Adventures for the Average Woman
Special End-of-Summer Issue
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A MONTHLY PUBLICATION OF SERIAL FICTION AND FACTBASED ADVENTURE TALES PRINTED WITH EARTH-FRIENDLY RECYCLED MATERIALS
August 2006 Volume 1, Issue 10
Inside this issue
Wet T-shirt Time! By Laurie E. Notch
No lie! All the T-shirts you see featured in these pages were thoroughly drenched before shooting. At any rate, the headline hopefully got your attention enough for you to read our tenth issue to date. As we approach the final lazy, hazy days of summer, I thought it would be fitting to fill our first few pages with colorful, surf-’n-sun-soaked T-shirts from beaches around the world. So, let’s all hail the humble cotton blend T-shirt, tank top, or other souvenir wear with the iron-on images and names of places visited while on vacation beginning with this one (above right) bought and paid for in the Aloha State, Hawaii — a Pacific paradise boasting black sand beaches, fuming volcanoes, splendiferous flora, barking geckos, hulas, luaus, and umbrella drinks under the tiki lamps. Then there is the famous “toilet bowl� (below) — a large hole carved out of an ancient lava bed over the eons by the rhythmic flow of the ocean . With every surge of seawater, it fills up, empties as though flushing Mother nature’s loo then refills. Just be careful not to get flushed out with the tide!
Photos courtesy of Laurie E. Notch Š 2006
The T-shirt you see lying out on the “lanai� (Hawaiian for “veranda�) to dry is from Hanauma Bay — home of the famous filling and flushing “toilet bowl� — on the island of Oahu, just outside of Honolulu. It is a coral reef preserve where visitors can hike the volcanic slopes, picnic beneath the swaying palms, dip sun-baked bodies in the sugary white sands, or go for a cool swim with sea turtles and tropical fish in kaleidoscopic colors. The real trick is pronouncing the Hawaiian name for the red trigger fish (shown below). Can you say “Humuhumunukunukuapua’a�?
So sit back in your beach chair, relax to the soothing sighs of the sea, look at the pretty pictures, and read.
Wet T-shirt Time!
1
Sand Blast!
4
Katie and the Errant Knight
5
The Elusive Force
6
Mystery of the Majestic
9
The Cardiff Grandma
12
Neomodern Nosferatu
15
The Spoiler
17
Cutlass Moon
20
What’s More in Store?
23
Come On In! The 23 Contest’s Fine!
(continued on page 3)
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Adventures for the Average Woman
Wet T-shirt Time! (continued from page 1)
Above all, don’t forget to pick up a cool cotton T-shirt with bright graphics and embossed lettering to always remind you of where you’ve beached in life.
The T-shirt acquired there is shown placed atop a hand-woven mat manufactured and sold by the local women. On the left side lies a most precious souvenir — a gracile, ornate, hand-carved, painted, and bejeweled Malaysian shadow puppet (“Wayang Kulit”) said to be endowed with spirit powers.
While rummaging through my collection of world travel tourist trappings, I came across the one above whose dripping-wet lettering reads “Phuket, Thailand.” I was there in December 1994, ten years before the Tsunami disaster. All I can say is the phrase emblazoned across the top of the Tshirt, “The beauty of life,” shall always be the way I remember Phuket, Koh Pi Pi, Koh Samet, (“Koh” means “island,” by the way) and the many other emerald isles dotting the aquamarine seas up and down the Thai coast. Yet, Phuket for all its charm, beauty, elephants, and outdoor bazaars was not the most remarkable attraction in my view of the land. If the towering monoliths of Phang Nga, (featured in the picture below and above center) look familiar, don’t blink and rub the déjà vu from your eyes. The James Bond movie, “The Man with the Golden Gun,” was filmed there in 1974.
Volume 1, Issue 10
Next we meander northward up the azure coast to Malaysia. From the hustle-bustle of Penang, an escort of shimmering dolphins leads our ferry across the sapphire seas to the alabaster beaches of Langkawi to behold the sun set from beneath wispy palms.
Trip thousands of miles across the South China Sea to Puerto Galera on Mindoro Island in the Philippines, where the T-shirts are cheap and the stress of life is slung off in a low-swinging hammock (as seen below). Whether you travel to the shores of the Atlantic, the Pacific, or those of your vivid imagination, take a refreshing dip before the hot summer day’s end. Above all, don’t forget to pick up a cool cotton T-shirt with bright graphics and embossed lettering to always remind you of where you’ve beached in life.
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Sand Blast!
Sand sculpting is a practice found on every beach on the planet. Whether it involves children making sand castle turrets with wet sand dumped from plastic cups or the elaborately engineered constructs built by professional artists, the shaping of sand into forms of art will always captivate a crowd of beachgoers. Take this beautiful stretch of sand in South Korea. Every year, the Westin Chosun Hotel at Haeundae Beach in the port city of Pusan hosts an international competition where teams vie for third, second, and first prize cash awards. All you need to compete is a couple of shovels, some water sprinklers, a winning team with strong backs (featured here) and a daring design in mind.
The work is grueling: digging, dousing, and molding wet sand. What starts as a small mound will grow into a giant form in but three short hours and hundreds of sore muscles.
The work is grueling: digging, dousing, and molding wet sand. What starts as a small mound will grow into a giant form in but three short hours and dozens of sore muscles.
Below center and down the column are our award winning sculptures: “Couch Picasso,” “Sex and Violence,” “Beach Blast,” and directly below, “Mandala.” So, how much did we win for our efforts? $200 and a gilded certificate. The cash went right back into the coffers of the sponsoring hotel whose bar we invaded—wet, sand-coated Tshirts and all — for a well deserved round of Korean beer and side dishes: dried squid, fresh sushi, spicy cold noodles, and steamed dumplings (okay, and a cheeseburger or two). Although the prizes and recognition are grand, it is the fun of playing in the sand with other adults reliving a much beloved childhood activity that matters most! And let’s not forget the free T-shirt just for participating. — Laurie Notch is a world traveler and managing editor on the hunt for stories at Ideagems ® Publications.
Are you a woman with a demanding and/or adventurous livelihood? Do you have pictures or an article about your travels? Send them to us at ideagems@aol.com or any of our mailing addresses listed in this publication. Be sure to include your name with a short bio containing background information.
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Adventures for the Average Woman
The Adventures of Katie Madigan: Katie and the Errant Knight
Fed up with work and a lackluster life, Katie longs to escape. In a series of graphic stories, she descends into one grueling adventure after another. Katie, be careful what you wish for
THIS CONTEMPORARY GRAPHIC THRILLER CONTINUES IN OUR UPCOMING ISSUES. SUBSCRIBE TODAY!
Volume 1, Issue 10
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The Elusive Force, Part IV By Ana Ostrzycka and marek Rymuszko Trnslated by Joel Stern
If you happened to miss out on earlier chapters of this or any of our other stories, order the back issues for $3.50 a copy (includes shipping and handling). Or better yet, sign up for a year’s subscription for $18.50) and receive all the back issues plus our current issue for up to twelve total issues. Simply fill out the coupon inside this magazine and send it in with your check or money order or go to PayPal/ ideagems @aol.com to place your order today! LIKE US, ONLY A LITTLE DIFFERENT We visited Joasia’s school many times and always came away with a good impression. We were impressed in particular with the principal, Anna Wudzke, and Joasia’s teacher, Janina Ostrwoski. Both looked after the girl solicitously and were in constant touch with her parents and doctor. It was no surprise, therefore, that after moving to Czeladz, Joasia opted to continue at her old school, which meant a long and tiring commute (over 40 minutes each way). When we first met Joasia’s young teacher we were most interested in finding out how she had managed to create a normal situation in the classroom. “It wasn’t easy, of course,” she said, “but I realized it wouldn’t do any good to ignore the problem. So, after Joasia returned to school, I decided to devote a special lesson to her. I wanted above all to eliminate the aura of morbid sensationalism surrounding the whole matter. I wrote a sentence on the blackboard which I used as my central theme: ‘Our classmate is just like us, only a little different.’ I explained that the things happening around Joasia were odd but had nothing to do with ghosts, and science would discover their cause sooner or later. My words must have had an effect, for as far as I know, the other kids didn’t tease or pick on Joasia again. In fact, they even came to identify with her so much that when some foreign journalists visited our school the students were absolutely thrilled
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“I explained that the things happening around Joasia were odd but had nothing to do with ghosts, and science would discover their cause sooner or later.”
that one of their classmates was the center of public attention.” Sensationalistic reports appearing in the press during the early phase of the phenomenon stated that the teenager also played various tricks at school, such as knocking the chalk out of the teacher’s hand while she was lecturing. This is untrue, just like the story about the priest and the aspergillum. Kinetic effects rarely occurred when Joasia was at the primary school, and the accounts describing them do not seem very credible — with a single exception. One day Joasia came late to class, and because she was afraid of being reprimanded by the teacher she stood by the door, unsure what to do. When she finally grasped the doorknob, a flowerpot simultaneously fell off a shelf for no apparent reason. This happened sometime in the fall of 1983. Ms. Ostrowski, however, did confirm the girl’s telepathic abilities. Joasia, she said, was not always familiar with the material when called upon, particularly if she had to answer a question on grammar. “I would then try to help Joasia by formulating the right answer in my mind. This was not always intentional on my part. I simply liked the girl very much and unconsciously wanted her to look her best. I observed that immediately afterward Joasia would answer the question correctly, which in itself would not be so strange were it not for the fact that her sentences were often very similar in construction and style to those I mentally formulated. On the basis of many such experiences, I have the right to say this could not have been due to coincidence alone.” Janina Ostrowski’s observation is confirmed indirectly by an incident in a math class. The teacher asked Joasia to solve a problem o the blackboard. At first the girl was unable to, then, as though guided by a sudden impulse, quickly wrote down the answer. It was completely wrong, and she received a failing grade. A (continued on page 7)
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Adventures for the Average Woman
The Elusive Force (continued from page 6)
Objects paranormally bent by Joasia
closer analysis of this case, however, revealed an amazing fact that the teacher did not realize until later. It turned out that while Joasia was struggling with the equation at the blackboard, the teacher was already mentally solving the next problem, which she intended to dictate. The answer to it was exactly the same as the one her pupil wrote on the blackboard. Joasia admitted in a subsequent conversation with us that at the critical moment she was not even thinking about correctly solving the equation. She had just wanted to satisfy the math teacher, whom she was afraid of. Because she knew the teacher had the answer, she concentrated on her and “something” prompted her what to write. MORE LIGHT In May 1983, Joasia Gajewski first met Dr. Eustachiusz Gadula, who at the time was head of the paraplegic ward at the Miners Medical and Vocational Rehabilitation center No. 1 in Tarnowskie Gory. In his fifties, this physician, a specialist in the field of surgery and rehabilitation , is known for his openmindedness toward new developments and trends in medicine, not excluding certain types of so-called alternative therapy. Dr. Gadula was, among other things, one of the pioneers of acupuncture
Volume 1, Issue 10
“Right,” replied Dr. Gadula. “The let’s try to study the child under laboratory conditions, which will rule out the possibility of deception regardless of results.”
in Poland, and also began to collaborate with bio-energy therapists (though not without reservations, which he has expressed in many public discussions and speeches). As he has stated — and he has not revised his opinion to date — this approach was dictated to him by one of the cardinal deontological principles of the medical profession: “primum non nocere” (first do no harm). Dr. Gadula simply recognized that if bio-energy therapy may prove helpful in the treatment of certain illnesses, particularly those of psychosomatic origin, there is no reason to reject such assistance. Participating regularly in symposia organized by psychotronic associations, clubs, and organizations, and following the foreign literature in this field, Dr. Gadula decided to verify personally whether and to what extent it would be possible to study the phenomenon of thirteen-year-old Joasia Gajewski by using current scientific methods and the latest technology, particularly measuring devices. This undertaking was facilitated by the fact that he soon won the confidence of the child, who was very mistrustful because of the frequent unpleasant experiences she had had with skeptics who treated her like a charlatan. His very first visits to the Gajewskis’ home convinced Dr. Gadula that the phenomena occurring there were real. Over a relatively brief period of time he observed, among other things, amazing acoustical effects in Joasia’s presence. Concentrated at first around the girl, they would gradually expand to fill the entire apartment. They were similar to high-voltage discharges; some brought to mind the scratching of claws or clicking. Dr. Gadula caught these sounds on tape. When he played them back shortly afterwards for a friend of his, a PhD in physics, he heard: “Listen, I believe you, but you realize it doesn’t prove anything. Such sounds are easy to produce.” “Right,” replied Dr. Gadula. “The let’s try to study the child under laboratory conditions, which will rule out the possibility of deception regardless of results.” Organizing a scientific team to analyze the phenomenon was no small task, and before it took final shape several weeks had passed. Some specialists did not take the doctor’s proposal seriously, while others had to drop
out of the team because Joasia would not work with them. We should point out that the girl’s obstinacy in this kind of situation is such an essential element of her mental makeup that it often precludes experiments. For this very reason one of the psychiatrists was withdrawn from the research group: his method of conducting interviews would make Joasia “freeze up,” whereupon she stubbornly refused to answer any questions. One other difficulty was that the research had to be organized and financed by those directly involved, as scientific centers in Poland do not provide for parapsychological phenomena in their programs and thus no funds were available for studying them. At last, thanks to the personal contacts of Dr. Gadula and his colleagues, the obstacles were overcome, and metallographic and crystallographic analyses of objects bent in a paranormal manner by Joasia were incorporated in the program of a special institute. The research program was divided into four sections. The findings made in each one were to be evaluated jointly. Dr. Gadula directed the medical studies and also served as chairman of the entire team. The biophysical research was handled by Dr. Andrzej Franek of the Institute of Biophysics at the Silesian Academy of Medicine; the psychological research — by Dr. Miroslaw Harciarek of the Institute of Psychology at the University of Silesia. Finally, the metallographic studies were supervised by Dr. Klara Cieslak, director of the Institute of Metallography and Welding Technology at the Silesian School of Engineering in Gliwice. The team worked for several months. The outcome of the project, a report prepared by Dr. Eustachiusz Gadula on October 27, 1983, was submitted to the Ministry of Health and Social Welfare. Let us try to present in brief the most significant findings of months of research. First of all, it should be emphasized that the numerous experiments conducted with Joasia Gajewski have proved beyond all doubt (continued on page 8)
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The Elusive Force (continued from page 7)
that the phenomenon connected with her person is real. This was borne out not only by the metal samples that she bent without the use of physical force at the Institute of Metallography and Welding Technology, and thus under fully controlled conditions (some of these experiments were taped), but above all by repeated direct observations on the part of researchers who witnessed the paranormal movement of various objects. This definitely banished any doubt concerning the reality of the phenomenon itself. What its mechanisms and causes may be, however, remains an open question. July 5, 1983, proved to be a landmark date in this regard. Joasia was staying then at the Miners Center for Medical and Vocational Rehabilitation in Slaskie Repty, undergoing a series of medical tests and biophysical experiments. It was thought necessary to isolate the girl from her household environment, which was not conducive to objective observations, and to create a situation in which kinetic phenomena might be induced artificially by irradiating her room with ultraviolet rays. The test was completely successful. Let us now hear from the most authoritative observer, Dr. Andrzej Franek of the Institute of Biophysics at the Silesian Academy Medicine in Zabrze-Rokotnica. We reproduce his statement from a tape recording made on December 15, 1983, when Dr. Franek consented to give an interview in our presence to a Japanese crew from “Fuji television.” We cite here only the most important parts of the interview. Q. What was the first step in your research? A. In the initial phase we tried to collect as much information as possible on the phenomenon. We had to rely on the reports of eyewitnesses, some of whom were persons outside the family. We also read the available literature on the subject. Then we performed preliminary experiments, which, assuming that the phenomenon was real, might yield interesting results of a biophysical mature. I would like to call your attention at this point to a certain important methodological problem. Because the phenomenon was unknown to science, it did not fit within the framework of any research programs. The kinetic effects occurred with an indeterminable frequency and usually
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The magnitude of the forces which must have been operating at that moment is evident from the fact that two and then three grown men could not hold the chair down.
frightened the persons who observed them. Emotions, as we know, are not conducive to precise reporting. All this shows the magnitude of the difficulties facing us. In the first phase — May and June of 1983 — we tried to determine the child’s effect on various fields: gravitational, magnetic, electrostatic, electrical, and electromagnetic. We also observed Joasia bend various objects in a paranormal manner. During this period we also attempted to produce kinetic phenomena artificially through the action of certain electromagnetic fields and suitably ionized air. This was essential, inasmuch as these effects were not controlled by the child and they occurred unexpectedly both for her and those around her. We wanted to see if it was possible to produce them at will. Q. Did you succeed? A. Yes, and we have no doubt that spontaneous movement of objects is a reality. We saw it with our own eyes. Q. What was it you saw? A. During Joasia Gajewskis’s several stays in the hospital I twice witnessed paranormal movement of objects. The first occurrence was on July 5, 1983. It happened thirty minutes or so after we began trying to produce the phenomenon by irradiating the room with ultraviolet rays. We heard very curious acoustical effects, which most resembled highvoltage discharges. In Joasia’s case, however, they are very distinctive. There was also a sound similar to the scratching of claws or clicking. These effects precede the spontaneous movement of objects. The first of them was a large, heavy radio-cassette recorder we had wedged in for safety’s sake between an armchair and a couch. The recorder was “thrown out” into the middle of the room. Next we observed the microphone from a stereo system move several feet. A flashlight lying nearby went into motion and, after traveling a foot or so, struck Dr. Gadula in the arm. Then a ping-pong ball left in the study after a previous experiment flew about six feet and hit my shoulder. A short time later a canvas shoe resting in a far corner of the room rose from the floor, sailed some twelve feet, and struck me in the chest. A
rolled-up blanket on the couch glided toward Dr. Gadula and covered him. It was also interesting to observe the vegetative changes accompanying all these effects. I noticed that my hair was standing on end, and felt a distinct shiver go all the way down my spine to my feet. It seemed as if the air had become highly electrified. That same evening we witnessed the movement of an armchair on which Joasia was sitting. Although she had no possibility of affecting the chair (she was sitting with crossed legs and got up when we told her to, which ruled out any trickery on her part), it turned at a sharp angle and rotated rapidly. The magnitude of the forces which must have been operating at that moment is evident from the fact that two and then three grown men could not hold the chair down. Q. How strong could those forces have been? A. We don’t have data that would allow us to give a precise answer, but we estimate they were quite powerful. The research continues in our next issue. In order to read it, you’ll have to subscribe. Do it today!
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Adventures for the Average Woman
Mystery of the Majestic, Part X
CLIFFHANGER “Please, Pa, don’t hit me and Ma no more,” she whimpered in painful memory. She swiped at the tickling sensation on her face and smiled from a more pleasant reverie, “Aw, Snuffles, cut that out.” Marque rubbed against her and whined like the pup she had fed and cared for so many years ago. Arna moaned. Her head vibrated with the rumbling of the car and the ringing in her ears from the blow to her head. She slid her right hand behind the brim of her hat to feel an egg-sized welt. Her eyes fluttered open but could not focus for the murk that enveloped her. She could feel Marque’s breath on her cheek. She heard him mumble but could not make out his garble. She was lying on her left side and hardly able to move. With her right hand, she reached up and palmed the tight confines of the trunk. Slowly the pieces from her sawed-up mind jigged together to form a picture of constricting terror. Panic wrapped its coils around her chest and squeezed. “There’s no air. I… I cain’t breathe.” She began to hyperventilate. Sweat covered her face and hands like glycerin. Marque’s throaty grunts urged her to remove the latex plug from his mouth. Her fingers skittered over his face and along the tight strap to the buckle only to find it padlocked. She tugged at the tiny lock. Tears filled her voice, “I can’t unhook it. How..?” Marque’s tongue fought to force out the words, “pull down.” Arna’s stubby fingers hooked onto the strap and jerked. Marque twisted his jaw until the ball popped out and under his chin. His tongue regained its
Volume 1, Issue 10
Slowly the pieces from her sawed-up mind jigged together to form a picture of constricting terror. Panic wrapped its coils around her chest and squeezed. “There’s no air. I… I cain’t breathe.”
command. “Arna, you have to keep your head and help me so that we can get out of this, OK? Now I want you to take a couple of deep breaths with me. Inhale,” he took in a deep draft. Arna sniffled loudly but followed his example. “Now exhale.” His breath blew tingling mint remnants of breath strip across her face. “Let’s do it again, all right?” The car hit a pothole with a severe jolt. Arna’s panic snaked tighter around her chest. “I… I cain’t...” her voice rose to a keen. “Arna, listen. I want you to picture yourself as a stone in a stream. The water is rushing over you, but you are still and calm. I want you to say the words, ‘I’m a stone in rushing water,’ over and over with me. OK? I’m a stone in rushing water. C’mon, Arna, say it. I’m a stone in rushing…” “…water. I’m a stone…,” The words sputtered from her gasping mouth. She chanted the mantra with Marque and felt the constrictor inside loosen its grip. She breathed with more ease. “Good job, Arna. Now, do you happen to have anything long and narrow on you, like a bobby pin?” His voice was low and soothing in her ear. Arna stopped her chanting. “A bobby pin?” she quizzed. “Yes, do you happen to have one?” “Have you ever seen me wearin’ pin curls?” The sharp stick of her sass beat back the snaking fear. “Do you have anything similar? Is there something in your purse?” “My purse?” She reached down with her hand and felt the leather bag underneath her. Pulling it out proved as difficult as reeling in an alligator garfish. After a several sound tugs, she landed her catch. Her fingers rummaged the contents. “Empty tube o’ lipstick. Compact case. No. OK. How about my car keys?” “Too thick. They won’t enter the keyhole on these manacles.” Marque explained. “Well then, I got nothin’ ‘ceptin’ these documents which are totally worthless
after today’s bust at the tax offi—” she stopped short as soon as her fingers stumbled across a likely tool. “Would a paperclip work?” “Perfect! But you’re going to have to straighten it out, OK?” Arna slid the curved bit of wire from the batch of pages. She put one end of it between her teeth and pulled out its kinks. “There, that’s about as straight as I can get it.” “Great. Now, can you slide it into my hand?” Just as Arna began moving her hand the car slammed over another pothole. The thin wire slipped from her sweaty fingers. “Dagnabittohell!” she cussed. “I dropped it.” Her breathing picked up its pace. “Arna, stone in rushing water. Stay calm, reach down and feel around for it.” The car pitched and bumped. “Dangit. This is like playing pickup sticks on a vibrating bed in a cheap motel.” Her fingers crept along the carpet and probed the area between their bodies. A hot blush rushed her face when her thumb brushed accidentally explored the zipper to his fly. “Sorry,” she hastened. “No problem. Just keep, uh, feeling for it.” Arna licked at her frustration in the salty sweat streaming down her upper lip. “I thaink I got it. Yes!” She pushed the fringe of her jacket over Marque’s hip and deposited the straightened clip in his fingers. Her face was pressed up to his. “I need to ask you a big favor now.” “What’s that?” “It’s been a while since I’ve worked these particular manacles and since I don’t have my usual tools at hand, I’ll need a little assistance.” “What can I do? I don’t know nothin’ about picking locks.” Arna’s words jumped with the crossing of another bump in the road. “Well, when I was chained up on stage, I would ask for a woman from the audience to come up and…” (continued on page 10)
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Mystery of the Majestic (continued from page 9)
“And what?” His lips brushed her cheeks with his words. “Kiss me.” “Whoa! You are way off base, mister. Do we even have time for such tomfool—” His mouth covered hers to stifle her complaint long enough for his left hand to find its way to her cheek. “See?” “See what? I cain’t see shit exceptin’ that you’re an absolute prick. We should be making an escape not making out. Besides, ain’t you gay?” Marque smiled in the dark. He had found the button to push that would change Arna from a panicked wheezing kitten into a roaring hellcat ready to scratch and claw to survive. “Wait a minute,” Arna craned her neck toward the taillight socket. “We ain’t movin’.” Marque noticed the car idling. He shook the metal cuff from his right wrist and squeezed his arm under his side to his front. “So I gather.” “Now what do we do?” “We wait.” “Wait for what?” her voice squeaked. “Wait and see if he continues to drive or opens the trunk to shoot us in the head.” “What are you saying? You can pick your way out of handcuffs, now pop this thaing.” She pounded the lid with her fist. “Arna, I don’t have the tools. My trunk and my pockets were picked clean. Furthermore,” he grabbed her flailing arms, “this car doesn’t have an inside release feature like later models. So I suggest we make the most of what time we’ve got left and go out smiling.” Before Arna could come up for air from under his smothering kiss, the car lunged forward. G-forces pushed her hard against Marque whose back slammed into the back of the trunk space. Her stomach clambered up into her throat; her crotch tingled with the sensation of riding downgrade on a monster rollercoaster. Instinctively, her
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It was not like the light in her dreams about lover Ed and son Clayton’s fatal car crash. It didn’t intensify. It broke apart and regrouped on a field of India ink. It danced with faint a jingle — like coins in a soft pocket.
teeth gritted and muscles tensed to brace for impact. The car crashed with a loud splash. Arna found herself crushed against the top of the trunk with Marque’s weight pressing on her. The jolt to her back and neck electrified her with excruciating pain. Watery tendrils wrapped around limbs and torso. “Take a deep breath,” Marque sputtered. The water covered his mouth and nose in icy blackness. Time was lost in the wash. Arna couldn’t measure how long it took for the air in her lungs to expire or for the pale light to descend upon her. It was not like the light in her dreams about lover Ed and son Clayton’s fatal car crash. It didn’t intensify. It broke apart and regrouped on a field of India ink. It danced with faint a jingle — like coins in a soft pocket. Arna moved toward it, limp and reconciled to its numbing peace. Then death’s glassy stillness shattered from the hurtling stone of life. She broke the surface with a lung-piercing gasp. Her unfeeling fingers grabbed hold of smooth slate. She bellied up onto a flat cold surface, coughed up the water that would be her shroud, and greedily gulped down the air. Marque pushed down on her back to force the liquid from her lungs. He gasped and coughed to clear his own. “You all right?” Arna groaned before replying, “What happened? How did we…?” The chains connecting Marque’s ankles clanked on granite. Arna understood where the muffled clinking sounds had come from; she understood what force had drawn her to the light and onto the rock. Marque had performed his greatest act in saving their lives. How could she respond for her awe? The crack of a rifle echoed in the quarry’s walls. Fragments of stone rained on Marque’s head. He squinted into a beam of light to see a figure standing on a boulder on the other side of the rain-fill lake.
“Come on, we gotta get out of here.” Marque helped her up onto her elbows and knees. Arna looked up the tower of rock that loomed overhead. “You don’t mean…?” “Yes, I mean. Now try and get some warmth and movement back in your limbs.” “No, I cain’t. I ain’t got the strength.” She coughed. Marque grabbed her by the hips and flipped her onto her back. He nipped her breasts and suckled her throat. “Get offa me, you prick!” she bellowed and kicked. “We’re gonna get killed and that’s all you can think about?” He backed off and smiled. “Seems to me you got plenty of strength.” He reached for the fancy silver buckle below her navel and yanked it off. “I need this.” “Hey! That belonged to my grandfather.” Marque blew warmth into his stiff fingers then used the buckle’s prong to work the leg irons’ locks. The rocks rang like a great bell with another gun blast. The cold dragged time heavily on its heels. She studied the scene to understand the dancing light in the black field had been their pursuer’s flashlight skimming the water. She watched the shards of stone fly with the slowness of petals on a breeze. She saw herself climbing the wall then realized she wasn’t moving at all. Was it the cold that dulled her perceptions or was it witchery? The clack and splash of chains plunging in water stopped the rusted grinding of her mental gears. Mark pulled her up onto her feet and handed her the silver buckle. “Thanks. Now we gotta move.” She slowly slipped it in the sodden pocket of her waterlogged buckskin jacket and thought of her Stetson and hand-crafted leather purse going the way of the sunken car. A cold wind dipped down and iced her dripping strands of hair. A hard shiver shook her body and rattled her teeth. “I’m telling you I cain’t make that climb.” (continued on page 11)
Adventures for the Average Woman
Mystery of the Majestic (continued from page 10)
“Sure you can.” A third bullet whizzed over their heads to explode into slate. He pulled her by the arm over to the base of the precipice. “No, you… you go and g…get help. I’ll w…wait here.” Chattering jackhammered her words. Snow and sleet veiled the granite sheet. Marque reached around her and clamped both hands onto her buttocks. He planted his lips full onto hers. His hot breath filled her mouth and nostrils. Arna wriggled to escape his lusty hold. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Stop doing that! It’s sexual harassment.” “It’s the only way to light a fire under that soggy ass of yours.” He pushed her to the rock face, pressed up against her back and blew in her ear, “I’ll be right behind your behind prodding you all the way up. Just put your toes and fingers where I tell you to, and don’t look down.” With Marque at her back, she inched her way up the crag. He estimated the climb at fifteen feet, but feet were as good as miles in Arna’s view. The frosty wind snapped wickedly at face and fingers. Icy wet licked her face. She couldn’t feel her toes, only the pressure of Marque’s hand pushing on her rump. “Do you have to keep putting your hands there?” she bitched every time he palmed her derriere. He responded with a shove. Arna grunted at the strain of stretching limbs stiff from cold and age. She was not spry. She paused to catch her breath. Her head tilted back over her shoulder. “Arna!” Marque barked. “Don’t look down. She heard a crack but no hit from the rifle. Marque looked across the quarry. “He’s changed positions. We gotta get up top before he makes it over to this side.” Arna fixed on the rock above while
The frosty wind snapped wickedly at face and fingers. Icy wet licked her face. She couldn’t feel her toes, only the pressure of Marque’s hand pushing on her rump.
Marque helped her find the next handhold. “Move your hand there,” he guided then noticed she wasn’t moving. “What’s the matter? Are you crying? Oh for God’s sake, don’t lose it now, Arna. Come on. Buck up.” “What’s the use? We’re screwed. We’ve lost everythaing.” Stone blasted into bits by Marque’s right hand. “Except our lives, now come on, reach for that spot there.” Sore fingers strained to grab into a small crevasse. Cold stone scraped her nose and chin. Marque could feel her failing. He pushed the hot topic button to get her riled. “Arna, be honest.” “About what?” She forced with her next reach. “You thoroughly enjoyed kissing me in that trunk, not mention rubbing up against my—.” “Hell, no!” She flushed and clambered for a foothold. He smiled. He’d lit the fuse that would fire her jets. “That’s odd. I could have sworn you were on the verge of unmitigated orgasm.” “We’re about to get killed here, and all you care about is yer pathetic l’il pecker!” “I’m just trying to make conversation,” he grunted with another shove. “Well, keep up being rude and vulgar and I’ll let go here and now. Then that would solve a whole heap o’ problems — including your sexual ones.” “No, no, no, Arna, let’s… let’s hang on and make it to the top. It’s only a few more feet.” He let go a sigh of relief to notice her pushing harder up the rock wall in order to evade the embarrassing topic. “Why would you even ask me such a question when it don’t even figger?” “Figger?” Marque puzzled and pushed. “I could never be turned on by someone as friggin’ gay as you.” Hanging by frozen fingertips with bullets ricocheting around them, she took a turn at pushing his buttons.
“You think I’m gay?” He ducked for the sound of more gunfire and pushed her up the rise. “Given your fashion sense, I naturally assumed.” She inched upwards and added, “Ain’t all you theater types of that particular persuasion? I mean, Lily said y’all was. She was quite informative on the subject.” “I see.” Marque noted they were near breaching the top. “So, it doesn’t matter that Lily was once my wife?” “That’s in the past tense, ain’t it? I gathered y’all broke up ’cuz o’ your wantin’ to mount studs instead o’ mares.” “Did it ever occur to you that she left me for a woman?” He pushed the toe of Ana’s boot into a sleet-slicked fissure. “She sort of implicated she preferred swaingin’ in that tree, but then some monkeys jump to different branches now and again. Not that I make it my business. I just assume keep clear o’ the whole jungle.” Arna stopped. The top of the rock wall was only an arm’s length away – a giant’s arm’s length. Most discouraging of all, the last ledge protruded outward which would mean a total defiance of gravity to scale it. She blinked the snow from her eyes and strained. “I cain’t reach up there.” “Keep looking for a knob, a crack, anything to grab.” Marque’s breathing was labored from the strain of holding fast for the both of them. The panic python began wrapping its tail around her throat. “I’m telling you, I cain’t go no further!” Marque pushed the heels of Arna’s boots to wedge her securely. “Arna, you hang on. I’m going to climb up around you and see what there is.” “Wait! You cain’t leave me hangin’ here, you freak… freak… freak...!” echoed with the gunfire through the chasm. The thrill & chills continue next month.
Volume 1, Issue 10
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The Cardiff Grandma Or “How to Write a Hilariously Bad Detective Novel” By Lady Benjamin Desktile
For earlier Chapters and an explanation of this dreadful story, see the blog: “The Cardiff Grandma” on www.pluginamp.com. WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh. Tail End of Chapter 15 From behind the saloon style swinging doors that lead to the kitchens an old Chinese man appeared. “This”, he began, motioning to Wolfcastle,”…this is an old acquaintance of mine, Mr. Wolf.” The fiery Ping stepped back from the stand off and bowed his head. “So sorry, boss. Sorry, Mister Wolf. I didn’t know. I am very sorry.” The aged figure continued, “That’s OK Ping. Do not worry yourself with this now. Please continue attending to the pies, and maybe you should check the southern fried Alevuts? Oh and clean up Tong Li will you, don’t want the customers seeing that do we.” Turning back to Wolfcastle, “And now… Welcome my old companion, welcome to my shop, my place of business, my home.” Wong ushered Wolfcastle over to the kitchen and as they passed through the doorway, placed his frail old arm around Wolfcastle’s shoulder. As they disappeared into the rear of the shop, leaving the saloon doors swinging behind them, Wong spoke again. “Now tell me my good friend, what brings you here at this time?” But Wolfcastle was thinking about Wong entering the rear room, saloon doors swinging shut behind him…the odd quirk reminded him of someone, but who?
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Dr Snought sat in his empty office – empty that is except for him, the desk, filing cabinet, chairs, carpet, files, computer, printer, books, book shelves and other assorted office related items too trivial to list here.
Chapter 16 So that was the big news? There may have been an incident at the Inty and the police had refused to refuse to comment but were flatly denying they had previously denied anything? It seemed incredible but if Channel 12 was reporting it, it had to be true. The librarian shook her head in wonderment and turned up the volume. Nothing like an incident had ever before been reported to have occurred anywhere near the airport. It had once been her job to make sure of that, no matter how many people had to tragically succumb to gravity. Her rigour had earned her the nickname “the pusher”. She’d retired at a relatively young age, at least so far as one can retire from such an organization, due a loss of depth perception which had resulted in an inconvenient man stumbling off a kerb instead of a wall. Luckily, he’d stumbled in front of a moving bus. Very lucky indeed – the driver had mistaken her victim as an aspiring passenger and reacted the way he’d been trained to do. That had been her last job for the outfit. She’d found work as a librarian at the Welsh University when the other job applicants all died in pedestrian accidents, unsensational humdrum affairs, and there she’d been for the past eight years. Eight years…eight years ago the Welsh University had seemed quite normal. But with the passage of time something had changed indefinably that all the dictionaries in the library couldn’t explain. The ground floor, for example, was now reached by going down two flights of stairs…. the librarian, suddenly thoughtful, drummed her fingers on something appropriately hard, the elderberry-painted nails flashing. The news had returned after this word from our sponsors. She turned down the volume, reached for a small white bag and from it withdrew the last cherry as she settled in for another bout of lipreading. Chapter 17 “Before you all dash off… The deputy secretary to the assistant Pro-Vice Chancel
lor has been asked by the Vice Chancellor’s PA’s administrator to remind you all that the Vice Chancellor’s annual inaugural start of the end of term spoken lecture series is beginning again next week. Voluntary attendance is, as usual, compulsory; so I expect to see you all there!” That was just one of the frequent announcements that Dr Snought didn’t have to make on a regular basis. Or any other kind of basis. Dr Snought sat in his empty office – empty that is except for him, the desk, filing cabinet, chairs, carpet, files, computer, printer, books, book shelves and other assorted office related items too trivial to list here. As sat entering fictitious assignment grades into a spreadsheet of invented students. He often got carried away with these tasks. ‘Those Chinese students are having a good year’, he think as he looked back at his handiwork. ‘Pity that little Panamanian struggled so much with the timed essay’ he’d lament. Spending so much time on your own could do strange things to a man. It could do stranger things to a woman! He’d have been thankful of such a thought had he ever had it. Talking to yourself is something common to all of 90% of most people. Answering yourself is a little less common but far from unheard of. Dr Snought could often be found, when he could be found at all, interrupting himself and finishing his own sentences for himself. Over the years he had held off the encroaching and almost inevitable symptoms of full blown insanity fairly well. His day to day life consisted of giving non existent students unimportant information and then retiring every few weeks to invent the latest batch of fictional grades for the unset assignments that the non existent students had just completed and managed not to fail to hand in. The administration staff would, from time to time ponder the odd fact that they never actually saw any of Dr Snought’s students in person, (though they may receive the (continued on page 13)
Adventures for the Average Woman
The Cardiff Grandma (continued from page 12)
odd phone call from time to time – very odd generally). ‘Still’, they would collectively think, ‘who are we to get involved?’ Dr Snought finished cooking up grades for students who didn’t exist and opened up a new spreadsheet: Finances. There was money in education these days. Government grants to institutions had been increased in an attempt to attract more foreign students. It was felt that to secure the long term future of the free Cymru, the best route forward was to increase the population, attract the brightest and the best from around the world, entice them over with heavily subsidized university places…and then take their passports away to stop them leaving again. Snought had already been inserting fictional students into the university for some years – only on a much smaller scale. When the new funding was revealed he couldn’t help himself. He’d gone the whole hog and invented an entire fictional degree course for house the invented students. By proposing and assuming all of the responsibility for the course he’d had free reign to control the admissions process from the start. It had been perfect. Perfect for a while… Dr Snought had taken to spending lengthy lengths of time in his office. It was a good way of avoiding unwanted attention… or indeed any attention. It was also a good way of avoiding the voices… the voices outside his head. The voices told him to do things, things he often didn’t want to do: ‘Come to a meeting’, the voices would entice, ‘Attend a conference in Hamburg next month’, lure, ‘Publish some academic research’ they’d go on, ‘Seek professional help’, they’d add, ‘Stop living in your office’ they’d repeat. On and on and on, driving him to distraction, always pushing him closer and closer to the edge! To the very edge of the edge! So he’d shut himself away some more and focus on his invented students and on preparing the plan for his latest publication: The Definitive
Volume 1, Issue 10
Wolfcastle turned from the window abruptly, snapping his eyes away from the fog. The fog. It seemed it had always been there.
Guide to Cogno-spatial Cross-temporal Prepojunctions in Late Early-Adult Language: A Comparative Study of English, Ojibwa and Kulango. It was to be his masterpiece. The crowning glory on his long and otherwise undistinguished academic career. Sure, he’d been working on it for twelve years now. OK, so his publisher had refused to have anything to do with him and his literary agent had stopped taking his calls years ago. Yes, so he’d only managed to write an introduction and the sleeve notes… it wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault. He had a constant stream of fictitious students to invent each year. Fictitious students don’t invent themselves after all. And besides, he had been under a lot of stress lately. Luckily he was wholly unaware that he’d soon be under a whole lot more. Chapter 18A Wolfcastle turned from the window abruptly, snapping his eyes away from the fog. The fog. It seemed it had always been there. “So it is agreed then?” said the speaker in a questioning tone, seeking confirmation from the other man “Yes, OK” was Wolfcastle’s reluctant reply. What had he just agreed to? Wong wasn’t involved in the Awful Business™, not as far as Wolfcastle was aware at least. He was a big figure in the rug smuggling trade though. Second only to the now non existent dog smuggling racket, smuggling rugs had recently become the major problem for the police to deal with. Wong was old and wise, he knew the score. He just had to bide his time and wait – it would only be a matter of weeks before the government would refuse to recognize that as a crime too. In the meantime there was still good money to be made from importing Moroccan, Columbian and Mongolian floor coverings. Three square feet of hand woven Ulan throw could earn a hefty profit for those willing to pay someone to blackmail someone else to take all of the risks of
smuggling it. As Wolfcastle told his tale, of what had occurred, how it had lead him back to Wales once more and what he wanted to do next, Wong had done what came natural to him – listened. The multiple and rapid fluctuations in air pressure that reached Wong’s ear drums were, almost instantly transferred to his middle ears and amplified approximately twenty two times before moving on to his two hair-filled, fluid-packed cochlea and up towards his brain. There the vibrations were translated into recognizable units and pieced together to form what experts call language. Then the old man had eagerly offered to give Wolfcastle his support. It hadn’t been asked for and Wolfcastle had been somewhat embarrassed at the time. What was he meant to do with the old man’s surgical truss? All the same, he wasn’t about to offend by declining the offer, and it was good to know he could rely on his old compatriot – even if it was just for secondhand medical items. Chapter 18B Across town the librarian was coming to the end of her shift. She’d lipread the international business news and was waiting to see what the new weather girl had to mouth for herself. Lipreading wasn’t something she had to do out of necessity. It was purely a hobby. She approved of silence. That’s why the library job had appealed so much. Ideally she’d have gotten that job overdubbing the pauses in foreign films but they claimed she didn’t have ‘enough experience’. They gave to job to some ‘actress’ with a media studies degree. Who’d have known she’d fall under a bus on her way to work that first morning? By the time the Channel 12 weather forecast was over she’d just have time to observe the sports headlines and print off the latest version of her research on the university’s printers before she handed over to the morning shift. There weren’t many perks to the job so she was deter(continued on page 14)
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The Cardiff Grandma (continued from page 13)
mined to get what she could out of it. She’d have to be quick though. That nosey cow from the short loan section had nearly caught her last night. She was always sniffing around the place. Such a bloody annoying habit, it was like working with one of those sniffer dogs they have at airports. Like that, only with less interesting conversation and poorer personal hygiene. Why she was bothering to do research on the university’s printers was a misleading matter. She’d meant to print off the latest copy of her research using the university’s printers but had made a simple lexicalselection error. Being a librarian she’d researched her own some-time language problem. Frampton’s definitive ‘Basic Advanced Complex Psycholingistic Pathology and Visual Spatial Awareness for Beginners’ had proven most informative on the subject. She had concluded that it could all be safely written off as a side effect of the loss of depth perception previously mentioned and never referred to again. Her research currently ran to over 25 pages of text. She’d been working on it in every spare moment for weeks now. It wasn’t hard getting spare moments in her job. Another perk. At 5.37 in the morning there were never many students in the library. Just the usual faces – homesick Asian students up late again to link up with family and friends via the internet. And that was the point: Where were all the students? According to the current student record database, that she’d managed to hack into only last night, there were over 30,000 students enrolled at the university. Thirty thousand. Thirty for every square mile of Luxembourg…and growing. Yet in her job in the library she only ever saw the same faces. Or at least the similar looking faces. Something was going on and she wanted to find out what. It wasn’t out of some great desire to uncover a scandal or right whatever social injustice may be occurring. No, there was something else. She was sure that somewhere, probably somewhere close, someone, probably someone close, was making a killing and if there was any killing going on she wanted to be involved.
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She had concluded that it could all be safely written off as a side effect of the loss of depth perception previously mentioned and never referred to again. Her research had shown that a new student was enrolled at the Welsh University on an average of one every 45 minutes. It was a startling piece of information. By rights there ought to be over 32,178 students, so where were they? At the same time, by tracking the annual reports and financial records, she’d discovered a huge increase in funding coming in to the University as a whole and one department in particular. As the last page of her dossier was wound out of the printer she quickly bundled all twenty five pages up and headed off towards the photocopier. She was too cautious to make two full printed copies, that might get her unwanted attention. But she had to make a second copy of the document – she was a librarian after all. Tapping in the staff code to the photocopier, she set the machine to do its task and in the meantime dipped in to the biscuit tin next to the kettle which the employees could freely use to make themselves drinks during their shifts. As the machine whirred away she picked up an early edition of the Cardiff Post and placed it in her bag to read later. Then she began to think: for a job with few perks there sure where a lot of fringe benefits. Just a Taste of Chapter 19 In earlier past days gone by, Wales had envied other nations, free nations. It had looked to them with jealous eyes and longed for what they had: Freedom. Iceland, Ecuador, Georgia, Fiji, Luxembourg. All places that were free. All places that Wales wanted to emulate. And so it had. Unceremoniously squeezed between France, Germany and Belgium (Belgium!), Luxembourg had, in great inter-nation-al irony, looked back at Wales with equal, if not greater envy. A small nation. A tiny country. Slightly smaller than Rhode Island: a mere one thousand square miles of central northern European anonymousness. To be ridiculously continued in up-andcoming issues of the future!
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Adventures for the Average Woman
Neomodern Nosferatu, Part X
Gina’s eyes fluttered open. Her cry for Clive slammed hard and heavy into the thick concrete wall of a deep, dark cistern. Her fearful gaze flitted about the hollow gloom. “Clive,” she tried again, “where are you?” Her ears barely picked up the faint hiss of “here.” “Clive, is that you?” She felt her way across the cold floor toward the barely audible whisper. Her fingers groped the air for what might have merely been imagined. She strained to hear the whisper of his presence but found the darkness deafening. Every rustle of her clothes and scrape of her skin on concrete, every inhale and exhale generated an unnerving din. Frustration forced forth tears which dropped to the floor in a resounding tympani of splatter. She raised her hand to wipe away the wet from her face when her fingers remarked an anomaly on the surface of her smooth skin. Just beneath her left jowl near the mastoid were two small recesses with raised rims. Her hand rushed immediately to seal the horror escaping her lips. “Oh my God,” she squealed through her fingers, “I’ve been bitten!” “Geeeeeee-naaaaaah.” wafted a wispy voice around the curved wall of the cistern. Gina tried to peg the source, but the circular acoustics combined with pitch blackness made pinpointing impossible. She stood up and walked blindly until she hit any solid reference point. Finally, her hands met with the cold damp wall which she let lead her around in a curve. “Clive, say my name again.” She thought she hear him sigh and added, “Clive, are you hurt? Can you move? Can
Volume 1, Issue 10
His shadow stretched warped and threatening across the curved wall of the empty tank. “He’ll die unless you give up your mortality.” His voice was a smooth and cold as the cistern walls.
you slap the floor?” Her mind filled the blackness with perturbing images of what might be the scenario: Clive was lying limp on the floor with a harpoon through his chest, his nearly non-existent pulse rapidly waning while she was transforming into a vampire. A single realization gripped her and prompted her hands to grope her chest for a heartbeat. For a horrifying moment, she felt nothing then her breast thumped softly into the palm of her hand. She measured the beats and found them assuredly regular. On the eighty-ninth beat, the toe of her shoe jabbed a soft mass on the floor. Gina dropped to her knees. Her hands searched the lump of clothing for signs of life. She ran her fingers over his torso. To her relief, there was no harpoon or oozing moisture. Her hands found his head and face. Clive was ice cold and barely breathing. His flesh felt rice paper-thin across his bones. “Clive, what did Harwick do to you?” A click and then there was bare bulb incandescence. Through her reflexive squint she made out the well-tailored towering figure of Jake Harwick, centuriesold industrial vampire mogul. His shadow stretched warped and threatening across the curved wall of the empty tank. “He’ll die unless you give up your mortality.” His voice was a smooth and cold as the cistern walls. Gina looked down to behold Clive emaciated and brittle. His eyes peered up at her from sunken sockets. His shriveled mouth gaped open to release a fleeting breath beyond his glistening fangs. “What have you done to him, you monster?” she shrieked. Harwick examined his manicure and coolly explained with British polish, “Seeing how passionate he was about saving you from your prescribed destiny, I decided on a change of policy in your case.” Gina scowled in anger and confusion. “What?” “Well, only slightly. I still have quotas to maintain. Otherwise, everything would fall out of balance.” His shadow grew in size as he drew closer to her.
Gina gripped Clive close to her breast and shook her head. “Why are you doing this to us, to him?” “You see, my obstinate little O, you were marked for consumption. It was only a matter of time before your female vampire administrators would have made a feast out of you as a matter of a workplace benefit, so to speak. However, with the guard-dog presence of our faithful Clive here, you were prevented from meeting your fate. This of course, upset all calculations to the cost of us losing a valuable breeder to the greedy interests of upper management.” “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Clive was your friend once. Help him!” “Oh, I intend to, but in a manner suited to the company agenda.” He squatted beside her and folded his hands across the crisp pleats of his trousers. “You will have to be consumed, but instead of being totally desiccated and blown away in a puff of dust as our dear friend here will soon enough become, I have opted to let you join the ranks through conversion. You see, my dear, I took it upon myself to drain our mutual acquaintance lying in your naïvely caring arms of every drop of life-giving blood. Now, he is disintegrating, and unless you let him tap into your life flow, a half millennium of existence will be forfeit.” “And if I don’t?” Tears blurred the terrifying sight of Clive’s flesh caving in before her. “Well, then he dies and you get served up as a quarterly bonus.” Harwick’s iridescent eyes set their soft glow upon her distress. His lips parted in a smile of sheer relish. “Wha… what d… do I do?” she stuttered through sniffles. Harwick placed his well-groomed hand on the back of her head and stroked her hair then reached under her chin to feel the bite marks. “You see, you’ve already been sampled, and it didn’t hurt a bit, did it?” “Is that how you knocked me out?” Harwick nodded. “When do I start... changing?” (continued on page 16)
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Neomodern Nosferatu (continued from page 15)
“It only drugged you. But now, I’m afraid you’ll have to endure the hard feeding. Given his dire condition as result of my sucking the life from him combined with the consumption of synthesized blood — leaving the most godawful aftertaste, might I add,” he smacked his tongue to clear the taint from his palate, “he is bound to be ravenous. He might not be able to control his feeding which could result in your utter consumption. It’s a risk I am willing to take.” He pushed her throat down to Clive’s gaping maw. Gina’s eyes squeezed shut and her teeth clenched. She could make out the word “no” exuding with Clive’s breath. A lightning bolt of pain surged through her veins. Harwick stood up and brushed grit and grime from his pants’ legs. He stood tall and imposing over the grappling couple. Clive sucked to survive, just as he had done five hundred and forty years before when he had issued forth from his mother’s womb. Some human instincts never die — even when the human has. Gina saw the world fade away, including her memories of home, childhood and family. She found herself plummeting deep into the abyss where life or death didn’t matter. But it did matter. She fought to climb back to the rim of life. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to un-die. She didn’t want to feed on blood. She didn’t want to live in darkness. She wanted her life. She wanted Clive’s life. She wanted their lives together — but not like this. With all her strength, she pushed hard and tore her tender flesh from the brutal, crushing barb of Clive’s fangs. Surprised by her astounding show of superhuman determination, Harwick was caught off guard. Having pulled enough strength from Gina’s adrenaline-rich blood, Clive pounced on his former lover who had meted out the gruesome fate of vampire.
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With all her strength, she pushed hard and tore her tender flesh from the brutal, crushing barb of Clive’s fangs.
Gina grabbed her throat. Warm blood trickled through her fingers. Too weak to flee or fight, she could only sit and watch the two preternatural beings defy the laws of gravity with their flying fight around the cistern. “Gina,” called Clive. “Get out if you can. Hurry!” “Where? How?” she asked weakly. Clive couldn’t answer for his canines’ sinking deep into Harwick’s wrist. The taste of expensive musk tingled his tongue. Memories of the man he had loved for centuries flooded his mind. His passion ignited, he deeply sucked in Harwick’s essence. Harwick felt himself weakening — an intolerable sensation. He summoned what remained of his powers and transmuted himself into a black mist. Clive watched it swirl up a staircase and pass through a door. He then flew down to retrieve Gina. “Are you all right?” Eyes glassed-over with shock, she uttered, “Am I changing?” Clive pried open her parched lips and scrutinized her gum line. “Round and dull as ceramic beads,” he declared. A long gasp broke free from her throatgripping fear. Clive helped her to her feet. She wobbled like a top on its last spin. He braced her up against his replenished frame. “Your system is stunned. You’re going to feel woozy for a while, and then…” “Then what?” She coaxed him to finish. “Then we’ll have to see.” He didn’t explain. He picked her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs. The doorknob resisted turning in his hand. “Damn, it’s locked. Here, sit down.” He propped her on the top step where she could lean against the railing. Gina looked around the empty cistern. “Where’s Harwick?” Clive used his strength to force the lock. “He’s gone.” “Did you kill him?”
Clive took in a deep breath. With a forceful exhale, he tore the door of its rusty hinges. He tossed the offending obstacle down onto the cistern floor where it hit with a deafening clatter. An assault of sunlight sent Clive reeling down the stairs. “Clive!” Gina screamed and reached for his tumbling figure. Clive regained his balance and edged his way back up the stairs with his back pressed tightly to the wall. Tremors coursed through his body as he took Gina by the hand. “Come on. We have to get out of here.” “But, Clive,” she started. “It’s all right. Old vamp’s tale, remember?” The two shaky misfits walked out onto a high platform overlooking row after row of round tanks and tall chimneys in a vast industrial complex . “What is this place?” Gina wondered aloud. “It’s one of Harwick’s processing and storage facilities, and it looks freshly built and unused. Now, let’s get out of here.” “Processing and storage of what?” “What do you think? Look, I advise we go before we wind up as one of his products.” Clive hurried Gina down the steel-grate steps and into the much desired shade of the tanks. “That’s better.” “You never answered my question,” Gina reminded. “Do I have to spell it out? This is where Os get processed for the vampire concern. Now, move.” Clive gripped her by the hand and pulled her along at a leg-blurring pace. “No. My question about Harwick. Did you kill him?” “I’m afraid not.” With Gina in tow, he braved the searing sun for freedom. The drama continues in our next issue.
Adventures for the Average Woman
The Spoiler, Part X
“The corset and busk are squeezing my liver into pâté, and walking in these shoes with this wig on is like ice skating while balancing a bowling ball on your head.”
Detective Renee Savage was about to buck command. She packed her bags for an unauthorized trip to New York where she would join up with equally unauthorized rookie, Caleb Ross. They would visit Marsha Tucker’s former publisher, Rolfe Lafferty, and interview everyone associated with her and her books. Little did the two New Orleans cops know they were off the trail by two centuries of time, space, and reality. * * * “How the hell did they do it?” Marsha catechized. “Who do what?” Raeph jested. “Women, suffer this crap on their bodies? The corset and busk are squeezing my liver into pâté, and walking in these shoes with this wig on is like ice skating while balancing a bowling ball on your head. This dress must weigh fifty pounds. It’s 98 degrees with 90 percent humidity and I’m buried under four layers of garments. I’m not even moving, and I’m sweating like a crewman laying hot tar on a Florida highway at three p.m. any day in August!” “You ramble exceedingly on topics I find quite incoherent, my dear woman,” Raeph derided. Marsha batted the heat of his remark as well as that of the delta at midday with the oriental hand fan Raeph had offered. She was sitting in a leather chair facing a large antique walnut writing bureau. The room was filled with period shelves, books, maps, parchments. Besides the desk and chair, furnishings consisted of a settee with burgundy brocade upholstery and cabriole legs, short cabinets with exotic Japanese enameled paneling, a varnished globe as large as a wagon wheel suspended in a gyroscopic framework, two corner chairs, silk paintings and more ornate carpentry from the East. Marsha blew a dramatic whistle. “Wow! This must’ve set you back a few sous.” She reached over to finger the bleached
wood inlay and gilt stripping. “Where’d you get this stuff — eBay?” Raeph was peering out the window out onto the lawns. “During my life as a mariner, I sailed many a sea and docked in countless ports, but I never heard tell of a place called ‘Yee Bay’.” Marsha blinked at his callowness then changed subjects. “What are we doing here?” “We are going to set you to write.” Raeph informed. “Ah, here’s Milo with more refreshments.” Milo rolled a cart piled high with comestibles into the room. Carmelia hastily set out cups, plates and flatware then poured the chicory coffee and served up the viands of mush cakes, short breads, hard rolls, marmalade, honey, almond and pecan Creole pralines. “What? No low-carb fare?” She grabbed a mush cake and dipped it into the bowl of honey. Gotta eat, girl, and drink lots of coffee to keep you strong and alert, her mind encouraged. With a mouthful of mush, she observed, “Milo. You were Raeph’s shipmate aboard The Spenser.” She ran her tongue over her lips to scoop up tasty honeycovered crumbs. “Now, if I recall, you got caught talking trash about the captain and he had your tongue cut out and your neck sliced. Am I right?” Milo nodded. Marsha licked her fingers then picked up a hard roll. She took a spoon and plopped a glob of marmalade on it then stuffed in her mouth. “So, if you really are Milo, as Mr. Leicester contends, and the real figment from my imagination, then you wouldn’t mind proving it?” She looked up at him. Milo glanced at Raeph then turned to Marsha and opened his maw. The hard roll toppled sticky-side down on her silk jupe. Behind the long yellowing teeth stretched the oral cavity from alveolar bone to the palatine tonsil. In the middle of the floor where the striated muscle should have
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connected to the temporal styloids protruded a gnarled fleshy stump. Milo closed his mouth then pulled down the frilly cravat about his throat. A thick scar bore testimony of his cruel ordeal. “Satisfied, madam?” Raeph’s soft baritone buffeted her left ear. Marsha retrieved the fallen roll and picked the globs of marmalade off her lap. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.” “I can hardly imagine what you might find that’s laughable about this.” Raeph reproved. Marsha placed the roll on her plate and licked the marmalade from hr fingers. “No. It’s horrific. That someone would be so obsessed with playing a part that he’d selfmutilate like that.” “You don’t mean to impugn the physical manifest of events most gruesome set before your very eyes?” Raeph leaned over to look Marsha in the face. Marsha copped a cynical grin. “You don’t think I’m going to blindly accept this bs? I can think of several explanations for who you people are and why you might be sick enough to carry out this elaborate enactment, but I cannot accept the one you would have me believe — that you really are the characters from my book!” Raeph huffily reached over with his handkerchief to wipe the stick from her fingers. “You are utterly incorrigible, and your table manners fall well short of approbation. This is why we have cutlery, napkins, and last but not least — a finger bowl to rinse off our soiled digits.” He moistened the linen and wiped the crumbs from her lips. Marsha sputtered. “Hey, I am not a child.” Raeph broke off his ministrations. “Child? Oh, dear God. Where’s Micah? Milo, have you seen Micah? Carmelia? I have been so preoccupied with sorting out this woman that I forgot about Micah. Milo, see if you can find him and signal for the (continued on page 18)
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The Spoiler (continued from page 17)
The laser light of logic cut through the fog and etched an explanation onto the wall her reasoning had hit. Fans! Obsessed cult followers. Trekkers gone Branch Davidian.
others to join us. Hurry man!” Milo jumped to on his long legs. “What is your problem?” “My problem is to get you prepared for recording our histories before we all dissipate ad aeternum.” He took her by the shoulders. “You must take pen in hand now, madam.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of paper, a set of quills, and an inkwell. Marsha jiggled with laughter. “You have got to be kidding me! Hell, why not just give me an iron chisel and tell me to carve the complete works of Shakespeare into stone tablets?” “I fail to see the source of your amusement, madam.” “You can’t seriously expect me to script your life story using these,” she fingered one of the quills as she spoke, “these primitive implements.” “Madam, might I remind you that for centuries the greatest writers in the world, including Shakespeare, have produced their noblest works with these so-called primitive implements. Why, Mr. Jefferson penned the Constitu—” “Yeah, yeah, yeah, ‘with only a feather quill and in half a day.’ I’ve seen that episode of the Twilight Zone too, you know.” Marsha rolled her eyes and sighed in frustration. “Look, that was fine for all of history’s dexterous male geniuses, but I’m just a product of the twentieth-century education system where penmanship went the way of Latin, Home Ec., and the brontosaurus. If you want me to write, then get me a computer or at least an old Smith Corona. You know, clackity-clack.” She fluttered her fingers to illustrate the concept of typing. Raeph reached down and grabbed her right hand. In it he placed the quill. With his left hand, he removed the lid to the inkwell then set up a paper squarely before her. “I shall instruct you then. You take this quill and dip it in the ink. Then you apply it to paper with curved strokes thusly.” His
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hand guided hers across the page. She jerked away from his hold. “First off, I’m left handed. Second—“ “Excuse me, Master Raeph,” Carmelia softly announced, “The others has arrived.” He let go Marsha’s hand and moved to straighten her wig that had gone cockeyed to a noticeable degree. He squared her shoulders and turned her to face the crowd. She saw the same faces from the previous night but now they were far less ominous in daylight. “Madam, I fear you were never properly introduced. May I present from left to right: The Reverend Fogarty, The Widow Ames and her son Nathaniel, Prucilla and her brother Parfrey Von Huys, Milo (my mute assistant), the domestic slave, Carmelia, whom the Von Huys have generously loaned you, and me, of course. That makes eight.” With slight trepidation, he asked, “What of little Micah?” A small head spouting a shock of red hair peered out from behind the Widow Ames’ black skirt. “He’s here, sir, but he’s sore afraid,” The Quaker woman offered. Raeph squatted down and called the boy over to him. “Come here, lad.” The child haltingly stepped toward him. Raeph stroked the boy’s hair. “Where have you been, child? I worried so. Here, come greet our guest, the Mistress Gwynyvere.” Micah’s eyes opened large as saucers. He ducked behind Raeph. “Come now. She’s neither a beast nor a she-devil, in spite of what she’ll have you believe.” He took Micah’s small hand. “She’s a beautiful lady. See? She won’t hurt you.” Marsha cautiously took the boy’s hand into hers. He was a small scared moppet. Her face strained to smile as her mind raged. What the dickens is this? her mind queried. First, a pregnant black woman and now they’ve got their kids up to this charade too? That’s as low as it gets. Who’d do such a thing? Even that human
composite of canine excrement, Rolfe, wouldn’t drag children into his shenanigans. Too litigation conscious. So who the hell are these people? The laser light of logic cut through the fog and etched an explanation onto the wall her reasoning had hit. Fans! Obsessed cult followers. Trekkers gone Branch Davidian. The possibility frightened her more than the idea of Rolfe orchestrating a vengeful operation. Marsha, she self-admonished, just go along until you can make a break for it. Then you can get help for this boy and the other one and that pregnant girl. “...fishing. Wouldst not thou agree, madam?” The parson’s words snatched Marsha from the torrent of her thoughts. “Huh?” “When little Micah went fishing and caught that pike as long as he was tall.” “Oh, yes,” Marsha mugged. She let the pastor prattle on while she went back to spinning the wheels of analysis. Her eyes scanned the room with its wall-to-wall bookshelves filled with volume upon volume, tome after tome. She peered up at the painted ceiling and over to the ornate drapery and luxurious gold laminae valance. She took in the details of the players’ costumes – the fine embroidery and fancy frills. Her hands savored the luxurious texture of the spun silk of her dress as the gears in her head whirred. Whoever they are, they got lots of dough. How much this must cost to pay for all this shit? And to think I get a lousy $600 a month as a bar- back after spending ten years’ labor creating a best-selling book while these wackos spend a fortune for their sick masquerade based on my work. They are damned authentic too, down to Raeph’s 1780s sea pistol. Marsha’s mental striations merged into a single line of thought: The pistol! I need to get my hands on it or any other weapon. Where is it? Which room? Maybe I can sneak out and— (continued on page 19)
Adventures for the Average Woman
The Spoiler (continued from page 18)
“Never have I encountered a woman so full of bile with the temperament of a chimera. Please, tend to Mistress Prucilla whilst I wrest with this demonic transmogrification and try to restore her to her true form.”
“—and then the soldiers came and took my mother away.’ Micah relived his terror. “She had hidden me inside the pantry. I could hear her call out for help but no one could save her.” Tears cut trails through the soot and grime on his face. He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. Realizing his handkerchief was a sticky wad, Raeph asked for a clean one. The Widow Ames provided a stretch of clean linen from her apron pocket. “Here now, continue with your tale,” he coaxed, “What happened next?” Micah took a gulp of air. “Well, I hid ‘til dawn then I ran into the forest to hide. That’s where you found me, sir. You were going fishing, and—” “Mistress Gwynyvere? Are you all right?” beseeched the reverend. Marsha startled. “Oh, yes. I’m just trying to take it all in, all your stories and concerns.” Better pay attention and do what they want. Then find a way to get out and find that gun, warned the words inside her head. “But you are not writing anything down, madam.” Parfrey observed. “Well, that’s because I can’t.” Murmurs of dismay swarmed like flies on rotting meat. Parfrey took a snort of the pinch and confronted Raeph, “I see we have been beguiled into raising our hopes. And for what? For naught but an illiterate debauchee who—” From the desk’s top Raeph snatched up a long stiletto blade used for perforating parchments and leathers. “Hold your spurious tongue, Palfrey,” he deliberately mispronounced (playing on his name with that of a woman’s riding nag was an old game from childhood), “before you say something that will cost you that untoward appendage.” A tremble coursed from Parfrey’s extended forefinger down the length of his arm and through his entire body. “It will
Volume 1, Issue 10
give me such immeasurable satisfaction to see your tongue stilled by my bullet on the morrow, good sir.” Prucilla and the pastor braced him by the shoulders. “Please, brother, save your fight for tomorrow’s duel,” pleaded his sister in the silver dress and high-tower wig. She condescended, “I could have told you the woman was naught but a mountebank. She hath the hands of a scullery maid and not a woman of letters.” Marsha raised her left hand and eyed the chewed up fingernails and cuticles. “Better a scullery maid who makes an honest living with her broken down hands than an old maid who makes living pure hell with her fangs and claws.” Carmelia released a titter. Like a cat on a mouse, Prucilla pounced. “What are you laughing at, slave girl? Get to preparing my toilette or get the switch!” “I’m sorry, mistress.” Carmelia muttered and cast her gaze down to the floor. “I’s see to it right away.” She slinked toward the door. Marsha bounded from her seat, drew back her left fist and shot it into Prucilla’s piggish nose. Like a downed tree her stiff pompadour wig fell onto the floor from a stump of matted greasy black hair. Crimson speckled the silver sheen of her bodice. Horrified by the attack and the sight of her own blood, Prucilla joined her wig on the floor in a heap. Marsha’s own wig bobbled from her had as Raeph grabbed her from behind. “Madam! Do I have to put you in shackles? Cease and desist this abominable behavior!” He pushed her firmly down into the chair and held her. “I think I speak for all when I say we are gravely appalled,” reproved Parfrey as he knelt by his sister and patted her hand. “You have brought a feral creature into our midst at great peril to our well-being and safety. What have you to say to that, sir?” “The bitch got what she deserved,” Marsha spat.
“Madam, I adjure you!” Raeph forcefully supplicated. Silence hung thick and heavy in the muggy afternoon air. Marsha heaved to catch her breath. Prucilla was aroused with frantic fanning to the face and pats to the cheeks. Reverend Fogarty gave his handkerchief to staunch the blood oozing from her battered nose. Micah gripped the skirt of Widow Ames who stood with her arms protectively across the breast of her son dressed in the uniform of a Yankee trooper. Carmelia had sidled close to Milo’s side. “What now, good sir? Are we to have no resolution for our efforts then?” pled the man of the cloth who ministered to the downed woman. Raeph bowed his head over the wig that haphazardly clung to Marsha’s scalp. “I apologize, my good people. I did not realize our mission would be so trying. Never have I encountered a woman so full of bile with the temperament of a chimera. Please, tend to Mistress Prucilla whilst I wrest with this demonic transmogrification and try to restore her to her true form.” Parfrey and the pastor urged Prucilla to her feet and escorted from the room. The others followed and cast worried glances back at Raeph and the wild woman. Milo gingerly pulled the door closed on the couple locked in battle. Raeph released his hold and let go a heavy-hearted sigh. He slipped the wig from her hair and set it on top of the bookcase. He retreated to a corner chair and plopped down. In exasperation he asked, “Why, madam, why? Why must you indulge yourself in making mayhem?” Marsha turned in her chair to face him. “Probably the same reason you have for indulging in abuse!” His ire caught a tertiary wind and flared. “Abuse meets with abuse, madam. I have tried to approach you with all gentility only to be met with rude insolence.” The fight goes on in our next issue.
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Cutlass Moon, Part VIII
If the mystery writer sets up the crime scene at the beginning and then strays off into another description with characters the reader has never heard of before and then backtracks almost at the very end to mention an important piece of evidence key to revealing the killer's identity -- well, that's like telling a three-guyswalk-into-a-bar joke where you've slipped the punch line in without mentioning the cue.
ORACLES AND AVATARS Torrential rain pounded on the thatch roof of the isolated hut where Peter read from the absent shaman’s diary: “On to the point I've been trying to make but can't because of this stream-ofconsciousness mode I'm always falling into. It must annoy the hell out of logic-minded types, who have to have all the clues in place before they will try and solve the mystery. If the mystery writer sets up the crime scene at the beginning and then strays off into another description with characters the reader has never heard of before and then backtracks almost at the very end to mention an important piece of evidence key to revealing the killer's identity — well, that's like telling a three-guys-walk-into-abar joke where you've slipped the punch line in without mentioning the cue. That irritates the hell out of westerners in their cause-and-effect universe. A Pe'i Pi'ian would try and solve the crime or give up in all humility or laugh at the joke even without having the advantage of catching the humor of it without chastising the storyteller for his lapses. I've been on this island a long time and tend toward the disorganized circumlocution used so as not sound rude to the listener (which requires a lot of background information). On these islands, history is recounted by storytelling from human memory and not by recorded images or sounds. “The rhythm of life that beat with regularity and predictability of the waves and tides was suddenly disrupted the day the holue’ii arrived. All at once, their vessel was offshore and their dinghies were roaring across whitecaps racing to our shores with all sorts of strange gear and equipment for the gods knew what purpose.
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Their boats skimmed the turquoise waters so fast, that Salama'an and his son, Chuti, nearly capsized in their wooden outrigger. The wake from the intruder crafts' motors was so churning and powerful it ruined any prospect of fishing for the rest of the day. On the beach, Bunuau’u scrambled. The men were the first to clamber across the hot sands to the edge of the reef. A few of the women casually but with perplexed curiosity strolled out of the arbor and onto the beach. The children were told to stay back in their huts until it could be determined whether the visitors were friend or foe. Sometimes what seemed to be the former turned out to be the latter; so all had to be wary. “I stayed out of sight this time, for I was still wobbly in the legs from the last possession. The powers of the island gods take their toll on the frail human body. After each seizure by a spirit, I always suffered crippling headaches combined with an overall weakness that could last for days. I needed time to regain my strength in order to prepare for my next encounter with a spirit guide. Would it be Wélémé, the Snake God; Punu'au, the goddess of the reef who often appeared in the form of a blue shark, or Shara'i'pu'uni'i, the goddess of the eastern wind, the bringer of hurricanes? These deities had always been most effective when facing any holue'ii landing on our shores in the names of the Queen, Jesus, the Green Party, or the Almighty Uncle ‘Scam’ who wanted you, your land, your daughters, and all that you owned. “I stood behind what was then our beautiful tree line with many of the village women and watched the enthralling drama unfold as the hypertech watercraft bee-lined it for our shore. We all hung in suspense over whether or not Salama'an and son would regain their balance and hold the canoe upright in the tossing wake heaving the bluest of sapphire seas. “The intruders jumped to shore from six big black-and-silver beached rubber dinghies. There was a multitude of men, black, Poly, and white, some dressed in official looking suits, others in shorts and T-shirts, all wearing sunglasses. They spanned out across
the sand, some dragging heavy cases and shiny metal-and-glass objects – cameras, laptops, and satellite dishes — which glinted sharply in the white sun. Others stood by watching or barking orders. The officious looking ones, two archipelago natives in dark suits and three Anglos in khaki shorts and Hawaiian shirts, were approaching a dozen of our local men who were moving toward them to find out what was traversing their shores. Then I noticed about a dozen men donning the chameleon green uniforms of Archipelago Royal Guardsmen. Tall and lean as finely bred-’n-fed racehorses, they cantered up behind the corpulent officials. Some were definitely from the Melanesian population of the archipelago and not foreign black like Abo-Australian or African-American. I didn’t see the ones who’d been at the other beach two distressing days ago. Nor did I see that loud beast of a white man who had threatened me. “So the Guard was here in force this time. “Lumumume'li'e approached the men first. He played the role of village organizer and was at the forefront of the band of men meeting our unannounced arrivals. He was appointed by the Mbamu’ai, our revered matriarch, to serve as village spokesperson. Given her status, age and bulk, the matriarch found it more facilitating to delegate such menial protocols to a trusted subject. I watched as the foreigners greeted the Pe'i Pi'ian men in typical Greeks-bearing-gifts fashion: they offered imported smokes, which the island men eagerly accepted. As tiny gray puffs floated up around their heads and then off with the breeze, they started talking. From where I squatted in the brush line, I could only pick up emphasized utterances such as ‘A'auké Pupu'ili’ which meant ‘government decree’ or ‘royal order’ depending on context. The suit was waving some documents that fluttered in the breeze in the face of Lumu (as I call him for short). I heard ‘Pleased to meet you’ in (continued on page 21)
Adventures for the Average Woman
Cutlass Moon (continued from page 20)
“It's better not to borrow the hermit crab's shell even for a drinking vessel or an ornament. Although he will not come to you and demand his home back, you will have to live with the knowledge you deprived him of his home…”
English as the white men extended hands to shake with Lumu and a couple of his entourage. “Lumu's dog, a skinny sorrel pointedeared mutt, sauntered out and gave one of the porky Calabishian officials a good sniff in the crotch then began sniffing at the other visitors who tried to swat him away. One of the guardsmen slapped its snout out of disgust and irritation. The dog yelped and edged away, keeping a wary distance. I tried hard to focus on the conversation they were having. I heard the words ‘selemhi-ka woruita'iIi…’ somethingsomething. This implied cooperation from the locals. Then there was ‘u'ukali mos’ which meant six months. Wemulinu'aukupu'u (Wem for short), standing left of Lumu, boldly but politely asked, ‘Kokaho pe'a pi'a mulu?’ or ‘How many of our men?’ This went on for a good 15 or 20 minutes by my estimation; although without a watch there was no sure way to tell. “No matter how long a span of measurable time, I still couldn't piece together the gist of the words. I was about to give it up and retreat back to the ranks as the calf muscles in my legs throbbed from squatting, but my curious female companions bade me stay put. I heard the critical words spoken in loud, slow English in childish syntax usually used by those cretins in this world who figure that anyone not American, British, Canadian, Australian or any other Anglophone couldn't possibly speak or understand a word of English and therefore must be addressed in a bullying blow-horn tone: ‘Hollywood!’ The tonality was not North American, but from somewhere down under. Kiwi, perhaps? “The tall blonde man’s open madras shirt printed in colorful macaws fluttered in the breeze exposing his white tank top which snuggly hugged his well-toned torso. His long sculpted thighs extended from ochre madras shorts. A Michelangelo sculpture posing as a storefront mannequin for some high-end fashion house. ‘We come from HAH…LEE…WOOD!’ He
Volume 1, Issue 10
annunciated loudly while gesticulating in arm movements meant to indicate whom he was implying by ‘we.’ "I muttered angrily under my breath. ‘Wei wei putu.’” “Salama'an and son did not get a soaking after all. They managed to steady their craft and paddle out of harm's way. If the boat had toppled, they would have probably lost their nets and whatever fish they had caught. This would have set them back a week or more for fishing as they would have to scrounge up new nets or try to find one to borrow. Then this would mean certain expected reciprocation like payment in fish or in doing some sort of chore like climbing deep into mosquito-infested forest to hack marsh rushes and bamboo to repair a damaged hut. It's better not to borrow the hermit crab's shell even for a drinking vessel or an ornament. Although he will not come to you and demand his home back, you will have to live with the knowledge you deprived him of his home — even if only for your temporary convenience — and that would mean the impossible task of finding that very hermit crab to return to his home. You'll spend your life running up and down the shore carrying the borrowed article in search of the owner who may never be found. Although one of the other men would certainly lend a net or a canoe to a fellow islander in need, no Pe'i-Pi'ian man wants to live with such a burden and be beholden even for the shortest of times. As Salama'an's canoe headed off to the far end of the beach, away from the commotion, the onlookers clapped and cheered. No loss. No debt. No shame. “It was then I noticed one of the black beret-wearing royal guardsmen. It was Sawalémé Pouwhénua (whose name means, ‘Proud Bearer of the Long Spear’), a son of this isle. He was of the Wotomu'ilu hill tribe, renowned for their belligerent disposition and former head-hunting ways. Sawalémé left Pe'i Pi'i six years ago to study and work in the archipelago’s capital city, Calabishi. What a shock for me to see him back in the garb of a Royal Guard commander! Thinking back, maybe this
wasn't such a surprise as I figured he could've only gone two ways in life: thug or soldier. He stood straight and looked manly in his commander's uniform. Even though he couldn’t possibly see me, I could almost feel him making me over with his eyes behind those insectile silver-coated sunglasses. The hairs along the Maori moko tattoo swirling along the hairline along the nape of my neck were bristling as I watched him saunter across the sand. He was more menacing to us than the proverbial Devil. “I heard brief introductions being made, followed by Sawalémé’s edict: ‘Here is the contractual agreement.’ He pointed to the fluttering documents firmly clasped in his meaty hand under Lumu's nose which crinkled in absolute incredulity ‘You and other members of the village will abide by these rules during the time our foreign guests are filming.’ Lumu turned to give a look like a drowning man seeking a lead. “I couldn't believe my ears. My stomach began to sink into the pit of fear and despair as I envisioned the great white pollution infesting our shores. When did this all happen? Why wasn't the island council consulted? Who had suggested Pe'i Pi'i as the location? Did I miss something? Who else had agreed to and signed this abominable contract? My knees nearly buckled from the queasy realization that the very alien world of haughty, decadent, selfserving white bastards I sought so hard to avoid was about to invade this desolate paradise. I crept back to my hut and waited for the evening council to convene. “Late that night, we watched the embers of our communal fire flare and fade as they gasped their last. We were tired after our long review of the facts: the foreigners were here; the Guardsmen were armed and forceful; our ecology would be contaminated, perhaps irretrievably. How would we survive?” “A final note in closing: One thing has perplexed me since this debacle began. That actor, the dark haired Aegean – his gaze zoomed in on me like an arrow into the (continued on page 22)
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Cutlass Moon (continued from page 21)
“Trying to capture that memory was like clutching a shadow. The impression bore no substance, a mere illusion, trick of eye and mind. By the same token, I sensed an ominous energy coming from him.”
breast of a cloven-feathered dove. A strange wave of nostalgia washed over me. His face reminded me of someone I had once known so long ago. Trying to capture that memory was like clutching a shadow. The impression bore no substance, a mere illusion, trick of eye and mind. By the same token, I sensed an ominous energy coming from him. I blocked his penetrating thoughts with unyielding outrage.” Peter’s hair prickled on his skin. The thought of this woman remembering him triggered a rush of anxiety mixed with excitement. Had she recognized him and not told him? Would it come back to her later? Could he risk her knowing? He would have to read further and form a strategy. But would he have time? Peter set the journal face down on his chest and began to doze. Dreams buffeted him in stormy waves. Swirls and eddies of flowing water ink-drawn over arms, legs, neck and face. A large round black mask crowned in a halo of glistening shell and gray-blue feathers. From beneath the cowl grinned a clay-white jaw line painted in black lines. Hollow black eyes peered out from two holes. The shimmering watery death-head gazed into his eyes and through his soul. A black bamboo staff covered in leaves and cowries rattled in the tinkling tones of a waterfall — a waterfall falling into darkness and pain. Thrumming into blackness. Drowning in fear. Unable to move. Legs and arms paralyzed. Unable to scream. Tongue strapped to palate. Black eyes of death staring, staring. It was dark and still raining when he abruptly awoke. He was covered in sweat and breathing heavily. Night terrors: an understandable side effect to the horrific experiences he’d been through on this mission. He listened, His beating heart ceded to the droning rain He needed to ease his mind out from the darkness. He climbed out of the hammock to light one of the hurricane lamps. In the dim glow, he espied the journal on the floor. It must have slipped off his chest while he slept. As he bent
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down to pick it up, the hackles on his neck rose abruptly in alarm. Someone was standing in the doorway. * * * Green Avatar Alert for January 3, 2002. We are a bandit site. By the time the authorities trace this URL, the server will have been destroyed and bandwidth changed. We are always on the move to avoid detection, data hacking, or bug insertion. We have many allies, some highly positioned in global commerce and government, who share our hatred for the military-industrial imperialist complex that threatens the health and well being of this planet and its peoples. We are provided the resources, equipment, and funding to run our Web sites that document and carry out the activities to counter the day-to-day terrorism being inflicted upon the environment and its inhabitants worldwide. We are an international network of hackers, crackers, technicians, demolitionists, saboteurs, scientists, politicians, lawyers and militia -- all willing warriors deployed all over the globe, be it an urban agoras, village square, or remote outland. As warriors, we do not fear the consequences of being caught, imprisoned -- even killed for our acts. Our movement is in full momentum and will never be abolished by those with money or power. We are the Green Avatars for the salvation of the Earth, no matter the sacrifice! A MediaFlash banner unfurls announcing: AREA ALERT ECLUSIVE! GREEN AVATAR has recently received a report of a disturbing and deadly series of events stemming out of Micronesia -- proof of continuing corporomilitary crimes against Mother Earth and her children. One of our most clandestine outposts in the South Pacific was recently uncovered by CIA and ISA operatives. Ruthlessly attacked by local troops and special-forces units, many island inhabitants and resident ecomissionaries for the Green Avatar were
raped, mutilated and slaughtered in the name of Land Reclamation and Development. A friendly operative for the Green Avatar cause was deeply involved with the events which led up to massacre and mass destruction Unfortunately, the author of these accounts, a lifelong advocate and fighter for all causes Green, is feared perished — our beloved Ecosister, Kalinda Tawee A graphic file appears on screen to reveal a smiling blonde woman wearing a colorful wrap-around garment traditional to many peoples of the South Pacific. Captain Heinrich clicked off the projector and began unplugging it from his laptop. “Any comments gentleman?” broke the silence. Colonel Osborn cleared his throat. “Well, I guess that confirms that she’s dead.” “You sure it’s not a ruse?” piped in a man in black known as Abe Fowels. “I mean, we have been down this road to her grave before only to discover it empty.” “I’m not so sure, Abe. I mean, the Avatars have gone behind the green wall — no pun intended. They haven’t made as much as a cyber peep in the past 76 hours,” Osborn speculated with a brush across his shortcropped scalp. “Any word from our covert operator?” asked the austere man in a navy blue suit with matching tie at the head of the meticulously polished conference table. “No. No word from your son,” Captain Heinrich informed. Kyle Brettlemen interlaced his fingers. The gold band on his ring finger glinted red in the sunset firing through the window. He stared vacantly out over the Potomac. No one spoke another word until he did. “What sort of effective intelligence do we have working the theater?” His question was vexing. Here he was, head of the Defense Intelligence Agency, whose job was to know everything, and he didn’t even know if his own son was dead or alive. The saga continues in our next issue.
Adventures for the Average Woman
What’s More in Store? We hope you’ve enjoyed the past ten months of our fetching fiction, eerie artwork, fine photography, perky poetry, and off-the-wall articles. We promise lots more interesting and outstanding fare to come. Next month, we’ll feature the real-life adventures of women entrepreneurs. Do you think running a business is all about permits and purchase orders? Well, for the most part, it is; but running low on inventory and dealing with cranky customers can be a veritable Mount Everest to tackle! So, see how one woman makes the climb to success. From the earthbound to the ethereal, we’ll explore the world of women warrior spirits from a West African shaman. Then we’ll take women’s empowerment further with a pictorial essay on power altars done New Orleans style. Of course, we will continue our continuing tales about the Majestic theater and its mysterious secrets, the Errant Knight and his disgruntled damsel, our covert agent
Yet I hope and pray some among you might take up the challenge and the pen to produce an appetizing entry. So, get the prose on, guys!
trapped by tribal forces beneath the Cutlass Moon, savvy Detective Savage searching for a missing writer in the clutches of a Spoiler, followed by fog-obsessed Detective Wolfcastle chasing after the Cardiff Grandma. Then finish off by pursuing the true tale of the Polish girl with paranormal powers. What will science reveal about her awesome Elusive Force? Poor Natalie and her Blue Dragon still await an ending to their never-ending plight, and our giraffe photo cries out for a caption. I realize how hard it is to rustle up some writing in the sweltering summer heat. You’d much rather sit back and let the rest of us grill up the literary grub. Yet I hope and pray some among you might take up the challenge and the pen to produce an appetizing entry. So, get the prose on, guys! And don’t forget to tell your friends about AFTAW. We need more fans to help cool us off in the scorching heat of financial demands. And thanks for all your support. — Cytheria Howell, Author/Editor-in-chief
Come On In! The Contest’s Fine!
First prize — fistful of $ in he form of a nifty check. Second prize — a free subscription to AFTAW. Third prize — your name and entry published with an honorable mention.
Submit an ending for the story “Natalie and the Blue Dragon” and win a whopping $50! Only $3 to enter! Pay by check or PayPal at idegems@aol.com.
“Hey, I need a clever caption over here!” Come up with a good one and you could win $25! Only $1 to enter! Pay by check or PayPal at ideagems@aol.com.
The fantasy story was written for a woman who loves dragons and angels and whose loved ones suffered the painful destruction of Hurricane Katrina that devastated that grand old city, New Orleans. But after six chapters, the author has run out of steam. So, the call for submissions is out. Write an award-wining ending containing up to 2,000 words by July 1 and the glorious prize could be yours! Send your submissions by e-mail to ideagems@aol.com. Your electronic document can be in TXT (text file) DOC (MS Word), or PDF format. Hard copies go to: IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS BLUE DRAGON CONTEST 1110 BONIFANT STREET, SUITE 600 SILVER SPRING, MD 20910
The photo on the right is aching for a caption. Send in your caption by July 1 by email (ideagems@aol.com) or snail mail to: IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS PHOTO CAPTION CONTEST 1110 BONIFANT STREET, SUITE 600 SILVER SPRING, MD 20910 AFTAW will announce the winners by August 31, 2006. The winning texts will appear in the October issue. Be sure to include your name and contact information on your submitted material. If you prefer to use a pen name, let us know. As you will note, I am not going to annoy you with rules and regulations in legalistic fine print. Let’s just say, I encourage all who love to write to try their hand.
Volume 1, Issue 10
Check out more of the masterful pieces done by the fine contributing artist below as well as the works of other artists featured in our publication. To learn more and link up to their sites, go to www.ideagems.com
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Special End-of-Summer Issue Check out more at www.ideagems.com
Boldly go wherever your imagination takes you… Even if it’s to embarrassingly naughty places you only dare read about while sitting in the walk-in closet with the light on…
Your name and mailing address will appear here as soon as you subscribe! Pay through PayPal / ideagems@aol.com, or fill out and mail in the inserted coupon along with your check or money order for $3.50 (includes shipping and handling) for a single issue or $18.50 for twelve issues. AFTAW thanks you for your support (as well as for paying for the stamp).
Or off.
Contact information for Ideagems ® Publications:
Adventures for The Average Woman www.ideagems.com
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www.torquedtales.com
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Cube Ghouls
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Torqued Tales
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COMING SOON!
For subscription, submission, or advertising information, contact Laurie Notch at (202)-746-5160 or by E-mail at ideagems@aol.com
All rights reserved. The duplication or publication of any of the articles, artwork, or stories featured in this production without the express permission by the author(s) and/or artist(s) are strictly prohibited. Ideagems is a registered trade name whose publications “Adventures for the Average Woman” (AFTAW), “Torqued Tales,” and “Cube Ghouls” are the brain children of Laurie E. Notch who is the sole proprietor. Order your copy of AFTAW today!
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Adventures for the Average Woman