry from the room service tray and held it to his lips. He bit into the berry with precision. "When are you going to call me what everyone else does: Ginni? Virginia is so formal. No one calls me by my full name except my grandmother." I bent over and kissed him, his lips still tainted with tart juice. The VOL 8, ISSUE 6

folds of my robe unfurled to reveal the swell of my breast hidden just beyond his reach in the velour fabric.

He reached out and pulled the robe taut against my skin. His eyes turned dull, lifeless, his mouth folded into a scowl. "I prefer Virginia."

Like a flash of lightning across an August sky, the moment passed just as quickly as it had come. Anger drained from him; his face softened its hard edges. He reached across the table and pulled a tiny black box from behind a vase of roses and deposited it in front of me. He flipped the lid, revealing a large clear stone set atop a wide ring of white gold. He clasped my hand in his powerful grip, fingers square and thick with nails trimmed in a rigid line, free from any trace of debris. "Virginia, will you marry me?"

"I...I don't know. We hardly know each other," I stammered.

"I love you; I want you for my own." His abrupt tone flustered me.

"I promise you'll never want for anything ever again. I'll always take care of you as long as you remain faithful to me." The ring called to me from its perch in the black velvet. I had never seen a diamond so beautiful. What did I fear, marrying a doctor who promised to indulge my every whim?

We married on a private beach on the coast of Maui. His best friend and my sister served as sole witnesses to the ceremony. I walked across sands warmed by the late day sun in my bare feet and a simple white strapless gown, a hibiscus blossom tucked behind my ear, to where he waited for me. We joined hands and promised to love each other as the sun ignited the water in flames. I had never felt more alive, more certain of anything in my life. Destiny chose my mate, my spirit's doppelganger. Without him, life did not matter. *** Heaven retreated into Hell. Soon after our return to the mainland, things between us turned dark and frigid as December nights. He didn't speak to me for hours on end, withdrew, locked himself inside his private study. He worked countless hours at the hospital, coming home just before dawn. He pulled away when I tried to kiss him or touch his hand. I told myself it was just newlywed blues, nothing to cause worry, until that one evening when I first encountered his rage. *** I wanted to surprise him; something to lift him from the doldrums in which he always dwelled. During a weekend when he went on a golf retreat to Pebble Beach with his brother, I redecorated his study.

I ordered a new desk for him online the week prior to replace the ancient oak roll top he sat hunkered over in the corner. The new desk, a lustrous cherry wood, shone like a polished mirror; it captured my reflection as I arranged all of the papers and books I cleared from his old desk into his new one. I exchanged thick drapes that refused the sun entry with wood slat blinds that let light stream across the room. Gone was the dark wood paneling; fresh Almond Biscotti paint coated the walls. A framed picture of us standing on the beach on our wedding day, the sun dipping into the Pacific behind us, completed the redesign. I set a vase of fresh daylilies on the desk next to the picture, showered, put on his favorite perfume and nothing more, and laid down on the tartan loveseat in the study, waiting for his return.

"Get up!" a stern voice bellowed. I sat up with a start, trying to focus upon the figure standing over me.

"You're home! I must have dozed off."

"Cover yourself ! Come downstairs—now."

I wrapped the fleece throw around my bare shoulders and wandered downstairs. I found him in the kitchen. "Let me fix you something to eat," I said as I reached for the refrigerator door, "How about steak and potatoes? You must be hungry after the drive." A blow in the center of my back knocked me against the granite slab counter.

"Don't speak to me in that way! Ever!" he hissed, eyes flashing.

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13

"Please forgive me," I said, confused and disoriented.

He reached from behind his back and pulled out a large silver bat.

"Didn't I tell you never to go into my den?"

"Please, no!"

"Are you crying, you stupid bitch?"

I pressed myself down into the corner like a rabbit cowering in shadows. I closed my eyes and willed myself to dissolve into the air.

"I'll teach you to disobey me!"

God, please help me. *** The bat is never far from his side. He wields it like a saber. The metal is dented and scratched; small flecks of red mar the smooth finish. It doesn't take much force to break thousands of capillaries.

Many times, I have found myself sprawled across the bathroom floor, shards of perfume bottles and soap dishes around my broken frame while he stands over me, bat swinging like a pendulum above my head. No one knows my pain. The town vibrates with my seclusion. Scars embed into my skin, evidence I can't cover with makeup and clever lies. Bones eventually ease back into their sockets, hair grows back, bruises fade, but the shame remains. I tell myself that I am not here, trapped in a parody of my former life.

I fear him. What fated me to choose him? He tires of me. I see him peering at me over the morning paper with a glare as cold as a marble slab. It's only a matter of time. I feel her stir deep within my belly. Tiny limbs caress me. Each night, I lay awake, tracing the lines separating me from this being. She refuses her confinement; I am ill prepared for her arrival. I can't let him find out; he'll take her, erase all traces of me. Judgment comes; there's nowhere to hide. After tonight, things will never be the same. *** I make him fresh blueberry muffins this morning, as I do every day.

I stick to my routine so as not to alert him to any shift in the atmosphere. I measure the batter with precision into each cup and place ten plump berries atop every one. After I pull them from the oven, I slather them with organic butter and serve them with a cup of fresh black coffee with a splash of cream, just as he demands.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"Quiet, Virginia, I'm reading," he says without looking up from his paper. I sit in silence, careful not to make a sound. He wipes his mouth on the linen napkin and stands up from the table. "I expect dinner ready when I return home. I'll see you at seven." He strides from the kitchen without another glance in my direction. Only when I hear the garage door close and the purr of his Jaguar fade into the crash of waves pounding the shore do I exhale.

My mother warned me when I left home: "Good girls stay home, raise a family. One shouldn't wander so far from what is familiar. The devil waits in the most inconspicuous places." I scoffed at her small town religious doctrine. My greed and need for independence overshadowed any voice of reason or sentiment. Now, home is a place where I hide. If you're brave, you insinuate yourself in front of a mirror, convince yourself that this existence is not your own. I do not recognize the person in the silvered reflection. Where once I saw a young woman with a fresh face and a smile filled with possibility, I now see a woman crippled, bruised—broken. I imagine myself in a wheelchair, pissing in a metal pan. I've soaked sheets red with his rage. Soon, my stories of survival would be told to worms. My darkness is vast.

It's time for me to give up believing in something more. The time grows near when the skies collapse and I grow still—soon. My sister would call again and again, concerned about not hearing from me.

Calls to my cell phone bounce her voice from her house to a floating point in the universe, unanswered. She drives to my house, finds the door unlocked. She calls out my name in the shadowed silence, creeps to the bedroom door left open just a sliver, beholds the horror waiting inside: Woman Beaten to Death in Laguna Beach— 14

Virginia Mayer, 30, was found bludgeoned to death late Tuesday in her hillside home. The killer left her body on the bed, and covered her face with a pillow. Her unborn child did not survive the trauma. The headline echoing in my mind portends my impending demise; the last image burned on my retina is him standing over me, bat cocked back, right before he crushes my skull. *** Dinner is always at seven, no exceptions. On this evening, the sun burns to embers along the horizon. I have the back patio doors open wide to the breezes sweeping in from the Pacific. The house bursts with aromas of culinary delight. Cornish game hens rubbed with herb butter roast in the oven while baby new potatoes and fresh green beans simmer in a bath of sea salt and basil. Bruchetta awaits his arrival on the patio table along with a glass of Merlot. I plan to finish the meal with his favorite dessert: bread pudding with maple bourbon sauce.

Dressed in the organza sun dress he bought me in Cancun last summer, my hair upswept in a loose braid, I look the part of the perfect wife awaiting the return of her love. Despite the bruising on my shoulders, I decide on the sleeveless dress. He is always careful to inflict wounds undetected by others. Bruises, gashes, and scars hide beyond the hem of my pants, beneath the cuff of a sleeve where no one sees them. I want him to remember our last battle when he threw me into the bathroom wall and hit me with the shower curtain rod for forgetting to put out clean towels for his morning shower.

Headlights illuminate the kitchen from the front bay window. I hear the beep of his car alarm, the knob rattle as he inserts his key in the door. One last sweep of the house reveals everything in its specified location, not a magazine out of place on the coffee table, each fork and spoon rests with rigid exactness against the folds of the linen napkins. Without a word to me, he walks into the kitchen.

Satisfied with its appearance, he ascends the stairs to shower, his same ritual every evening before dinner. I laid a fresh towel out for him earlier along with a clean pair of pants and a crisp polo shirt.

Thirty minutes later, he arrives in the kitchen. "What did you make?"

"Cornish hens, new potatoes and green beans, and bread pudding for dessert." I knew he would not balk at his favorite meal. "Why don't you sit out on the patio and have a glass of wine while the hens finish roasting?"

His face softens as the cool sea air's tendrils drift across his skin.

"Fine, but hurry, I haven't eaten since breakfast." He retires into the shadows fragmented by flickers of light from the citronella candle I placed outside to stave off mosquitoes, awaiting his meal.

Anticipation eats away at my insides. I serve each course of his meal without sitting to eat myself. He tackles each plate with vigor, clearing away every last scrap of food I bring. I placate him with dinnertime banter about his day at the hospital: the fussy parents of a two year old who broke his arm jumping on a trampoline, an elderly woman with dementia who kept asking for her long dead husband before she slipped into an anesthetized slumber for knee replacement surgery, an infant with hip dysplasia whose parents had no health insurance. I watch tension melt from him. His shoulders slump; the Merlot stains his cheeks red. "Do you need to go to bed?"

I giggle as he spills wine down the front of his shirt.

"I'm fine," he mumbles as he attempts to spot clean the stain with his spit soaked napkin.

"You know, I could take that off for you upstairs."

His head snaps up; glazed eyes peer at me through a fog of alcohol and twelve hour days. "Really?"

"Why don't you head up and wait for me while I clear the dishes?"

"How about we take a shower?" he asks as he tries to pull himself to a standing position. I scurry over and help him rise.

"Didn't you just take one?" I ask, leading him from the patio to the curve of stairs in the foyer.

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IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

We Murdered a Ski Instructor

by Kimberly & Kristen Berger

The newspaper headline read, “Remembering Jake Wilcox.” Jake Wilcox, of Lake Tahoe, died on March 18, 2013 in a tragic ski-lift accident at Mt. Rose Ski Resort while working for Lake Tahoe Assoc. of Instructors. Hilda scanned over the details again, sighed, and took a sustained sip of her delicious coffee. There had been just no other way. They hadn’t planned on a neck injury. She had timed everything perfectly with her sister, or so they thought. He was only supposed to break a leg or two for what he did. Although murder seemed a tad extreme, at least they had prevented another irresponsible ski instructor from endangering innocent children like her niece.

Underneath his picture, the paper added a serene snapshot of Mt. Rose Meadows ski resort. Some skiers were getting ready to pass beneath a hazy fog that shrouded the ski slope, showing California’s Lake Tahoe in the background. At the end of the article, they pitched in more drivel about his accomplishments as a guide, a climber, and ski educator. The last line stated his passing was a tragic loss for the community. She paid close attention to the detailed report about the police investigation but there was nothing new about their involvement.

The ski instructor certainly couldn’t have known that the girl’s mother would become so upset. After all, he was just following the rules of the lodge, with a few of his own bullshit rules too. Paid to give kids group ski lesson through a camping signature program, he would train the spoiled rich brats how to ski so they could brag about how they could do a “Black” or a few tricks on a snowboard. It wasn’t his problem it was only zero degrees that day, or that he had to snap off the girl’s cell phone when her mother called her. He forced her to finish the course with her hands firmly on the poles and not on her cell phone.

That day only a few braved the cold for the lesson, and if he didn’t have at least four children he wouldn’t be paid in full, so he used his usual tactics to keep the last four going. Besides, he knew their typical over achieving parents would mistake his greed for pure dedication. By the time they finished the lesson, a few of their parents were already waiting to pick them up in front of the lodge.

Although it wasn’t really a lodge, it was just a gear rental center, so the kids were not allowed wait inside the warm building. The girl told him her mother would be there later, and could she please wait inside the rental center, but it was against the rules to wait inside. He told her to wait outside, that it was the rules. The rules. Only twelve, the girl stood there compliantly and since the lesson was over, he left. Apparently, he had zero degrees of empathy.

By the time Julia picked up her daughter, it did not look good. Her daughter was crying. Her daughter had waited nearly 45 minutes in zero degrees outside the lodge and her mother quickly placed her inside her heated car. She had assumed her daughter would be safe, but apparently, she was wrong. It became very clear that her daughter might be suffering from hypothermia. Once she arrived at the nearest clinic the doctors told her that frostbite could occur within 5 minutes in temperatures between 0 degrees and minus 19 degrees Fahrenheit and her daughter, a sliver of a girl, a tall lanky skinny twelve- year-old was especially vulnerable. As the doctors sat down with her later that evening, it became very clear that her daughter was suffering from both frostbite and hypothermia. The girl spent two days in the urgent care center, with her mother frantic over her daughters frostbitten toes and of course, her own anger at letting something like this happen. Thankfully, there was no serious damage, unless you count the long-distance Skype call Julia made 16

from the hospital to one of her aunts living in Germany. It had always been their job to protect the family and Julia knew they were especially good at it.

After hearing the circumstances of what happened, her aunt Hilda’s blood began to boil, and her minds swirled in a furious rage. A murderous furious rage. Of course, something had to be done about the hideous way her niece had been treated, Hilda told Julia. At the very least she would have to engage the instructor in an unpleasant conversation. A ski instructor was nothing, compared to the experience she had with some of the most vile and dangerous elements in the world. Julia felt assured that her aunt would surely do something about the situation, as always waited for the problem to resolve itself.

Shortly after their conversation, Aunt Hilda decided it was time to talk privately to her twin sister Heidi, “Ve have a situation.”

“And vat is dee situation?” her identical twin sister Heidi replied with a sly smile. It had been far too long since their last “situation” so she looked forward to hearing the details.

“There is a certain ski instructor that needs to be taught a lesson in Lake Tahoe,” Hilda said. “I will explain more later, but as you can see—” she flipped open her laptop, “—he has several complaints against him for injuring skiers. “Look here,” she pointed at a story, “he is also blamed in the death of a boy.”

“Ah I see,” Heidi said shaking her head. “How unfortunate he escapes liability from state law there. Zee skiers are blamed – told it’s their own negligence zat kills them. Vell, I vas in the mood for a long vinter holiday.”

Hilda replied, “Quite so sister. We will handle the situation and at the same time freshen up on our skiing, and learn some new techniques,” she paused licking her lips. “Vat is it they say about taking care of two things at vonce in Amerika?”

“I belief its killing two birds vid von stone,” Heidi answered. They giggled simultaneously. Heidi and Hilda knew that bad things sometimes happened to good people, but their greatest happiness was reminding the world that bad things happened to bad people too. Other than that, their laughter was reserved for birthday parties or a well-done grand finale.

“Dat’s the von. I vill make the all the necessary arrangements,” Heidi said.

And that, was that.

After a thorough evaluation, they would decide how ugly it would get. Together on Lufthansa flight 4237 to California, the twins privately discussed the outcomes of several schemes, anywhere from having him fired to serious plans of revenge. Of course, a perfectly cold-blooded plot was shaping up after rounds of stout beer and bratwurst. The plane landed. They looked straight ahead. It would be a successful and wonderful visit.

The first plan did not go as good as they had hoped. It was a Tuesday afternoon and Heidi was on the slopes with him on a beginner ski lesson while Hilda loaded a 105mm recoilless rifle down field behind a lodge-pole pine. They both knew the resorts typically stashed surplus military weapons to prevent avalanches, so they simply borrowed it for a couple of hours — no harm done.

It was now 4:30 and Heidi was leading “Jake-off” down the Last Chance run. Hilda carefully tracked them from behind the big spruce as they were coming down the hill and pulled the trigger. Heidi pretended to fall, landing precisely in the planned location, leaving the instructor like a sitting duck. Hilda aimed and took the shot, but the bullet missed him narrowly after he bent down slightly to text on his phone.

Jake ducked with alarm toward the dense underbrush where the noise came from and snapped his phone shut.

Hilda froze behind the tree.

“Did you hear that?” Jake asked, looking at the amazingly stupid

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German student named Heidi.

“Oh, vaht was dat?” She said looking confused. “Perhaps zee maintenance crews are remozing de snow from dee roadways,” she shrugged. “Sometimes, if you are very quiet,” Heidi hushed and turned her head dramatically from side to side, “You hear nothzing.

Zee little birds fall silent in the woods.”

Jake frowned, “I thought avalanche crews worked between midnight and 6 am. Let’s get out of here,” Jake said. Just then, Heidi’s cell phone rang. Jake was losing patience fast and gritted his teeth.

“Von moment,… yes… yes, that is a shame…” Heidi said nodding.

“You only had von shot at it…. wunderbar. I vill call you.”

Jake reached up and grabbed the phone from her hand. “Whoever this is, we are in the middle of a fucking ski-lesson. Call back later!”

He gave the phone back to what’s-her-fucking-face.

Heidi masked her furor and apologized that it was her sister, Hilda.

“If you take my sister tomorrow vee can double your fun, double zee price!”

Jake instantly changed moods and grinned at the news. He would rake in and max out his fees on these dumb foreign broads, he thought.

Heidi frowned, “Of course, cash only, crisp von-hundred dollar bills.”

Jake stammered and helped pull her up, “um well, that would be fine.” He calculated on how to get that by his manager. They continued down the course with Jake disappearing ahead of his student most of the time.

“My feet are very frozen,” Heidi called out. “Can ve stop to rest?”

“Just work through the pain, sister, ” Jake fired back skiing ahead of her.

Feeling disgusted, Heidi knew what her poor niece must have gone through with Jake, and the other skiers she thought. Enraged she skied ahead of him for a moment and cut him off with a cheerless smile.

Jake stopped abruptly looking surprised.

“Vat are yue trying to do, kill me or somesing?” Heidi said her voice filled with sarcasm.

When Jake’s smile came out at that moment, it was almost as evil as Hilda’s. Whatever Hilda had said, she really was going to insist on taking her turn tomorrow.

The next day everything was looking bright. They wandered around a lodge and opened the door to a bar, called the Snow-Top Saloon where they all planned to meet. They found him quickly, waiting in his ski gear, sitting alone having a drink. Like synchronized stealth bombers Hilda sat to his right and Heidi sat to his left. His eyes traveled back and forth at the identical blue-eyed blonde women.

Jake’s eyes opened in surprise when he realized the stupid blonde from the day before had a twin sister “Are you twins?” he stammered.

Hilda ignored the idiot’s question, “vee need three Drambuie shots please!” Heidi breathed excitedly, “vee love threesomes.”

Jake was practically tripping over himself thinking he was going to get lucky, while the only thing on the twin’s minds was pushing him off a chair lift. They had a good laugh about the name on the lift – Last Chance. It would indeed be his last chance.

Heidi yawned. How unfortunate he slips, but perhaps he would live, she thought. They took a shot or two more of Drambuie then enticed him further by agreeing to sit into his Jacuzzi later. He fell for the trap and it wasn’t long before they all geared up and caught the last run of the evening. Jake sat in the middle, high on Drambuie.

“OHH… ohh! I almost fallen!” Heidi and Hilda giggled with wellrehearsed bad English, eyes locked carefully on the time. As the ski lift continued up with the three of them aboard, Heidi’s face nearly

twisted in uncontrolled elation. The precise height and distance for the fall would happen in exactly 7 minutes and 6 seconds. At 12.192 meters or 40 feet exactly, he would “accidentally” slip of the lift.

“We are at 6, no 6.2 meters,” Hilda focused on her I-Phone app for the distance between the ground and the chair. “7 and a half…..gut…almost there,” she smiled, feeling refreshed by the cold air and the thought of getting rid of some weight. To waste some time they exchanged their favorite limerick back and forth, hackling and laughing with murderous intent.

“There vonce was a girl, with a curl,” Hilda started as they rose above the snow packed ground.

The man had no clue what they were talking about and continued chatting between the two women. He took his glove off and pinched Heidi on the rear end, winking at Hilda.

“Oh, you naughty, naughty little boy,” Heidi said shaking her finger at him.

Hilda cleared her throat, and began again, annoyed, “There once a little gurl, with a little curl.

“In zee middle of her forehead,” Heidi continued this time flawlessly.

“Ven she vas gut, she was very gut,” Hilda added teasingly looking over the man to her sister. She looked back at her app. “10, 10 and a half…..meters….vat is going on? I have no bars. Almost there, ah yes we have da bar!” Just von more minute and counting,” Hilda said as she eyed their perfectly synchronized smart phones.

“But when she vas bad,” Heidi added waiting for the finale.

“Get ready, we need von more second, we are at…..11 and a half meters,” Hilda said somewhat tense gearing up for the final frightening push.

“When was…she was bad?” the man gave them a drunken smile.

“How farsh up are we?” His eyes were bloodshot and glassy from the Drambuie shots at the Snow-Top Saloon.

“She was horrid,” Heidi said, with her mouth in a sudden downward twist.

Hilda lifted up the bar suddenly and smirked. She wondered what he would think when he was falling. Her eyes practically sparkled thinking about their next move.

“Hey, hey ladies, we’re not there yet,” he barked.

“Who cares about zee rules? Any fool can make a rule,” Hilda said.

“And any fool can follow one,” her sister added thoughtfully.

“What rules? What are you talking about?” he was blathering.

“Ho looky Hilda, do you see zat? Heidi asked.

“Oh I see zat, what is it? Hilda said excitedly.

“See what? Jake’s blurred vision didn’t help much as he leaned precariously forward to see “vatever “ it was.

“A von” “A two” “A tree!” The two women spoke in unison and pushed him off. He grabbed wildly at the seat but it was too late. He hadn’t seen it coming. He slipped on ice, on smooth hard plastic and smooth hard eyes. Down, down, he fell hitting the snow beneath them with an agonizing scream.

“Oopsie daisy,” Hilda said holding her glove over her mouth with feigned concern.

“Don’t vorry, we call 911!” Hilda said to the unmoving figure below.

And that was that. They skied down leisurely stopping over the unconscious body to call 911. The police and ambulance arrived of course but it was too late. And that’s how they murdered the ski instructor. That’s not however how they planned to take care of the Zipline instructor. That would be a much bigger adventure. (bios on p 33)

VOL 8, ISSUE 6

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17

Anger

by Lela Marie de la Garza “You did what!?” Grace was incredulous—so much so that she couldn’t take in what Gregory had just told her. He shrugged his shoulders, spread his hands. His mouth moved, but no words came out. “How could you lose all our money playing poker? You don’t even gamble!”

“I don’t. I didn’t. I mean—I played with Joe and some of his friends one night for fun. I won a little bit. Then Joe’s friends invited me into a bigger game, and I won a little more. I kept playing, and I kept winning, and then I lost.”

“You lost all our money?”

“Not then. I decided to keep playing till I won it all back, then stop.

Only I never did. I won, but never enough. I know I should have quit.

But I kept thinking I had to break even if I played long enough.”

You fool! Grace thought. You utter fool! Her steely eyes never left Greg’s face as he ploughed desperately on. “The more I lost the more I had to make back. I cashed in the bonds. And our retirement CD. I maxed out the credit cards. Now there’s nothing left.”

“How much do you owe?” Grace spoke through lips so stiff they would barely move.

“Nothing. I paid it all off.”

“With everything we had.”

“I’m sorry…I wish I could tell you…”

But Grace wasn’t listening. An overwhelming anger had closed her ears to anything he said or might ever say again. She’d been angry at Gregory before. The night he’d broken their engagement, two days before the wedding, she’d been angry. Enough to throw his ring at him, then a vase, then the table the vase sat on…

On their twenty-fifth anniversary (he’d changed his mind, and they’d married after all) Gregory had asked her for a divorce. She’d dumped a glass of champagne down the front of his tuxedo and followed it with a full bottle. Grace remembered how she’d felt then.

Of course he changed his mind again, and they had stayed together.

Oh, yes—she’d been angry at her husband before—but never like this. She had no desire to yell or throw things. A shell of ice had closed itself around her, propelling her to quick, efficient movements: Calling her niece, arranging to spend the night, packing two suitcases, walking out of the house. She was vaguely aware of Gregory imploring her to stay, making promises, at some point actually crying. But he was no longer part of her life.

Grace decided to take a bus instead of a taxi. Money would be difficult for a while until she figured out exactly where she was.

Besides the bags didn’t seem heavy at all. Anger had given her strength she didn’t know she possessed. Her mind worked quickly, ticking off what could be salvaged. She had a savings account in her name only. Gregory wouldn’t have been able to touch that. There was the property in Alabama, also in her name. She could sell that.

Perhaps even live there.

Grace saw a bus stopping, climbed aboard and sat down, a slender, graying woman who might have been attractive if her face had not been so carefully expressionless. Now a cold smile broke that lack of expression. Why, she wondered, was anger so maligned? There were even classes in managing it. Why she had never felt better since anger swooped down to manage her. How quickly its healing, cleansing touch had liberated her from that miserable mess of a marriage and that miserable excuse for a man.

Exalted and uplifted, she arrived at her niece’s front door.

Heather greeted Grace warmly. She had questions, but the look on her aunt’s face told her now was not the time to ask them. She led the way to Angela’s room. “Please stay as long as you like,” she urged. “Angela comes home once in a blue moon—and she never 18

says overnight.”

“Thank you, dear,” Grace replied. “But I want to find a place of my own as soon as possible.” Heather wondered about Gregory but didn’t ask. Her questions would be answered in time—and she didn’t think the answers would be pleasant. Right now she sensed that her aunt would like nothing better than to be left alone, so she went out, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

Grace did, indeed, want to be alone. She spent a few moments just relishing her freedom. If only she’d known long ago how sweet it would be. What she’d felt in years past had been only rage, burning hotly and dying quickly. This new, wonderful anger did not burn but cooled and soothed. It would strengthen and sustain her through any problems that might lie ahead. It wrapped firm, gentle arms around her, and she leaned on it…

It occurred to Grace that she might start looking for somewhere to live right now. There were better sources than the telephone book, but it would do to begin with. She opened the bedside table drawer.

Instead of a phone book Grace found a picture album. She began idly leafing through it. These pictures were not new to her, as she had copies of most of them in her own album at home. Not home, she reminded herself. That place where I used to live.

There was a shot of Heather and Angelo, newly married, at their wedding reception. One of Angela’s first birthday party…another of Angela at the zoo. A family picture, herself and Gregory included, at a picnic on the beach. She turned a few pages, going back further in the photo history. Here were studio portraits of her mother and father. A snapshot of Ryan, her oldest brother, on his motorcycle. A picture of all four of them standing in front of the new house…how exciting that had been… Her grandfather, young and strong. She remembered him only as an old man in a wheelchair. On the opposite page was a picture of her grandmother, Geraldine. Grace had often been told she resembled her grandmother, and she was flattered to think so. Looking closely at the picture she could see it— level brows, firm lips, firmer chin…

Geraldine and her husband had once been, if not rich, quite well off. Then, just before the Great Depression, her grandfather had made bad speculations in the stock market and lost all their money.

He had a stroke then, which put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Grandmother Geraldine, who had never worked a single day outside the home, suddenly became the sole support of an invalid husband and four children under twelve. She took in sewing as long as there was anything to sew, and washing as long as there was anything to wash. She picked apples and sold them, and when no one wanted apples she baked pies and fed her children.

Grace suddenly wanted to turn the page, but Grandmother’s eyes held her. Surely she only imagined the disapproval in them. You had children. I don’t have children. It’s different!

“Is it? You took a vow, for better or worse.”

But I’ve never had the better, only the worse! She managed to turn the page. There was another picture of Grandmother, standing beside her wheelchair-bound husband.

“Duty is an old-fashioned word. But when anger drops you, it may be all you have left.”

NO! That can’t happen. I won’t let it happen. But she felt the cooling, cleansing anger draining away. She clutched it tightly, trying to shore it up with memories of Gregory’s past stupidities. The time he’d gotten them lost in the New Mexico desert and driven three hundred miles out of the way because he was too stubborn to believe the map or to ask directions. The time he’d gotten drunk at the McManus’s party and thrown up on their expensive carpet, and Mrs. McManus had assured her, with furious eyes and through clenched teeth, that it was nothing, really. Grace certainly needn’t have it cleaned (she had, of course, and the stain hadn’t really come out, and they’d never been invited to the McManus house again).

The time he’d driven carelessly through a red light and totaled the

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Barbie Girl

by Casey Cromwell I can hear them. Oh God, I can hear them. High heels clicking against sidewalk, murmured conversations beyond the garden gate. I can even see one – a girl, blond, peeking out of the window. My bedroom window.

Splinters bite into my back, prick my arms as I force myself against the shed’s northern wall, ducking down into stacks of rakes and shears. My free hand automatically grabs the rubber handle and I finger the blade. It won’t protect me from the creature sleeping in my bed, using my toothbrush, posing in my mirror. Hell, they’d probably smile at it, savoring their superiority over the plastic surgery they used to crave.

If it’s you, Laura, who’s reading this, I’m sure you’re laughing at my handwriting by this point. You always loved my perfect penmanship: the way I dot my “i’s” with smiley faces and keep all of my letters evenly spaced. I guess the smiley faces will have to wait. God, Laura, I hope you are reading it. Then you must have been cured, your pieces returned to their proper place.

You were reading when I last saw you, but I don’t know how long it’ll last. I can see you curled up in the armchair in front of our fireplace (even in the summer, you’d beg Dad to turn it on just for the ambiance), cozying up to A Life of Solitude. Finished in two days.

You traded that copy for twelve months of Cosmo yesterday. I saw the first edition – 500 Perfect Prom Dresses and Secrets to Make Him Swoon – in the mailbox as I left.

If I could change anything in history, I’d trigger a flu epidemic four weeks ago in all of my family and friends instead of keeping it to myself. I acted so carefully, Laura, to isolate my germs. Tissues, hand wipes, marked water bottles. I should’ve coughed in every face I care about. Katie, Amanda, Danny, Luke. Then maybe I’d have some damn company in this shed, instead of waiting alone for Adam to arrive.

Two hours, we said. We’d meet in my backyard in two hours.

“We’ve got no choice,” he said, brushing his finger along my hand.

I didn’t cringe like I did when he put his arm around me at the movie theater a week ago. “And your house has the easiest entrance to the woods. They can’t follow us there.”

“They? You mean our friends? Our family? If we go out there – if we escape and leave these, these versions of them behind – what do you think will happen?” I started to stand up, but Adam yanked me back under the park’s splattering of trees. “The world won’t hold itself together for long, and they’ll be too oblivious to avoid falling in the cracks! My sister, Adam. My little sister!”

I’m taking up too much time writing this, spending too much energy reliving these moments. I just want you to know, Laura, I didn’t want to leave you. I still don’t. I still won’t even as I run away to the woods like some scared little rabbit.

I am though, Laura. Scared, I mean. Remember when that car hit me in the fifth grade, Laura? You were only in the third tier at the time, but you saw me fly over that blue hood. I never told anyone, but I couldn’t see clear for days after that. A little blurriness didn’t seem that important when you, Mom and Dad already worried so much, felt so guilty. The terror kept me up at night, Laura. Not seeing the small patches where Dad misses shaving or the triangle patch of freckles on your cheek. Then my head healed and I forgot all about it.

Until now. Until A99le, or A9 as they like to call it, hit the market five months ago. People from our town only got it three weeks before now, but three weeks is long enough. I just have to look at you – what’s left of you, Laura – to see that.

I went with you that night to buy some A9, along with all our other friends. You begged me to go.

VOL 8, ISSUE 6

“Come on, Evie, it’ll be fun,” You said. “Everyone’s going. You’ve been reading the magazines, seeing the commercials. A9 is foolproof!”

At that time, I couldn’t really argue. When first released, the sales appeared mixed: spikes of activity from desperate consumers salivating to find the newest panacea to all their problems, and drops when skepticism overwhelmed the hope for personal change. After a month passed, however, we couldn’t escape from it.

“Frustrated with your weight? Held down by insecurity? Then A9 is the pill for you,” commercials said, flashing dozens of before and after pictures and clips of newly transformed users dancing in bars or kissing as newly married wives. “A9 combines state-of-the-art technology and ancient herbal knowledge to form the best pill for over-all bodily health. Take an A99le a day and you won’t be able to keep the boys away!”

Even if you muted the TV or tried to avert your eyes form the screen, somehow by thirty seconds into the commercial, you found yourself staring at the gorgeous girls on screen. The results, no matter what you thought of the technique to get them, were amazing. That couldn’t be denied. Average, slightly plump girls transformed into vixens. More than their weight changed in that month trial. Skins appeared clearer and smiles whiter, eyes shining with something greater than mere satisfaction...confidence, conviction perhaps? The TV always switched too quickly to know for sure.

Nonetheless, A9 didn’t take off until celebrities started to voice their support. People Magazine quoted Angelina Jolie listing A9 as the basis of her beauty routine; Kristen Stewart looked better than ever on the March cover of Seventeen, and she credited A9 instead of Photoshop. And then Dave Rodney hit the scene in three of the biggest movies of the year, receiving an Oscar for his largest role. The media pounced on his claim that A9 gave him his winning chance at fame.

“I worked small-time parts for five years around Hollywood ‘cause I could never fit what the directors saw as their top man,” he said, golden statue gripped tightly between his fingers. “A9 made me and I have to thank its creators for having a hand in this.”

Five hours later, the magazines pieced the whole story together: a scrawny boy with bigger feet than biceps, a girlfriend who swore by A9, and the desperate swallowing of three pills a day that transformed Rodney into the ripped badass breaking hearts and box top records all over the US. A9 wasn’t only for insecure preteen girls anymore; it was a life-enhancing tool for anyone who wanted to get ahead, girls, boys, teens or adults alike.

“Just imagine, Evie! A pill and I could be a movie star! A model! The It Girl in high school, even. Think of that!”

You never stopped talking about it, dreaming about what you would look like after your first weeks using the A99le. All that baby fat – terminated! Those pimples on your forehead – erased!

“Yeah, yeah. You just want to look more beautiful than your big sister.” Who asked for a bowl of chicken soup and five more boxes of tissues hours ago.

You hit me with a pillow. “But Evie, you’ll take it too. We’ll be beautiful together, like those celebrity sisters in all the magazines.

You’re always complaining that you can’t eat sweets as every meal – with A9 you could!”

I shrugged, wadding up a tissue and throwing in the growing pile.

At that moment, I didn’t care about looking beautiful or eating sweets. I just wanted to stop throwing up any of the crackers I forced down my throat.

“And just imagine all the health problems it’s stopping. Acne.

Anorexia, bulimia, obesity... low self-esteem. All gone! Bullying can stop too. We’re all equally beautiful, so what negatives can we really say about each other?”

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21

Burrowing into my pillows, I let your excitement serve as a type of lullaby. When I fell asleep, versions of you and me with flawless skin, skinnier bodies and teased hair danced through my dreams. My eagerness matched yours when we waited in line for the new clinic to open: four hours passed quickly as we – you, me, and the rest of the gang – huddled together, talking about what we hoped A9 would fix.

“My cousin Katherine lives in Germany,” Luke said, “and they got supplies in the first month. She posted pictures on Facebook – dude, I’m family and she looks hot!”

Danny elbowed him in the stomach. “Sorry to break it to you, Luke, but A9 doesn’t do miracles. I’ll always beat you in the looks department.”

“Wanna bet? Twenty bucks, mate. Done.”

“Twenty bucks says you’re all idiots.” Adam’s voice carried over all the excited chatter. “You really want to do this? To pay tons of money to look like someone else?”

“Not someone else, Adam,” you said. “A better version of us each.

There’s a difference.”

“Whatever you say. Just checking to see if anyone’s found their sanity before they spend all their allowance on medical Photoshop.”

He stared at me, but I looked away. A few minutes later, we entered the pharmacy and left him standing outside alone.

Quickly, methodically, the physicians passed out bottles of A9, personalized to each person’s age, weight and gender. Yet, when I reached the lady whose white smile shamed light fixtures, I left empty-handed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you’ll need to come back for your A9. A month would be safe. We don’t know how A99le would work in a weak immune system and yours hasn’t entirely recovered.”

Even as my stomach sunk, I felt a hint of relief at her concern. Not because Adam was right, of course. Oh no – never! I just felt happy that A99le’s physicians followed such strict rules when prescribing A9. Surely, nothing bad could happen under such careful watch.

At first, nothing did. Still coughing slightly each day, I watched as the friends I grew up with, the friends who challenged each other for the worst yearbook picture of the year and posted purposefully unflattering photos on Facebook, bloomed. In the first week, you only changed a little, Laura. A few inches dropped from your midsection, any of the small blemishes you had dissipated, and your smile seemed even brighter, whether because of the pill or pure satisfaction.

By the end of the second week, though, I knew something was wrong. When I searched the school for my friends, I suddenly felt blind again, helpless. I could spot Adam easily: his too-thin hips and greasy forehead shone like a beacon in the hallway. Everyone else blurred together, a crowd of straight hair and smooth skin; any of the different body types our Health teacher used to preach disappeared, the guys all wide-shouldered with balloons for biceps, every girl a human hourglass.

Five days later, the personalities began to change too.

“Katie! Katie, wait up!” I yelled one day after art, spying the orange backpack resting on one shoulder. Yet, when I pulled on its straps and she turned around, it wasn’t Katie. Logically, I knew it was.

Visually, I wasn’t convinced. The same outfit of baggy jeans and a Star Wars t-shirt lay differently on her, the baby fat that used to hug her thighs and stomach magically transferred to her previously nonexistent bust. Her face looked tighter yet plumped in all the right places: the perfect ratio for an anti-aging commercial.

“Geez, what happened to you, Katie? You look...gorgeous!” I stammered. She looked down at me – four inches above me, now, really? – and her lips slowly stretched.

“A9 is doing its job, don’t you think?”

“Definitely.” I paused. “How many are you taking?”

22

“Two to three.”

“A day?”

She waved one hand through the air. “Oh, don’t look so worried!

The more pills, the more results. I’m sure they’ll have bigger doses in each pill by the time you start.”

“Um. Yeah. Well, you’re still coming to my house, tonight, right?

Comic Con’s tomorrow. We still have to do our costumes.”

Something flashed in her eyes before she replied. “Sorry, Evie. I can’t. Emergency manicure appointment tonight and Enrique’s busy until ten. Besides, we’re a bit old for Comic Con, don’t you think?”

I ran home without bothering to reply and saw you sitting in the armchair; I breathed a sigh of relief. Katie may be going crazy and you may look different, but my little sister, my favorite Laura, is still the same inside her Barbie body. I blamed the flu for the upset bubbling in my stomach.

“Laura, how many pills are you taking a day? Of A9?”

You didn’t bother looking up, just continued picking at the corner of your nails.

“Why? Don’t you think I look pretty, Evie? I heard you told Katie she looked gorgeous today.”

I blinked. “Where did you hear that? Text? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. How many pills are you taking?”

“Beauty doesn’t matter? Beauty is all that matters, Evie.” You unfolded your legs and stood up. Flooded with light from the windowpane, face framed by brown curls and blue eyes accentuated by powder and mascara, you looked like an angel. I’ve never been so scared. “I am beautiful. I am. Look at me. Look at me!”

For the first time since you took the pills, I really looked. I saw nothing. Of course, on the outside, I saw a beautiful woman. More beautiful than I will ever be in this life, I’m certain, but more empty than I will be after death. Even though nausea still plagues my stomach, I know that it’s you that’s sick, Laura. You and every other A9 consumer. I tried to plead with you to stop the pills, tried to connect with the sister I love, but you turned on me. You slapped me, accusing me of trying to sabotage your beauty. You texted everyone in your contact list of my betrayal and now one of them has replaced me. Mom and Dad are probably too lost in A9 to even notice. What’s her name, Laura? The girl – the Barbie – in my room?

What’s your name, actually? Do you even care enough to remember?

So far as I know, Adam and I are the only ones in town free from A9’s influence. I’m guessing anyone who was clean won’t be for long: beautiful people usually get what they want, and from what I understand, they want to destroy any ugliness left in the world.

It’s nearing the two-hour mark, Laura, and soon Adam should arrive for our escape. I keep pinching my love handles and running my hands to feel the bumps covering my face to remind myself that I’m still alive. I hope, Laura, that maybe one day you’ll come back alive too. That you’ll see the poison hidden inside A99le and the societal standards that forced you to swallow them. Adam’s here and God if the Ken dolls living in the houses around me don’t pale in comparison. I’m leaving the garden now, but this note ensures that someone will always know and remember. Maybe it can guide future generations away from the mistakes we made.

Love you always, little sister.

Adam and Eve Casey Cromwell is a senior at high school and a Marine Brat. When she is not busy doing schoolwork, enjoying time with friends and family or playing soccer, she loves to read and write. In her poems and stories, she enjoys toying with one's perception of reality and exploring the "why's" and "what if's" of the world. Next year, she plans on pursuing a career in writing at Point Loma Nazarene University.

TOUGH LIT. X

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Eye Before Eeeee!

by Nawog C. Mybot

“For I have set my face against this city for evil, and not for good, saith the Lord: it shall be given into the hand of the king of Babylon, and he shall burn it with fire.” – Jeremiah 21:10 A grey GMC Jimmy pulls into the dirt parking lot of a rural food shop. The back doors open and two young girls under the legal age hop out and run inside giggling. From the front, two guys. The driver is a young man in his early twenties with chiseled features and a toned torso, one that he only now covers with a Hawaiian shirt that goes well with his khaki shorts and compliments his olive skin and dark features. The passenger is not so chiseled and toned, but still far from fat and looks like a tasteless blind person, suffering from Parkinson’s and hopped up on amphetamines, dressed him. His blond hair is shoulder length and looks as if he’s been sleeping in the passenger seat of a GMC Jimmy…which he has. His blue Hawaiian shorts and cherry red tee shirt look like they’ve been steam pressed under an Alaskan Malamute. He’s wearing one grey argyle sock and one tan paisley. The only thing that’s of any style are his dark green Chuck’s. The driver lights a cigarette and tosses the pack over the hood to the passenger.

“Jesus Tom,” said Jack, “do you even own a mirror?”

“Fuck you,” said Tom, “I like bright colors.”

“You know,” said Jack, “this is why you don’t get laid.”

“I get laid.”

“I meant by other people.”

“Fuck off.”

“That’s why I wanted you to come along.”

“Yeah, thanks again for putting me on the spot with Terry.”

“Anytime.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“No shit?!”

“Okay Tom, let’s go get the booze, hey if things don’t work out with Terry, you can have one of mine, hmmm… I’ll let you have the redhead.”

“Thanks Jack, but I don--” “What? You’ve already fucked a fire-crotch?”

“Jack--has it ever occurred to you that there’s more to life than just sex?”

“Like what?”

Tom shakes his head as he stubs out his smoke on the sole of his shoe and makes sure it’s out before dropping it in the trash can. Jack takes one last drag of his then flicks the smoldering butt off into the wilderness and gets a look of contempt from Tom. “Oh, fuck you, Ranger Prick!”

Tom stifles his laughter and they go into the store. Tom and Jack see the girls at the register buying some snacks, cigarettes and pop which they will use as mixers. They go to the coolers in the back of the store, grab another case of beer, Heineken, something to help tie one on before they delve into the 30-packs of Stroh’s and Nattie Ice. They reach the counter and place their haul on top and then proceed to show I.D. while asking for a carton of smokes, some swisher sweets, a fifth of Captain and a fifth of Limon. Back to the Jimmy and the girls are leaning against it finishing their smokes and were stripped back down to their bikinis. Jack took his shirt back off after setting the goodies in the back of the Jimmy. The girls, Tiffany and Amber, flicked away their smokes and got back in to lean over and grab their respective liquors. Jack elbows Tom and points at the wiggling hinnies.

“Hey Amber,” said Jack, “nice place you got there.”

“Fuck you,” said Tiffany.

VOL 8, ISSUE 6

“I hope so,” said Jack, “I got enough energy for the both of you.”

“Why do you put up with this jerk?” said Tiffany.

“Because,” said Amber, “he’s hung like a farm animal.”

“A lotta farms got chickens too,” said Tom. Jack elbows Tom hard in the ribs and the girls laugh.

“See,” said Tiffany, “at least Tom’s funny.”

“Yeah, but Tom likes Terry,” said Amber, “plus he’s old.”

“He’s not that old…only 28,” “That’s like a decade older than you.”

“Don’t say it like that, besides he’s experienced and could teach me a lot.”

“Yeah--a lot about regret, and disappointment.”

The guys get back in the car while the girls mix their drinks and put the liquor back away. They drive the last few miles in the silence of the oldies rock station while singing along to the tunes they knew.

They pulled up to the cabin around 8pm and started unloading, cooking dinner and drinking. Around 11pm Jack and Amber retired into a room in the cabin for some alone time and Tiffany nervously cozies up to Tom by the fire.

“You don’t mind I sit by you,” said Tiffany, “I know you’re waiting for Terry.”

“It’s fine,” said Tom, “I called her and she can’t make it, her sitter cancelled on her.”

“I’m so sorry…”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Okay, ya got me--but at least I’ve got you all to myself.”

“Aren’t I just a little old for you?”

“I like older men, besides I’m 19, it’s not like I’m a baby…c’mon let me cheer ya up.”

“That’s okay. I think I’ll just go to bed.”

“Can I come--I mean, I know you could make me.”

Tom slowly lowered his beer with an audible swallow and glanced over at Tiffany, her left leg drooped over his right and she was bracing herself with her left hand…on the edge his thigh, brushing his crotch. She puffed smoke upwards to the heavens with ease and class and then turned to stare seductively into Tom’s eyes. Tom raises his beer for another swig, Tiffany grasps it and places it on the ground and flicks her smoke into the darkness. She leaned over and kissed Tom. He goes with it, holding her head in his hands while she slips her hand up his shorts and around him. Locked in their lover’s embrace they don’t notice the orange light in the sky. Light that at first glance appears to belong to a passing jet, but upon closer inspection you realize it’s not blinking. The light travels southwest to southeast, changes its direction and after a brief moment of hovering…a flash of pink, three times the size of the orange light brightens the sky just as the orange light blasts straight up as if out of the atmosphere. A second light, same as the first appears where the latter had and doesn’t move till the former has vanished. This happens 5 times in all. Tiffany and Tom break for air and never know what oddity they have missed.

Tom tries to mumble out an apology, but Tiffany silences him as she stands and removes her top, exposing her luminescent supple breasts. She then slips out of her bottoms allowing her Devil’s haircut of the same color to be seen in the firelight. She straddles Tom, pushing him to the ground and practically tearing of his shorts and grasping him, guiding him inside. Their moans and grunts keep them from hearing the low chittering coming from the beach.

A distant scream awakens Amber.

“Jack, Jack you hear that?”

“Go to sleep, it’s just an animal.”

“I’m gonna go check on Tiff.”

“Whatever.”

Amber leaves the bed and feels around the floor for her bottoms, finds them and Jack’s shirt, dresses and grabs her smokes as she goes to find Tiffany. Not finding them in any room of the cabin she starts

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23

“That’s ‘cause I love you.”

“I know.” He caressed her cheek. “I love you, too.” He glanced at his watch. Five minutes had passed. “Dammit, Jessie, we gotta go in now and get rid of that thing makin’ the stench. The longer we let it stay in there, the longer the stench stays put and stinks up the cottage. We’ll never get rid of it.”

They stepped out of the car. Scott wrapped a handkerchief over his nose, and Jessie held her hand over hers.

“You can go in first,” Jessie said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Brave of you.”

Scott dashed into the cottage, Jessie following. They opened wide all the windows, then they checked their bed. Thank God, no food left decomposing on the mattress! They flung it back, and peered under the bed. No food decomposing there either. Next, they flung open the wood stove door. No squirrel carcass, only ashes. They flung open cupboard doors, stuck their heads in, rifled through drawers, and flung open closet doors.

Jessie returned to the bedroom and rifled through their spare clothes hanging in the closet. When she scooped one hand deep into the hood of her winter parka, she felt smooth, wriggling skin between her fingers. She screamed.

Scott poked his head in. “What’s up?”

Jessie stepped back, pointed. “A snake!”

Scott peered into the hood, grinned, reached deep, and pulled out three, hairless, pink baby mice, eyes shut tight, curled up like fists.

“Ah,” said Jessie, “aren’t they cute! Wonder where the mother is?”

“Long gone, I hope,” said Scott, and hurled the mice out the door.

Then he scaled the steps to the attic, and poked around. “Nothin’ dead up here.” He came back down. “Well?”

Jessie pointed to the refrigerator. “It’s gotta be coming from in here.”

“But didn’t you clean the fridge out of food before we left last time we were here? That was when? Two weekends ago?”

“I thought we’d be back last weekend, so I left enough food in the fridge. That way we didn’t have to buy much before we left the city.”

“Dammit, Jessie!” Scott flicked the switch by the front door. The light fixture above their heads came on. “The fridge should be working, too. I hear a faint hum.” Slowly he opened its door. A putrid stench walloped his face. He swung the door wide open. “Let’s get outta here!”

They climbed into the car. Jessie squirmed. “Sorry.”

Scott slid down in his seat again. “‘Sorry’ won’t clean out that stench. We wait. We wait till the fridge gets a really good airing.

Then we throw out everything and anything that can be thrown out, and give the guts a thorough cleaning with Javex. We have Javex, haven’t we? Tell me, Jessie, we have Javex.”

“Yes.” “And garbage bags. Tell me we have garbage bags.”

“Yes.” “You’re sure.”

“Yes.” “Where?”

“In the top drawer next to the kitchen sink.”

Scott turned on the radio to listen to weather and traffic reports.

Jessie rolled down her window and stuck her head out.

“They’re long dead by now, Jessie.”

“Where did you toss them, Scott?”

“To Hell. Now roll your window back up. It’s damn cold in here.”

They waited fifteen minutes, then darted back to the fridge, and tossed out orange juice, milk, yogurt, eggs, cheese, butter, bacon, hamburger, steaks, and bread into a garbage bag. It lay full on the floor. “Can’t leave it outside nearby,” said Scott, “or the coons and other critters’ll be into it for sure. I gotta take it now to the township dump. Coming?”

VOL 8, ISSUE 6

“Gotta clean the fridge’s guts out.”

Jessie waited till Scott drove off, scoured the ground for the baby mice, and buried them behind the wood pile. Then, in the cottage, she tied a small towel over her nose, poured a gob of dish soap into a cloth, and wiped the inside and outside of the fridge top to bottom.

She scrubbed every part with a brush, and sprayed the inside and outside with an air freshener as well as throughout the rooms, closets, cupboards, and attic.

She finished, when she thought she heard footsteps at the door.

“That you, Scott?”

“No, it’s me, Burt.”

A tall, burly man with grey curly hair, Burt held his hand over his nose. “What a God awful smell!”

Jessie lowered her eyes. “My fault. I left food in the fridge for the past two weeks. It’s a really old fridge. I guess the motor broke down at some point. It’s running now, though.”

“Wasn’t the motor, Jessie. Power’s been out across the county for the past ten days. Came on only yesterday. We had a whopper of a snowstorm—knocked power lines down, trees even, buried cars.

People stayed in their houses. From my side window, I could barely see if your car was here or not. Where’s Scott gone?”

“He drove to the garbage dump with a bag full of the decomposed food. He should be back soon.”

“Tell ‘m I said hello. I gotta go. This stench. You understand.” He waved good-bye, then plodded up the path at the side of the cottage.

Scott drove in. “Jessie?” he yelled from the driveway.

“In the kitchen,” she yelled back.

Scott stood at the doorway with his handkerchief over his nose. He approached the fridge. “Smell’s still strong.”

“But I scrubbed inside and out with dish detergent then sprayed with air freshener.”

“No Javex?”

Jesse looked away.

“You missed somewhere. Move back.” Scott gripped the sides of the fridge and tugged on it till he’d brought it out a couple of feet from the wall. He stared at the floor. “Christ!”

“What?” said Jessie.

“Look.”

A puddle of blood and other liquids lay on the floor where the fridge had stood.

“I’ll get the mop and a bucket,” said Jessie.

“No, let me clean it up. Then it’ll be done right.”

“Really? Why is it always you, Scott, who do things right, but never me?”

Scott tapped his temple. “’Cause scholars are good at just thinkin’.”

He unplugged the fridge. The motor thudded to a halt.

Jessie stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Scott mop up.

He finished. “Move,” he said, “so I can throw this shit out.” He climbed the hill, threw the contents of the pail behind the wood pile, then returned to the cabin. “If the fridge stays here, it’ll continue to stink up the cottage. Gotta move it outside for tonight at least.”

Jessie moved behind the fridge, and placed her hands on its sides.

“What are you doin’?”

“Helping.”

“No way.” Scott rocked the fridge back and forth till he had it beyond the door and on the top step. He squeezed through. Standing on the ground, he wrapped his arms around the fridge and heaved it beside him. Then he rocked it a way up the hill and jammed the door with a stick so it would stay wide open.

Finished, he opened the trunk of the car. Jessie glared at him from the doorstep. “Whatcha expect?” he yelled. “After all this shit, I gotta have a beer.” He lifted out a case, swung it, bottles clanking, past Jessie, opened a beer, and plopped down on the couch opposite the TV.

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25

Julia jumped when her cell phone rang. “Hi, Tammy.”

“Well, did you get it?”

Sadly she said, “I doubt it.”

Her friend tried to sound enthusiastic. “Did they say no?”

Now she saw the man bend down and say something to the boy.

“Well, not exactly. They said they’ll call me.”

The mother had her back to her son still on the cell phone.

“That’s not a ‘no.’ They probably need to check your references.”

2:42 p.m.

The man was guiding the child further away from his mother.

The hair stood up on Julia’s neck. She didn’t hear the last sentence from her friend. “What?”

Tammy rolled her eyes. Julia often stares off into space oblivious to the outside world. “Jules, focus. What questions did they ask?”

The boy tried to pull away from the man but he wouldn’t let go.

Julia gasped. “What are you doing?”

2:45 p.m.

Tammy was alarmed at the sudden frightening tone of her friend’s voice. “Jules, what is it? What’s wrong?”

The man placed something over the little boy’s face and he went limp.

“Oh, my God! He’s taking him!”

“Who’s taking who? What’s wrong?” Tammy cried into the phone.

Julia was on her feet. The mother was still on the phone with her back to the boy.

Several feet from her, a small group of children were playing on the swings. A group of adults were on benches not far from them.

None had seen what she had witnessed.

The man placed the boy in his trunk backseat and closed the door.

“Hey, are you related to that boy?” She yelled at the man.

The kidnapper stopped momentarily to see where the voice came from. He saw Julia then jumped in his car. The group of adults stopped talking and looked between the kidnapper and Julia. The children were busy having too much fun to notice.

“Stop him! He’s taking that boy!” Julia screamed at them.

The adults were frozen in place.

“Damn.” Julia ran back to her car as fast as her heels on grass could carry her. She jumped in her Santa Fe and turned it on. Without a thought she jumped the curb and gunned the engine.

The once frozen adults were now spurred into action. They grabbed their children and ran out of the way of the crazy woman.

“Jeremy, Jeremy! Where are you? Oh, my God! Where’s my son?”

Mrs. Winslow saw the speeding van driving on the grass toward the exit and yelled. “Stop that car! He has my son!” nd The kidnapper turned onto 22 Street. Julia maneuvered her SUV and fell in behind him.

“What? What the hell is going on?” Tammy cried.

Julia put her phone to her ear, remembering Tammy was on the other end, “Sorry pal, emergency. Have to call you back.”

Julia pressed the end button. Then she dialed 911.

“9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“This is Julia Beaumont, I just witnessed a kidnapping today. A man has taken a young boy about 5 or 6 years old.”

“Where did you witness this?” nd nd “At Reid Park near 22 Street. I’m on 22 Street now approaching Columbus. He’s driving a late model sedan, puke green color.” She pulled closer to the car. “It’s a Toyota.” She related the license plate number. The kidnapper in the car looked at her in his rearview mirror. He pulled into the left lane barely avoiding a Lexus.

Julia sped up crossing in front of the Lexus to get back behind the kidnapper.

The well-dressed man in the Lexus gave Julia the bird with one hand while blaring his horn with the other.

VOL 8, ISSUE 6

The 9-1-1 operator asked if she was still at the park. “No, I’m in pursuit. Right now he’s turning right onto Craycroft. Send the cops.”

She dropped the phone on the floor. Now both hands on the wheel she sped up and bumped the man’s car.

Julia heard the sound of sirens in the far distance behind her.

The man pulled over to the right curb and stopped. She reached over and retrieved the weapon from the glove box.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, you stupid bitch? He yelled.

“Don’t come any closer.” She warned.

He ran to her. “You bitch!”

She shot him with the gun.

The man shook violently then fell to the ground making gurgling noises. He flipped around like a fish out of water.

The man was unconscious. Tentatively Julia looked into the back window. The boy was flat on the seat sound asleep.

“Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head!”

Julia dropped the now useless stun gun. When she saw the cute young officer with his gun trained on her she said. “Oh, you got my call.”

Then she fainted.

“Julia, Julia.”

“Yes, Mommy, I’m here.”

Tammy looked down into her friend’s face. “Okay. Jules you’ve had too many drugs.”

Julia slowly raised her head taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

“Where the heck am I?” “Tucson Medical Center,” Tammy told her.

Foggy at first then it was like someone hit her rewind button. “Oh, my God, we have to stop him. The boy…”

“Relax, honey. You saved him. He’s fine.” Tammy patted her friend’s hand.

“What about the guy? Did they catch him?”

Tammy smiled. “No, they didn’t but you did. He’s in jail.”

Behind Tammy was a man that she introduced to Julia as a Tucson Police Officer. He was about thirty or so with brown hair, bright grayblue eyes and a ready smile. His name was Detective Tony Biaske.

“How are you feeling, Ms. Beaumont?”

“Good, I guess. How is the little boy?”

“He’s doing well, thanks to you. My partner is talking to him now.”

He paused then continued.

“That was a very brave but foolish thing you did.” He tried to make firm.

“I know. I should’ve waited for you guys.” She admitted.

Tammy asked. “Why didn’t you?”

Julia thought about that for a full minute. “It seemed the best idea at the time.”

Even Det. Biaske had to agree with that. Julia gave her entire statement and the doctor cleared her to leave.

On the way out Julia checked her nearly dead phone. It had a message on it from Jennifer Hamilton of Hamilton, Spears and Ridgeway. Julia told Tammy. “I got the job.”

“Well, of course you did,” her friend said with a smile.

In the hospital lobby, Jeremy, the child Julia saved ran into her arms and gave her a big hug.

“Thank you for helping me.”

His mother, overcome with relief, said only, “God bless you.”

They were ushered out the back door by the police.

Outside, Tammy’s cell phone rang. It was Julia’s mother. She handed it to her friend.

Julia took the phone and beamed. “Mom, guess what? I finally got to try out your Christmas gift.” (bio on p 33)

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He’s Coming for Me

by Lisa Rehfuss

The year is 1975. No cell phone, no instant messaging, and no computer.

The light blue van chugs along slowly, just a mere three feet from me, here, walking here on this sidewalk.

It’s hard for the driver to keep the van idling at low speed. The engine sputters and coughs for the few minutes it coasts beside me. Finally the engine is revved and the accelerator is punched so hard it makes the tires squeal. The van’s crumbled backend fishtails as it rounds the corner.

I’m good for a minute.

I know this because the van has been tracking me for four blocks.

I won’t look at the driver because my attention is focused on a spot straight ahead fifty feet. My instincts tell me not to give this imbecile any play. Any acknowledgement will encourage this odd game. Worse, I don’t want to put my active mind into overdrive which will only open the door to anxiety and the next thing you know I’m no longer using the instrument my neck supports every day.

The sound of screeching tires occurs at set intervals as the van makes it way around the block. Right turn, right turn, third right, target locked and loaded, bring van to a crawl.

It’s deserted in this pre-season seaside town. Very few people live here year-round and any establishments that were opened have long closed down for the night. It’s not late, but it’s dark and this stretch of road I’m walking on – the main street in town – D Street – hasn’t produced one open store.

Nor for that matter, one other soul.

Odd to think I’m headed to a party.

This is my first time working on the Jersey shore. My sister drove me down this morning, introduced me to her boss, who is now my boss, and left an hour later to make the long trek back to upstate New York. She’ll return in a week when she finishes teaching her class of 7th graders.

It was my boss who told me about the party. I was to return to the boardwalk at 7:00 p.m. so we could all walk over to the party. “All” being my boss and about ten employees. Workers, who like me, are down here pre-season to help open up the shops and literally grease the wheels for the games. We are carneys or barkers, if you prefer.

When I arrived at 7:00 p.m. there was a note pinned to the small office door behind the “Gift / Smoke Shop,” informing me they cut out of work early. Not knowing my phone number, they left a map showing where the party was located. This town is laid out like New York City. Blocks 1,2,3 intersect with streets running A, B, C. It’s a nice grid and easy to figure out.

The party is 10 blocks away.

Definitely do-able even on this rain soaked evening.

Did I mention it’s raining? A slight drizzle is falling. Enough to splatter my glasses and soak through the medium weight coat I’m wearing. It’s been raining all day. Not a raincoat wearer (too stifling, too cumbersome), I’m wearing my spring coat with the hood.

The van coasts alongside causing a slight ripple of water to coat the top edge of the curb. Creeping, inching along, keeping pace. Never going more than five miles an hour, hugging, but never jumping the curb…stealth-like.

The van rounds the fifth corner and I put the minute of spare time to good use.

Crossing catty-corner I’m now on the opposite side of the street. This isn’t a good ruse, but a small stance I’m taking.

I need to stay on D Street because the streetlights are plentiful here.

On the side streets, it’s a long span from one streetlight to the next. The lights cast an ominous yellow glow, which on a tourist-filled summer evening would be soothing. Tonight. In the dark. In the rain. Casting a cataract cat’s eye, the side streets are in abject darkness.

After desperately searching for signs of life on the side streets, it appears the only people on this small peninsula in New Jersey are the party‐goers, me and whoever is in the van.

He’s coming for me.

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Although distant, the screech of tires is unmistakable and I catch a blurry rain-soaked reflection in the plate glass window of Alma’s restaurant. The van is trolling the other side of the street. Just as the image in the restaurant window gives way to a neighboring brick building, I see the van careen across four empty lanes to reach the side I’m on. I set my eyes and look straight ahead.

I’m fully alert and straining to hear where the van is so I can gauge its location.

How fast is he approaching? A quick glance over my shoulder confirms an empty street. The van is nowhere in sight.

At the corner I look both ways. No van.

Bright lights catch me in the middle of the intersection. The van jerks forward.

Once again the engine’s death rattle is engaged. I quicken my step to reach the corner. I won’t run. In my mind to run means ‘game on’ and right now we’re sorting out our artillery. I must admit my side of the board is not looking good.

The van bounces through the intersection, across the four lanes, spraying puddle water three feet high. The back right tire hydroplanes a bit which barely interrupts the vehicles forward motion as it careens down the opposite side street.

Looking ahead, there are many empty parking lots. A mere half block away Lou’s Parking is offering discount parking at $5 a day. I make an immediate decision to go back to the other side of the street. Lou isn’t around and wide-open empty spaces may be my undoing. There’s too much maneuverability for the van. A parking lot is not where I want him to make his move.

At times even a cat knows to walk alongside the fence line.

On the other side of the street now, I’ve walked a block without seeing or hearing the van. I have about four blocks to go to reach the party and someone there is going to have to drive me home.

He’s coming for me.

Twang!

An alert sensor has been pressed.

A snake slithers up my neck and coils at the base of my skull.

My predator is nearby.

A noticeable glance back confirmed what my instincts telegraphed.

The van is coasting slowly behind me.

Clever.

No longer is the van coming up alongside me.

Stalking. This feels more like stalking.

The rain is coming down at a faster clip masking most sounds, but the sound of my soggy footfall and the sputtering engine. I continue to walk straight ahead, keeping my eye on that spot 50 feet in the distance.

Every fiber of my being screams, DON’T FUCK WITH ME! Coming within three feet of the next corner the van pulls up alongside.

I slow down as it chug-a-chug-chugs around the corner. Staring straight ahead it isn’t hard to miss the wide-open yawn of the van’s side door.

With the door locked in place, the bright interior light remains on, illuminating what awaits me. A filthy brown bench seat yellowed in the middle. The floor is surprisingly free of debris, yet dark and darker splats mottle a once light blue carpet. Up front, two wobbly bucket seats swivel a bit due to age, not design.

Behind the wheel sits a man with a beer propped between his legs.

As he takes the slow turn around the corner his eyes fix on mine. I hold his stare continuing the mantra in my head, DON’T FUCK WITH ME! while another part of my brain takes inventory.

He’s in his early thirties, dirty blonde stringy hair falls to his shoulders, stubborn jaw, light fuzz on his chin and upper lip. He’s thin. The word sinewy comes to mind.

He’s wearing a red, dirty T‐shirt with some band probably advertised on the front and dirty jeans with no visible signs of holes or tears. His glare communicates that the game board has been set up and like it or not, I’ve been chosen to play.

He continues to glare at me as he negotiates the turn. There’s no need for him to look where he’s going. There’s no other car on the road.

There’s no other person. Just me and him on a rain soaked evening with yellow streetlights casting eerie shadows on a pre-summer night in this

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ghost town.

I sense something else about him.

Something feral.

Cunning.

Patient with his quarry.

He will take as long as he needs and when he’s done, he’s done. The only thing left on his checklist will be to wash the bench seat one more time. Use that harsh cleanser that gets out the nastiest of stains. Deepen the yellow of that once brown bench seat.

Creep. Predator.

He’s coming for me.

After what seems an interminable time, he finally negotiates the turn yet doesn’t speed up as before. Apparently when he was racing around the blocks he was making a decision. With his mind made up he can afford a casual drive down the street. Why hurry when there’s nowhere for me to go. Head down a darkened side street? Hide out in a yard or in a little strip of alleyway between buildings? I refuse to be stuck like a rat in a cage.

His casual slow drive down the street gives me more pause than anything else he’s done tonight.

Within the next block I combat my fears and shut down the “what ifs”.

I solidly believe that to react to his ‘challenge’ to run, hide, whimper, or crouch in a corner with a ‘don’t-hurt-me-boogie-man’ demeanor will be my downfall.

No, I will walk this street as a solid member of the human race.

I will not run from him.

I will not.

I arrive at 37th Street and see the van idling on the far corner. I can see the driver’s silhouette as he waits, engine running. A match is lit and the smell of tobacco reaches me, yet I refuse to break stride. I cross D Street again as if I intended all along to cross D Street right at this juncture. My pace quickens as I will my thigh muscles not to clutch. A charley horse starts to form, yet I ease into a stride that’s workable. Can he see how nonchalant I am? Crossing to the other side, I negotiate the intersection and even though I see the van coming, I sprint across (don’t run) to reach the curb. The van whips through the intersection. Its front bumper catches the back of my coat, inches from my body. Fortunately there is no impact, but the signs are all there. A ripple of fear courses up my spine, hits my brain and settles.

There is now a steady ping of rain.

He’s coming for me.

Still uncomfortable with the wide-open parking lots on this side of D Street, I cross back over. Where are the residents? I know there aren’t many who stay in this sleepy town year round, but surely there have to be some?

With the exception of streetlights, there is no other light. No kitchen light. No porch light. No headlight. No nothing. No one.

I’m alone in this struggle. The realization is like a wallop to the stomach at the same time the lights are punched out. Alone. Panic seizes. I’m now primal.

Watching, calculating, cunning, vigilant, vigilante, if it comes down to it.

I arrive at the next corner at the same time the van pulls up. He’s on the opposite corner and to my relief the van’s side door only opens on one side – the side farthest away from me. Still, the driver is sitting right there approximately 10 feet from where I’m standing. It’s the first time I’ve stopped. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. There, right there, on the right hand side, a porch light is on, and I see movement. At long last a side street yields an occupant.

Six houses down on the right hand side on blessed 40th Street are people!

I don’t hesitate a moment. I purposefully stride to the house, take the stairs one at a time and calmly tell my saviors about the man in the light blue van who has been following me. I tell them how he almost hit me on one corner and another time how he left the van’s side door open and glared at me. I’m frightened of what he might do and wonder, if it’s not too much trouble, if I can sit on their porch until he’s out of the area. I’m sure he’ll leave once he sees I’m here with all of you.

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Three women and two men stare at me. It takes 20 seconds for one woman to gently place her hand on the forearm of one of the young gentlemen and ask if he wants his beverage refreshed. This breaks the spell as they restart conversations as if this rain soaked young lady has not descended on their porch. No words, no gestures, no acknowledgement that I had even taken up a moment of their time to explain my appearance. Fine, don’t talk to me. I’ll be the shadow on your face. Visible, but altogether harmless.

I sit on the second step from the top where the porch overhang shields me from the rain. This is a deferential position. It’s a signal to the porch dwellers that I am really not here to intrude on their little get together.

Why if I were to sit on the top step a well turned heel or boot could extricate me quite easily from the premises.

After about 20 minutes I’m feeling uncomfortable. I haven’t seen the van, and there’s every reason to believe he’s long gone from the area. I turn to my hosts and explain as such and ever polite, thank them for allowing me to sit on their steps, I really do appreciate it…. No sooner does my right foot land on concrete I hear the now familiar rattle.

With my left foot still on the bottom stair I turn my head to see the van barreling down the street. I slowly back up, dazed. I plant myself again on the second step from the top. Hyperventilating, I turn and ask, “Did you see him?” Gulping for air and trying to swallow the bile caught in my throat, I lay my head between my knees for a few seconds to regain equilibrium.

No one responds.

Oh my, my, my.

This is not happening.

I look and see the front end of the van on C Street. He’s rounded the block and is sitting on C Street, perpendicular to 40th Street. The headlights are on, flumes of exhaust create an eerie sense of foreboding and I can just barely make out the outline of the driver.

Turning around to point him out to the others I’m met by a wall of backs and reason if they haven’t shown a scintilla of understanding or compassion thus far, they aren’t going to start caring now. It’s best to remain as quiet as possible.

I wait.

He waits.

An hour passes. The van comes down 40th Street and slowly goes by the house.

The driver and I match glares. He hangs a left onto D Street and goes around the block. Again he slowly drives by. There is more challenge in his stare, there is more concrete in mine.

One of the women saunters up to the porch rail, takes a sip of her drink and says, “That’s not a light blue van, that’s a white van.”

Maybe it appears white, but if you’ve been up close and personal with it as I have you’d see it’s a very light blue and what are you talking about bitch. It’s a van and if the last hour hasn’t proven to you that I’m in some serious trouble here then I don’t know what to say.

Of course I don’t say any of this. I’m afraid she’ll throw me off the porch.

A phone, I ask of her. Do you have a phone? I don’t know who I’m going to call.

I just met the boss and a couple of other carneys this afternoon. It was hardly the time to exchange phone numbers and recipes. My sister is back in New York by now and well, there’s really no one to call.

“We don’t have a phone.” Deadened eyes stare at me then look away as if I’m disagreeable to even look upon.

Riiiiiiiiiing!

Oh, I expected a phone to ring. Willed it to ring and conjured up all the smart remarks I’d throw her way, but I’m in survival mode. There will be th no smart remarks, or remarks of any kind. Besides, the van is now on 40 Street. It is on the opposite side of the street with the headlights off. The engine is still running.

Pretty bold move to sit right down the street from the house—my arrogant, persistent, creepy, yellow-stained bench seat predator.

After another 20-or-so minutes, he slowly goes by the house again. He gives me a quick once over, then concentrates on the porch scene. He’s sizing things up, making a decision.

TOUGH LIT. X

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One of the men on the porch steps forward and surprisingly sits down on the top step. His legs brush my arm, he’s sitting that close. “I’ve been watching,” he starts, “and there’s something really strange about that van. Look there he is now.”

I look to where he’s pointing – the van has gone around the block and is sitting in his favorite spot on C Street waiting.

“Did you notice he stayed on this street for a while?” he asks. “I think you’re in serious trouble, something is just not right.”

Grateful that someone is finally sizing up the threat level here, I exhale a “yes,” which sounds more like gratitude than confirmation.

“Michael?”

The woman’s voice cuts through the air. Michael immediately stands up and goes over to her. Apparently he isn’t allowed to speak to me.

I look back to C Street and don’t see the van anywhere. He’s not on 40th or D Street. Has he finally given up? Did that one act of kindness from the man on the porch send a message that the jig is up, go trolling elsewhere?

Five minutes later with still no sign of the van I tentatively walk down the porch steps again with another thank you and wave to my hosts. And again I receive the same response, which would be no response.

Constantly glancing back I see the van turn down 40th Street just as I’m two houses away. I calmly walk back to the porch and take my familiar spot, pointing to the van when one of the women looks at me as if I have some nerve.

The van sways down the street. The driver doesn’t look over, as I track him with laser eyes.

A slight commotion is heard from behind the screen door and I can see a new man, a third man, a traveling man, gathering up boxes and luggage. He’s apparently on his way out of town and there’s only one way out – over the bridge – which is three blocks from where my new apartment is located. This is my chance to get off the porch and closer to home.

The five on the porch grab for the handle on the screen door, ask if they can help, pick up suitcases, pillows, small plants, any small item, any item at all to assist ‘traveling man’ so he doesn’t have to make an extra trip to the car. They all walk down the porch stairs to a car parked in the stone driveway on the side of the house.

I scoot over so no one trips over me.

Hugs and back pats are offered and received and I can’t believe I say it, but bold and desperate has kept me safe this far so I call out, “Excuse me, can you tell me where you’re going?” And then, because I’m sure the others haven’t filled traveling man in on my predicament, I add, “There’s a guy in a light blue van (I look at “white van” woman) that is giving me the creeps and I sure would appreciate a ride to a party just a few blocks from here or if you’re headed in the other direction you can drop me off near home. I’m only three blocks from the bridge.”

He hesitates, and then traveling man lies, “I’m headed over to Toms River. I’m going in another direction.”

Liar!

This is a peninsula and there’s only one way in and one way out and that is over the Toms River bridge, and there is no other way to get over to Toms River unless you have a boat, and that car you’re driving doesn’t look amphibious, and I can’t believe you rotten S.O.B. that you’re not going to help me out. What is wrong with you people? Can’t you see there is a van at the end of the street with a psycho waiting for me to leave this porch so he can do whatever he wants with me and… and… and…?

Of course I say none of this.

Survival.

After waving good-bye to traveling man the five porch dwellers walk back up the stairs.

Bad enough that there’s this guy in a van who is truly gunning for me, but this whole group has me flummoxed. What is going on? I’m confused by their reaction. Can’t they see I’m in need of help? Where is their humanity? Where is the sympathy?

My concentration has been so focused on the van’s favorite spot on C Street I can’t believe I’ve missed a phone booth sitting at the intersection of D and 40.

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Yes! When he makes his surveillance trip around the block I’ll have a good minute to run down to the phone booth. All I have to do is make sure to stay in the shadows which shouldn’t be too hard and, let’s see, if I make a point of standing on the porch with the porch dwellers, he won’t know whether to expect me on the stairs or the porch. That might do it.

With three other women on the porch he’d have to search me out. Yes, he needs to see me on the porch talking to the porch dwellers.

Here he comes.

I stand on the top step and turn my back to the street, to the van. I explain to the porch people my plan to run to the phone booth and call a cab and if they would stay out on the porch until I’m able to make the call and return safely, I would certainly appreciate it. It would be very helpful because I don’t think he’s going to give up, and you guys have been so gracious with your time and allowing me to stay on your porch, and really I think your presence is the only reason I haven’t been attacked yet so…

On and on and on I go until from the corner of my eye I see the van slowly cruise by. No one says a word. Times wasting, the van has turned the corner.

I stay in the shadows and walk along a thin dirt strip (now mud strip) that runs alongside the brick building on the corner. Coming to the phone booth I slide in and crouch. No sign of the van. Finding two taxicab numbers I punch in the number for the first one. It rings a good ten times before I replace the receiver and dial the next cab number. After the third ring a dispatcher picks up and upon hearing where I am located tells me I need to call the other cab company. I blurt out the short version of the terror-filled hours and ask him if he could please send someone.

Please. He apologizes and sympathizes, but can be fined if he’s found on this side of the island. He’ll come over only if I try the other cab company one more time.

The van reappears at his preferred spot on C Street. The headlights are off and flumes of smoke encase the entire vehicle. The van inches th forward. He’s trying to get a better look down 40 Street. He’s trying to see if I’m on the porch.

The van inches up some more.

I softly click the receiver down, wait a few seconds, slowly release it and then dial “O”. The operator comes on the line and in a breathless whisper I tell her the short of the long story. I finish by telling her I don’t care if she sends the police or a cab I need someone to get me out of this situation.

The van makes a lazy turn down 40th Street.

He doesn’t see me yet, but it’s just a matter of time. He’s coming for me.

RUN! The van picks up speed jockeying from side-to-side as he races down the street. I run past the store and four houses. The van is closing in fast.

As I crisscross the lawn of the property next door to the porch dwellers house, I see the van brake so hard the driver’s whole body jerks forward then back. His head hits hard against the seat back. His right hand is already on the steering column as he throws the van into park. His left hand is already on the door as it swings open before the van even has a chance to stop. Just as I turn onto the walkway I see my predator bolt from the van. Racing up the front walkway, I feel the trail of three fingers down my back.

I jump onto the first step of the porch, taking the rest two at a time.

The porch dwellers are now house dwellers. As I race up the stairs I can see them through the screen door at the other end of the house in the kitchen.

What if the screen door is locked? My mind screams an alert: Do not open the screen door. You’re dead if you try to open the screen door and it’s locked!

My feet meet the porch with a resounding thump. Everyone in the kitchen turns.

I attempt to right myself, but the force in which I’ve hit the porch is propelling me forward. I bump up against the screen door almost going through it.

The door of the van slams shut.

Tires squeal as it peals away.

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