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Adventures for the Average Woman
IDEAGEMS ®
A MONTHLY PUBLICATION OF SERIAL FICTION AND FACTBASED ADVENTURE TALES PRINTED WITH EARTH-FRIENDLY RECYCLED MATERIALS
March 2006 Volume 1, Issue 5
Inside this issue:
Take Time to Smell the Primavera Is it springtime already? Time to come out of the deep freeze, take the short-sleeved tops out of the mothballs and hit the jogging trail or start planting those bulbs in the garden — or not. Perhaps you are still running the proverbial treadmill from home to office to home with no time for life’s distractions. That’s why we’re here with a bright new issue to cheer you on your way. Like all things spring, we have fresh new croppings in the form of poems, stories and products. We start with a bossy little poem called “The Old Chick on the Bus” and follow with new chapters of our exotic escapade, “Cutlass Moon.” Will our hero find the mysterious shaman he seeks? In “The Spoiler,” the missing writer finds herself trapped in her own historical romance novel with the characters she invented. Is it for real?
We’ll introduce you to a wickedly new wildly spun yarn of convoluted mystery, “The Cardiff Grandma.” Continue sleuthing with the “Mystery of the Majestic.” What dark secrets does the old theater hold within its walls? Join Gina and Clive, the vampire, in their exploits to survive the bloodthirsty neomodern world and each other in the continuation of “Neo-modern Noseferatu.” Katie finds herself lost in the mists of Avalon — well, it’s really Rock Creek Park near Foggy Bottom — with her errant knight in hot pursuit. Meanwhile, Natalie explores the mystifying world of the Blue Dragon on a quest to find a lost child in the steamy streets of New Orleans. Just when you thought the thaw was on, “Boundary Waters” hits
Take Time to Smell the Primavera
The Thaw
by Laurie Notch
you with a chilling Arctic air mass as Claire remains captive in her own home at the hands of America’s most dashing most wanted. And the newest news to express our literary views: you can know hear our stories on tape or CD. Now you can enjoy AFTAW while you mutlitask! Check inside this issue for details. — Cytheria Howell, Principal Author. Editor-in-chief, Incurable Romantic
We at IdeaGems ® would like to thank these fine organizations for their generous sponsorship of this publication.
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Neomodern Nosferatu
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Katie and the Errant Knight
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Mystery of the Majestic
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The Spoiler
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Natalie and the Blue Dragon
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Boundary Waters 19 A Word With You
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Page 1
The Tough Old Chick On The Bus
poem and illustration by Linda Kent
The Tough Old Chick on the Bus Have there ever been such women as us? said the tough old broad alone on the bus. We flipped our lids, we never had kids, we just did what we did, such women as us, said the tough old cookie alone on the bus. Erratic, erotic, they say we're psychotic 'Cause we don't give a dang for their dough! We're god-awful bold, are women like us, said the tough old bird alone on the bus. Have there ever been such women as these? said the tough old dame, just shootin' the breeze. Respected, admired, when we're old and we're tired, they'll say we inspired more women like these, said the tough old doll with a snort and a wheeze. In any endeavor, we're quick and we're clever and nobody gets in our way! Hard to hold down, are women like these! said the tough old gal, -- and damn hard to please! The price that they pay is what nobody knows Except women like them in their grubby old clothes. They can't bake a cake, they'll burn at the stake, And never regret the life that they chose. They're heroes of mine, are women like those, like the tough old broad on the bus.
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Adventures for the Average Woman
Cutlass Moon, Part III If you happened to miss out on earlier chapters of this or any of our other stories, order the back issues for $2.00 a copy. Or better yet, sign up for a year’s subscription for $15.00 and receive the first four issues plus eight months of future issues. Simply fill out the coupon insert inside this month’s issue.
WOMANHUNT His mission began over a year previous when he auditioned for and received a callback for a part in a movie. Ever since his high-school days, he had dreamed of becoming a film actor. Why he had been selected for the role in this production had little to do with his ambition and everything to do with his past military career. In spring of 2000, former Lieutenant Second Class Zachary Peter Brettleman, now civilian Peter Brett, went to do his screen test. Instead of being met by a studio director and film crew, he found himself facing Colonel Archibald Osborn, the Intelligence Officer under whom Peter served during his days as part of Riverine Patrol activities in South America. Osborn sat Peter down and told him about another covert operation related to the one he had served in 1993. “Level 9 Security Clearance 104-B/HQ23000087-D High Security” The tall slender Captain Heinrich stated into the recorder. “DIA briefing three slash four slash oh two dash dee as in Dover bee as in bravo aych as in house dash one dash nine slash bee as in Bravo. Session is being recorded in secured room two-twelve-A, Pentagon sublevel, March twenty fourth, two thousand oh two at oh-ten hundred hours. In attendance, Lieutenant James Heinrich, Colonel Archibald Osborn, and Peter Brett né Zachary Tyler Peter Brettleman. Occupation: actor, currently in the Army Reserve; rank Lieutenant Second Class. Subject: debrief Mr. Brett on Crash Land project, location, classified. Will the interviewee state his name and occupation
Peter swallowed hard. He felt like a vole in the sights of a hawk.
please?” “Peter Brett, actor.” Colonel Osborn brushed a speck of lint off the dark green surface of his uniform. With his singsong Tennessee twang, he tried breaking the officious ice. “Mr. Brett, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming to this meeting. My daughter and I are truly huge fans of yours.” “Well, thank you,” Peter deferred. The Colonel played up the young actor’s renown. “Say, would you mind giving me an autograph, you know, for my daughter? Her name is Liz.” Slightly taken aback at the informal request, Peter delayed his reach for the pad of paper and pen the colonel slid across the table. “Uh, certainly.” Picking up the pen in his left hand, he wrote in flowing cursive, “To Liz: Wishing you all the best. Peter Brett.” Peter offered, “If you like, I can send her an autographed poster from my last film.” “My,” the Colonel intoned in that colloquial manner of the South, “she would be so thrilled. Could you?” “Of course, sir. Be sure to give me her full name and address and I’ll have my publicist send one out.” The expression on the colonel’s agedefiant face forced back a wince at the mention of his daughter’s interests being allocated to a publicist. “Yes, well, the reason I’ve called you here during your regular reserve duty is—” Peter coughed and cleared his throat nervously. He sensed he’d offended the man. “Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my Southern gentleman’s manners? Would you care for some refreshment? Coffee or a soft drink perhaps?” “Uhm, a glass of water would do. Thank you sir.” The Colonel requested, “Captain Heinrich, would you fetch this fine young officer a glass of water? And if you don’t mind, I’d like a cup of strong coffee, black as sassafras.” The throaty voice of the Captain reciprocated, “Right away, sir.” He went through the polished mahogany door and
out into the corridor. “Now, what was I saying before I forgot my manners?” the Colonel reprised. “Oh yes, I remember – the reason we called you here. If I recall correctly, you were once one of my special operatives. True?” “Uh, yessir. Amazon Riverine patrol back in the early nineties, conducting information-gathering insertions to carry out surgical strikes to neutralize narcoterrorist camps on the Colombian-Venezuelan border.” A paper folder was flipped open for the Colonel to peruse its contents. “Yes, from November 1990 until May 1994. Then you decided not to renew. Correct?” “Yessir.” The colonel’s sharp gray eyes were fixed on the documents in the folder. “According to your file, you had a very impressive record of successful missions.” Those eyes then zeroed in on Peter. “Whydja quiit, son?” Peter swallowed hard. He felt like a vole in the sights of a hawk. “Well, to be honest…” The door silently opened and the tall slim frame of Heinrich stepped in with a tray holding three plastic cups. “Here you go, sirs.” “Thank you,” Peter proffered. He took a sip of water and explained. “To be honest, the stress of doing the job was wearing on me. Furthermore, I wanted to get back into acting. As you know, I have remained enlisted as an officer in the Reserves, although I mostly work making promotional films for recruitment.” “Yes, and we consider ourselves fortunate to have someone with your qualifications and celebrity on board,” the Colonel adulated while Heinrich set the steaming cup of black oily coffee down on the table. “Thank you sir.” Peter responded to the Colonel’s compliment. “And that’s part of the reason why we want you on our team.” “Yes, sir. I’m proud to me a member of the team.” “No, not in a general sense, son. I mean as a member of our special team.” “I’m not sure I follow you, sir.” (continued on page 4)
Volume 1, Issue 5
Page 3
Cutlass Moon
His training in covert operations taught him to deny knowledge at first bat.
(continued from page 3)
“Lieutenant Heinrich.” He picked up the cooled-down coffee allowing the lowerranking officer to resume the dialogue. Heinrich acknowledged his commanding officer according to protocol, “Yes, sir.” He proceeded to clear his throat before addressing Peter. “Mr. Brett, given your previous training and service with the DIA and Special Forces in combination with your chosen profession, we feel you are the perfect candidate for a special ops mission in a geographical area that is highly classified at the moment.” Heinrich sat in a chair next to Peter and handed him a sheaf of documents containing classified transmissions, memos, and pictures. “Mr. Brett, take a moment to look at this file.” For two full minutes, Peter scanned the thirty or so pages, his photographic memory taking permanent note. After a ponderous pause, Heinrich queried, “What’s your opinion, Mr. Brett?” “Well, I don’t know. It seems… it seems…” It was obvious Peter was having a hard time accepting the shocking information he had just seen. “Permission to speak freely sir?” The Colonel sipped his coffee and nodded as Heinrich spoke on his behalf, “Permission granted.” “Well, based on my brief overview of the plan, I think this proposed action is farfetched with too many unwarranted risks.” The colonel eyed Heinrich who prompted, “Please categorize them, Mr. Brett.” “First of all, wouldn’t this operation unduly endanger civilian lives? It appears to me they would unwittingly be led into hostile territory.” “Yes, that is a legitimate primary concern, but we’ll be working in tight coordination with the local authorities to minimize all risks and protect the civilians in question, Heinrich explained. Given your level of expertise, we are confident we can rely on you to see toward their safety as well. You’ve had excellent training and….” “Begging to differ, sir,” the former Sec-
ond Lieutenant rebuked respectfully but sternly, “but what kept me alive in the field was the fighting power of fellow operatives on my team. Being the sole protector of dozens of innocent civilians who are to be qualified according to ‘no-need-to-know’ status is another scenario altogether, sir.” The Colonel stepped in to quell the rise toward insubordination. “No need to get testy, son. The responsibility for their welfare will not be on your head alone. We will have other operatives in the immediate theater monitoring the situation. Rest assured.” Peter was not assured. “What about friendly-fire support, munitions, supplies? What will be my issue?” Heinrich stressed, “As in all remote missions, friendly-fire support will be beyond our capability. Keep in mind you will have certain friendlies who will offer limited assistance. As for weapons and rations issue, there will be nothing provided according to standard operating procedure.” Peter stalled. “What do you mean?” “You will be given civilian rations and supplies,” Heinrich offered. Peter’s argument was tantamount to belligerence. “Without proper equipment, sirs, I… I’m really not certain how much help I can be to you. How could I possibly perform my mission effectively?” Colonel Osborn tried to be convincing. “Mr. Brett, all we want you to do is be a performer on the surface while working the mission of doing a little intelligence gathering. That’s all. There should be no reason for engaging in combat with hostile forces. Judging from our reports, there really are no hostile forces evident in the area where you’ll be operating.” “Sir, not be disrespectful, but past experience has taught me that wherever there are covert operations, there are always hostile elements. Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve engaged in covert activities. I… I’m not sure I’m in condition for it anymore.” Peter folded his hands and hung his head reflecting his state of doubt. Colonel Osborn was quick to edify the actor’s ego once more. “I think you under-
estimate your capabilities, son. It’ll be like riding a bicycle after many years being off the crossbar. You’ll pick up those old skills again as soon as you get back on it.” Captain Heinrich added, “We’ll see to it that you get the refresher training necessary. In the meantime…” Peter looked up. He was almost to the point of panic. “Wai-wai-wai-wai-waiwai…wait. Not so fast. I’m still not sure I am willing to commit to this. I mean, why choose me? I’m sure there are plenty of ready and available active agents who could do the job.” “Yes, son,” Colonel Osborn’s suave voice intoned. “You’re right. And we are going to make use of several of those brave boys. To tell you the truth, we didn’t even know about you until recently. And when we checked up on you and learned of your, let’s say, ‘unorthodox,’ procedures in the Amazon – which got the job effectively done, I might add – we thought you might not fit with our agenda. But your father has sent very insistent communiqués…” Peter sputtered, “My father? What does he have to do with this?” Captain Heinrich pulled out a piece of paper from another file from the pile he’d set in front of him and handed it to Peter. “Your father, Kyle Brettleman, Senior Investigative Officer with the DIA has informed us that you would be critical to the success of this mission.” Peter read the communiqué and remained silent. The Colonel leaned forward. “Son, have you ever heard of Project Blue Jade?” Peter hesitated before he gave his answer. “Blue Jade?… uh… no. Does… doesn’t ring any bells,” he lied. His training in covert operations taught him to deny knowledge at first bat. You never knew who knew what, who was on a need-to-know-only basis, or who was meant to know nothing but was fishing for information. You could trust no one, not even superior officers. “Not even during your secret forays into the Amazon?” Heinrich probed. Peter shook his head. (continued on page 5)
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Adventures for the Average Woman
Cutlass Moon (continued from page 4)
“People resort to all sorts of tricks to conceal their true identity, Mr. Brett, you should know that given the falsifying aspects of your profession, but one thing’s for sure – teeth and fingerprints don’t lie.”
“I’m surprised,” The colonel cajoled, “knowing who your father is. How about accidental reference to Project Blue Jade by your father in informal meetings with coworkers or at home while you were growing up?” Peter smiled and let go a nervous titter to try and cover for his recalcitrance. “Honestly, I can’t recall.” The Colonel enjoyed the sport of trolling for information. He would have to reel this one in very slowly and carefully. “I guess your dad was a real conscientious tightlipped spook. No offense, son.” “None taken, sir.” “It doesn’t matter. Project Blue Jade was shut down due to a serious breach in security. Many lives were sacrificed.” The colonel allowed that last remark time to sink in. “Is the name Martin Thorpe familiar to you?” Heinrich posited. “Yes, he was one of my dad’s civilian colleagues at the Gallatin Proving Grounds in Montana. He disappeared when I was about… oh… thirteen or fourteen years old.” “How about the name, Kalinda Thorpe?” he stroked the ash-blonde nubs of his crew cut and watched for Peter’s reaction. Peter pushed back the blush that was rising up his neck. “Kalinda? She went to school with my older sister Carmen. She was murdered by her Indian boyfriend back in 1984, I think it was. Just around the time her father disappeared. It became one of those unsolved mysteries. I was just a kid, but I remember all of us, my father included, being devastated by the news. We were quite close.” His moistening eyes revealed the heavy emotions he was trying to keep contained. “You got something in your eye, son? You look a might irritated.” “Must be my allergies acting up, sir.”
Volume 1, Issue 5
“Allergies? I never saw any mention of allergies in your records. Are they going to pose a problem on this mission?” “No, sir.” Colonel Osborn sat cool and unmoved as the hard dark surface of the briefing room table. “Son, would it aggravate your allergies if I told you that we have reason to believe Kalinda Thorpe is not dead?” Peter blinked at the sting in his eyes and puzzled over this remark. How much did the colonel know about his top secret orders in the Amazon? According to sources at the highest level, his actions were totally on the hush-hush. Not even the operations center commanders were supposed to know. This interview smacked of internal power play and intrigue, and Peter did not enjoy being caught in the middle. Heinrich shoved a series of glossy black and whites under Peter’s nose. “Take a look at this. We believe this to be the most recent photo of Kalinda Thorpe a.k.a. Kalinda Tawee a.ka. the Pitautau of Pe’i Pi’i. .She’s had many other aliases and false passports to change her identity and permit international travel.” Peter made sure not to react too quickly or defensively. He held steady to dismay and denial. “No. This…. This isn’t her. Kally was much heavier, way more buxom, and... and wore thick glasses. Her hair was lighter – almost white.” The colonel elaborated. “We have reason to believe she’s an agent of an international ecoterrorist group. She was last known working in Brazil. We suspect she’s been collecting and disseminating classified information in order to sabotage various World Bank and other industrial development projects.” Peter raised his voice in near mockery. “An agent? Tha…. That’s ridiculous – much more, impossible! Excuse me, sir. I don’t mean to contradict your findings, but how can this be? They dug up her body – well, at
least the shattered skeletal remains of her – in the autumn of ‘86 near the quarry on the property where she lived with her father.” Heinrich stuck tenaciously to his story. “We’ve been following her movements from Brazil to these South Pacific islands. She’s been transiting clandestinely inter island with known ecoterrorists belonging to the Green Avatar Group.” “No-no-no-no-no-no no. Whoever you’re talking about, this woman… this woman can’t be Kally” Peter protested. Heinrich turned vicious, slamming his palms on the table for the sheer impact of it. “She could’ve joined Weight Watchers, had a boob tuck, and learned to sport contact lenses. People resort to all sorts of tricks to conceal their true identity, Mr. Brett, you should know that given the falsifying aspects of your profession, but one thing’s for sure – teeth and fingerprints don’t lie.” He slapped more documents on the table. “Your father has obtained dental records through CIA operatives who infiltrated various dentists’ offices and popular hangouts in the areas where she has been known to dwell. When comparing the commandeered x-ray film and print samples to data we have on file here, it’s a 99.999% chance it is she.” Peter muttered one last time, “It’s not her.“ Colonel Osborn set the record straight. “Son, that’s exactly what we need you to find out. That’s why we want you in on this mission - codename, ‘Operation Crash Land’.”
To be continued in our next issue. Subscribe today!
Page 5
The Cardiff Grandma or “How to Write a Hilariously Bad Mystery Novel” by Lady Benjamin Desktile
The Cardiff Grandma
A prehensile tale of bewildering complexity and staggering incredulity set in and around The Welsh University. Brought to you in association with Hamilton’s Gin and Ddwychllff Revolving Door TM Inc. Chapter 1 Wolfcastle turned from the window abruptly, snapping his eyes away from the fog. The fog. It seemed it had always been there. When still a young man, he had become intimate with its ways - more than once it had saved his life. But now there were other matters to attend to. “Who are the good guys in this mess?” he demanded. “We stood for something once.” He didn’t elaborate. “We also stood against something once,” the other man said smoothly. Wolfcastle didn’t need any lessons from anyone about smoothness. Especially not from a Welsh-Bangladeshi Elvis impersonator impersonator like Ddwwchyllff. He turned his gaze back to the window and the night. If Wolfcastle knew something about fog, then Dddwchyllff knew something about the night, something that few others understood. He rose slowly to his feet. He gathered up his coat and walking to the narrow door, he opened it and hung the coat on its hanger, noting as always with inward contentment the orderliness of the little space, with all the inclement weather-wear ordered according to the severity of the conditions that would require its use. “Hadn’t you better get going?” he asked. Wolfcastle turned from the window abruptly, snapping his eyes away from the fog.
Page 6
Wolfcastle seized the moment and leapt over to Ddwwchyllff’s large Brandenshot desk. A replica of course, ‘even Ddwwchyllff’s furniture was fake’
The fog. At that moment, a buzzer sounded. The two men eyed each other significantly. Dddwchllyff was not only a gifted mimic mimic, he was also an inventor. When he’d moved in to this deceptively luxurious house eight years ago, the first thing he'd done was rig up a device that would allow persons outside the door on the street seeking audience with him to alert him of their presence. Very few passersby ever noticed the tiny unobtrusive brown circle affixed to the wall near the door, and if any had , they had never thought to touch it But had they done so, Dddwwchllyff would have known immediately as they would have, unbeknownst to them, activated a switch, thus triggering a shrill buzz within the dwelling. The sound of the buzzer could mean but one thing. Chapter 2 And one thing only. “What is it?” Wolfcastle asked quizzically. Dddwwchllyff didn’t answer. Instead he deliberately placed his glass of Hamilton’sâ gin and tonic on the Steincroft TM grand piano, sighed and walked towards the hallway and the source of the disturbance. “A visitor?” Dddwwchllyff said as he left the room. Wolfcastle seized the moment and leapt over to Ddwwchyllff’s large Brandenshot desk. A replica of course, ‘even Ddwwchyllff’s furniture was fake’ Wolfcastle thought to himself. Quickly he rifled through the assorted paperwork. The desk was a wash with unpaid bills, final demands, final final demands, hand written notes and neatly typed to-do lists outlining strings of tasks that were as yet still undone. Unopened envelopes lay strewn across one corner of the desk and a postcard from “Sunny Quito” had been given pride of place in the middle, underneath six months worth of shoe invoices (Italian leather, Red, size 9). “I am so sorry Miss Cassleberry, I had completely forgotten of our… umm… appointment” said Ddwwchyllff at a volume just slightly too loud to make it seem natural. Wolfcastle abandoned his inspection and darted back to his previous position by the window just in time. Entering the room once more Dddwwchllyff announced his new companion.
“This is Miss Cassleberry. She’s the my new umm…chiropodist…yes, chiropodist.” He smiled to himself, pleased with his quick thinking. Wolfcastle feigned distraction as he turned around. “Still foggy out” he offered. “Pleased to meet you” he added, smiling at the young lady standing in the doorway. ‘Chiropodist indeed’ thought Wolfcastle. He hadn’t been born the previous day – he knew a call girl when he saw one. “Hello” chirped she, eventually. A broad, sympathetic smile spread across her cherry red lips. “Would you like a one?” she continued holding out a small paper bag full of cherries. As the two men politely declined Miss Cassleberry withdrew her offer and her hand. Unnoticed by the others, her golden green eyes flitted around the vast room with hawk like accuracy, instantly noting all the items of value. In her line of business it paid to pay attention. You never know when what you knew might prove worth knowing. “My, this is a most luxurious house you have Mr Dddwchwllyff, deceptively luxurious” complimented Miss Cassleberry with another broad smile. She also knew that it paid to pay compliments to the client. “Err, that’s Ddwwchyllff but thank you, yes. I only bought it eight years ago you know.” Ddwwchyllff’s attention suddenly drifted to former memories of the past. “Eight years…” he said, almost to himself. Almost, but not quite. Chapter 2.1 Eight years. How fast those years had passed. Dddwwchllyff had never mentioned the lottery win that had allowed him to purchase the house. One day he’d been a struggling escapologist and failing Elvis impersonator impersonator, desperately trying to make a living and the next he’d scooped €1,635,178 in the weekly Euro Lotto draw. With his newly gained windfall he had quit the European Semi-pro magician circuit, quit his job as a freelance translator for the European Commission, quit smoking and quit Belgium. He always knew it was a dirty habit that’d probably kill him one day, but some days, especially first thing in the morning. he missed it. But then Brussels hadn’t appreciated his talents anyway and it would be their (continued on page 7)
Adventures for the Average Woman
The Cardiff Grandma (continued from page 6)
loss as far as Dddwwchllyff was concerned. Belgium might not be better off without him but he was better off now and it was time to move on. And when it came to where to move to there was only one choice – it had to be Wales. Back to Wales. Following the move Dddwwchllyff had passed off his apparent affluence locally by telling how he was a well known rock star in Asia. “I’m very big in Chittagong” he’d often be heard declaring to anyone who’d listen, meaning anyone in earshot, down at his local pub, the Dog and Sledgehammer. …How he missed the tropical heat and storms, the monsoon winds. All that had been traded in for cold rain and fog. Incessant rain. Endless fog. And the nights, the long dark nights. But that was years ago now. Now rain and fog were like familiar old friends to him. He had come to love Wales, come to love it and regard it as his true home… Chapter 2.3 (2.3? Where’s 2.2? Oh, well, carry on.) Wolfcastle cleared his throat. Miss Cassleberry sneezed. Dddwwchllyff was roused from his daydream. “Mr Dddwwchllyff, I think I ought to be going now. I’ll leave you in capable the hands of your Miss Cassleberry” said Wolfcastle. This wasn’t ideal but he knew well enough that it was pointless hanging around any longer. They couldn’t talk business with the ‘chiropodist’ in the room. He’d have to get to the bottom of his friend’s role in the affair of the Awful Business TM another time. There would always be another time to talk. On nights like this there were other things that a man of Wolfcastle’s standing should be doing with his time. “I’ll see myself out” Wolfcastle said curtly as he paced over to the coat hanger, removed his coat and slipped it on. “Call me in the week Dddwwchllyff, there are still a few more things we need to ‘talk’ about.” Wolfcastle exited briskly through the front door and ventured out into the night. He had no idea that the next time he saw Dddwwchllyff he would be looking at a corpse. Within yards of the house the cold fog had swallowed Wolfcastle up. As he looked back over his shoulder the lights of the
Volume 1, Issue 5
He had no idea that the next time he saw Dddwwchllyff he would be looking at a corpse.
house gradually faded. In the distance a dog barked. Chapter 3 Miss Casselberry removed her coat with practiced hands and swayed long-legged across the genuine Shmeirutza carpet to the narrow door, and noticing for the hundredth time the brilliant organization of this small interior space, she withdrew a hanger. “What are you doing with my coat, Miss Casselberry?” Ddwwchllyff asked, a cold edge to his voice.. Miss Casselberry did not show her inward irritation at herself –“Dammit! That wasn’t supposed to happen!” she thought— and instead seemed genuinely surprised. “Oh dear! I meant to get an empty one,” she said, “Silly me!” “We’ve got work to do,” Ddwwchyllff said briskly “I’ll silly you later.” Together they went into Ddwwchyllff’s unanticipatedly large library. Miss Casselberry sat down at the desk and picked up the receiver of the telephone. Ddwwchyllff’s famous distrust of desktop telephones was little known outside of his small cadre of fellow colleagues, but in that privy group his idiosyncrasy was often fodder for jokes – jokes that no one could ever remember later, no matter how hard they tried. “Who am I calling first?” asked Miss Casselberry, concealing a broad smile. “The ‘pharmacy’. Ask them if my ‘prescription’ is ready,” Dddwwchllyff replied and gave her the number. She briefly lost all sense of feeling. It was to be the same routine as always then. She’d been assigned to infiltrate this household and learn where it was that Ddwwchyllff got his information, even, if possible, to discover his pick-up point. But Ddwwchyllff played his cards damnably close to his chest. She watched him for a moment as he laid a jack on a king. Unless he left the room long enough for her to jimmy the lock on the chest, she’d never get that information…. She went wistfully to work, the raspberry-red painted nail at the tip of a long slender forefinger creating a reddish-purplish blur as it whirled the rotary dial through one number after the other in blinding succession. Not once in
her long career as a call girl had she misentered a sequence, not even with machine guns whizzing overhead and dogs – how many had there been? One? Two? – barking, barking as if they’d gone mad…Connecting with the party on the opposite end of the line, she obtained the information and returned the receiver to its Bakelite perch. “Your prescription can be picked up at Cardiff International Airport on the 7th floor of the Pacific Rim Arrivals Terminal.” She turned to look at Dddwwchllyff but Ddwwchllyff wasn’t there. And his gin and tonic had disappeared from the top of the grand piano along with its twist of lime. Probably. Chapter 3.1 (Like this weird numbering?) Ddwwchllyff, who up until that point had been so animated, suddenly became badly drawn. The call girl couldn’t help but notice this rapid change in her employer’s mood. Miss Cassleberry wasn’t paid to notice things. She was paid to dial numbers, pass on messages and forget whatever she may have been party to. That was the only way to keep your job in her line of business. No, with her noticing things was purely a hobby. A dangerous one at that. To try and cover his unease Ddwwchyllff made a half-hearted attempt at small talk. “Microchip technology Miss Cassleberry, incredible isn’t it?” She wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at but decided it would be best to play dumb. She smiled sweetly, “Umm”. As he picked his way along the gravel covered driveway of Ddwwchyllff’s house Wolfcastle kept replaying Ddwwchyllff’s earlier remark. ‘We used to stand against something once too’ – that was it, wasn’t it? Wolfcastle’s memory, like the cold night that he sough refuge from, had become blurred with fog. The visit was meant to provide Wolfcastle with some answers. It had only ended up generating more questions.
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Page 7
Neomodern Nosferatu, Part V Gothic Memoriam
photograph courtesy of Ron Cameron
“Name,” asked the grim-faced intake clerk. Clive could see she had been living on stored blood for far too long. It frightened him to think of losing the sanguine qualities that fresh blood bestowed. This woman was typical of the neomodern Nosferatu processed through the system to be fed on stored or synthesized product. She was ashen, gaunt, joyless, perfunctory, and bald. “Uh, Clive Quincy Wellingford,” he answered as he took a seat on the cold metal chair. “Is that your birth name or an afterlife a.k.a.?” she asked dryly as she stared into her gray computer screen. “It’s been my name for the past half millennium,” he elaborated. “I’m sure I’m in your records.” Dull milky eyes looked up at him. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here.” Her remark sounded accusatory. “Yes, uh, I’ve been out of the country for a while,” he lied. “Where?” “Pardon me?” “I need to know where?” she bored for the answer with her stare. Clive looked around the dour basement surroundings with its lines of water pipes and leaden walls. “Do I have to be specific?” “Yes. You might be a carrier of a pandemic infectious to Ordinaries,” she stated as a matter of fact. He challenged her fact. “But I thought vampire blood was immune to all contagions,” “For the most part, that’s true, but we have to remain on our toes to make sure nothing transpires, or our fate on this planet
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This woman was typical of the neomodern Nosferatu processed through the system to be fed on stored or synthesized product. She was ashen, gaunt, joyless, perfunctory, and bald.
is sealed.” Her stare burned steady. “I was up in the North Pole for the winter,” he concocted from borrowed tales. The clerk typed in the information. Tapping her spidery fingers on her desk, she watched for a screen to upload. When it appeared, she set her hard gaze on Clive. “I don’t see any record of your being registered with any of our centers there.” “I, uh, went hermit, fed on seal blood, and froze myself most of the year. Got to keep looking young and fresh,” he ingeniously fibbed. She cast a doubtful glance his lying way. “Have you engaged in the feasting of live Ordina—I mean, humans in the past six months?” “No,” he lied. She knew it but continued going through the standard motions she had been programmed to do. “Have you ever been tested positive for bubonic plague, Ebola, herpes, or HIV?” “Heathens no!” he insisted in spite of never having been tested. She pushed a computer key and a printout spit up under her desk. She set it before him. “Sign here.” Clive skillfully crafted his name with elegant swirls and bold dashes. “Here’s your ration ticket. You’re allotted up to twenty units per withdrawal up to three a week. Take it down to the lab window where they will process your order.” Clive stood up and moved down the dimly lit corridor. The lab clerk stamped the ticket. “What flavor?” he joked. “Got any AB negative?” “Fresh out.” “Any type will do then.” While the freezer clerk filled his duffle bag with packets of type O blood, the most common on hand, Clive tried to strike up conversation with the jokester lab clerk. “So, have you been hearing a lot about the slayings around town?” The young male vampire looked up from his paperwork. Sharp canines protruded as he said from the side of his mouth, “They say there’s a crackdown coming. The Os are going to start raiding nests, businesses, and known hangouts. Any vampire not registered and feeding through the system will be exterminated. I’d carry that ration card with you wherever you
go. But then again, given the mood swings of these Os and the don’t-askdon’t-tell policy unofficially granting any weapon-wielding Ordinary a license-tokill, it probably won’t do diddlysquat.” “I thought there were laws passed to protect our rights in this great nation. That’s one of the reasons I immigrated here.” “Yeah, right. Just as there are laws to stop discrimination, labor abuse, and consumer rip-offs. When was the last time you saw any of those enforced?” The clerk went back to scribbling in his ledger. The freezer clerk passed his bag through the window. Clive took the goods and his ration ticket and sighed. He’d been through grimmer, leaner times. He simply hated when it came to feeding through the system. It took all the fun out of afterlife. Checking his false teeth to make sure they wouldn’t slip, he slogged with his bloody burden out of the former Walter Reed Army Hospital complex and across Georgia Avenue to the bus stop. How he would explain to Gina what twenty packets of human blood were doing in her all-vegan fridge was another matter to contemplate on his way home. Since he wasn’t far from Gina’s place of work, he figured he would swing by early. It was twenty past ten when the Metro Bus rolled into Silver Spring station. Clive hiked up the steps past the taxi stands to the imposing structure towering up to the name DataTrak Corp. International. The pale orange underlighting rendered the carved letters into gothic monoliths. Clive dared go inside to wait. A lightskinned African American with intricately woven red cornrows planted across her scalp asked if she could be of assistance. Clive responded with a polite but curt “No, thank you. I’m just here to meet someone.” He took a seat on the plush leather sofa and set his bag by his feet. He watched the women ogle him as they whisked by on their bathroom breaks. (continued on page 9)
Adventures for the Average Woman
Neomodern Nosferatu (Continued from page 8)
Many were in menses, their uterine blood flow clogged his olfactory senses. He looked out the lobby’s plate glass window to see if a full moon had risen. He chided himself for having lost touch with the sidereal cycles. Gina had just finished her digestive cycle by taking a bathroom break. She was washing up when a voice called from behind. “Your man is here.” With lightning speed, Gina reached in her pocket and brought out the bottle of holy water blessed by Padre Pio that her mother had purchased while on a pilgrimage to Rome. “Take that!” she shrieked and sprayed droplets onto her aggressor. “What? Are you crazy?” Mina protested. “Geeze, way to ruin my silk blouse.” She snatched a fistful of paper towels and began daubing the water stains off the shiny black fabric. “What is that?” “Holy water,” Gina muttered out of embarrassment. Mina set a thin hand on a bony hip and glowered. “Holy water? And why on earth would you be spraying me with that?” “I though you were a….” Pregnant with the breeched word, her mouth strained to deliver. Mina urged her to push it out. “A what?” “A vampire.” Instead of derisive laughter, Mina responded with a softness incongruous to her harsh appearance. “I only wish it every second of every day. I was named after a character in the book, you know. My mother was a big horror freak. I got my teeth capped to have permanent fangs.” She smiled to reveal two sharp points. “Cool, huh? Now all I need is to meet the Dracula of my dreams so he can bite me and make me his eternal nocturnal bride. Why do you think I work the evening shift?” “You think you can find that here?” Gina asked to the reflection in the mirror. “No, not here. Nothing but a bunch of backbiting dykes if you ask me. But after I get off the bus, I take the long walk home down the dark streets hoping for that chance encounter.” Mina fixed the spikes of her do. “Aren’t you worried about the risks?”
Volume 1, Issue 5
“Now all I need is to meet the Dracula of my dreams so he can bite me and make me his eternal nocturnal bride. Why do you think I work the evening shift?”
Gina ventured. “Like getting robbed or raped? Nah, I’m armed with mace and my scary mouth. Hey, who’s that tall dark and debonair dude that meets you after work? I could really sink my teeth into him, but his embouchure is way square. God, did you see the horse teeth on that guy?” Mina caught herself in the faux-pas and capped off with, “Sorry.” “No, that’s all right. I keep telling him he needs to see a reputable orthodontist. Sorry about the water thing,” she reciprocated. “Hey, that’s all right. I guess I can’t blame you with all the reports of vampire attacks. Personally, I think it’s a load of urban legend crap, but a girl can always hope.” Mina touched up her black lipstick then pushed out the door. Gina followed her through the maze of cubicles until the foul-breathed Minotaur Ms. Gibbs blocked her passage. “Ms. Bugliosi, I need to speak with you.” She turned with the expectancy that her minion would follow. “I’m afraid this is your third write-up.” She held the document out in her clawed hand. “What for this time?” “Unapproved extended break time and unauthorized visitation during work hours.” “Visitation?” The rotund black woman directed Gina’s view with a stretch of her thick arm down to then end of a long pointed nail. Through the office’s glass panels she saw Clive sitting in the reception area. “But he’s just sitting there waiting for me to finish my shift. In fact, I had no idea he was there until you just now pointed him out.” “The warning stands. You will be brought before a review board tomorrow when your fate at DataTrek will be decided.” Without further or due, Ms. Gibbs sat down at her desk and pounded on the keyboard. How she managed fast and accurate typing with those nails was beyond Gina’s distraught ken. She slunk out of the office to finish her shift. Gina remained sullen and silent the entire trip home. She never even inquired what is in Clive’s bag. Clive knew better
than to challenge her mood. It would be like entering a dark cave of sleeping bats with a bright flashlight. Once home, Gina stormed into the kitchen and brutally slapped a salad together. Without a word, she jerked the chair from the table to sit and stab at the helpless vegetables on her plate. Clive quietly stacked his blood packets in the back of the fridge. Thinking it odd she didn’t react to the gore he set beside the crisp celery and fresh asparagus, he broached, “You seem particularly distressed tonight. What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” Gina snipped. Standing behind her, he placed his hands on her shoulders, leaned over and inhaled her pheromones. “Well, you’re not menstruating, so it’s not PMS.” Gina slammed the fork onto the plate. “PMS is not the only thing that makes a girl irritable.” “Shh-shh-shh, easy,” he soothed. “I meant no offense.” He pulled up a chair from the other side of the table and placed himself next to her. Again he gathered in her scent. “I see,” he mused. “See what?” With her left cheek sitting cockily atop the knuckles of her hand, she cast him a surly eye. He reached up to gently finger the surly strands of her hair. “It’s obvious.” “It is?” “Yes.” The tips of his lips tickled her ear. “Hey, back off, will you?” She swatted at him like she would any biting insect. Clive caught her offending hand before it collided with his face. He held it snuggly and whispered, “You’re lonely and very, very horny.” He planted a soft kiss on the back of her neck just below her left ear. “Go ahead. Make me one of your nightly meals. I can’t fight you.”
Does Gina get chomped? Find out in our next issue. Subscribe today!
Page 9
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! Page 10
Adventures for the Average Woman
Mystery of the Majestic, Part V “And what would you be implyin’ by that remark?” Arna spat. Marque tried to stamp out the spark that had lit the fuse. “I’m not implying anything by it.” Her hat slid back and framed her head like a black halo. Every word passed through gritted teeth. “The hell you’re not. You thaink that I’m some bon-bon eatin,’ curler-sportin’ spent piece o’ trailer trash who don’t have one inkling ‘bout the art world. You probably thaink I got Elvis painted-on-velvet or maybe one with bulldogs playin’ blackjack hangin’ over my fake fireplace with the Naugee-hyde easy chair in front of it. Well, I got news for you. I may not have more’n a high school education with half a year o’ vo-tech trainin’ but I do know when somethin’s in mighty poor taste. Your act, my friend, fits that qualification to a tee and I will have nothin’ to do with it.” Marque prayed to the muse of Mesmer to help him quell her hysterics. He cast the velvet net of his Apollonian charm. “Arna, that’s not what I think at all. I can see you are a sensitive savvy woman who has recently been through a lot of stress. What you’re going through must make you feel like a fish learning to climb a tree.” He took the smirk on her face to be a reward for his awkward homespun simile. “I know you are feeling the heat from the financial concerns and your lack of a livelihood. You don’t feel you have any other choice other than to sell out because the problems seem insurmountable.” He checked for a sign that this word might not exist in her in grade-twelve vocabulary. To Arna, this man was a two-legged sidewinder like all the others. He just shook a different sounding rattle. The grapevine in a small town is just short of telepathic. She knew he knew she had driven to find Bryce Mendelssohn that afternoon. She knew he knew she had left in a state of anger and confusion after her conference with beasts in expensive suits, including that executive butt-sniffing dog Levitt. All in all, it had been an utterly humiliating and
Volume 1, Issue 5
She though it but didn’t say it for the tired sincerity in his face, like that of a lean old hound begging not to be sent to the pound. Still, he was a hound with plenty of legal bite left in him.
degrading day, but she was not about to let on that she knew he knew. She slouched and pushed her hat back down over her eyes. “You’ll be pleased to know I haven’t agreed to nothin’ -- yet. There are several bids on the table, though. I just need time to decide which one is the best for me. Hell, I’m even considerin’ donatin’ the whole kit-n-caboodle to charity, turn this place into a shelter for homeless women. Or maybe fork it over to the Blue Earth Historical Society so’s they can turn it into a museum. I heard my ol’ school chum, Vanessa Ryburn is head over there.” She tossed the mean tease monkeywrench into the oily gears of his rhetoric. “You mean Vanessa Simmons?” “She’s married now? Hell, I am so out o’ touch.” Undeterred, the spidery Marque spun on. “Well, that would be a nice thing to do, but how long do you think it would be before the charity to whom you bequeath this building gets told that place is unfit for such a function, and the city comes in and forces it to make expensive repairs which in turn pushes said charity into having to sell it to the developers who are going to have it their way anyway? What then?” He had a gift for circular argument. “So, you’re saying the developers are gonna have their way no matter what.” She grinned smugly. “Not when this building is still under private ownership and turning a taxable profit,” he zinged. “Look,” she tossed the papers in the air to see if they would fly the way they were folded. The mass fell to the floor in a disarrayed heap. She peered at him from under her hat. “Suin’ me ain’t gonna solve the problem. I could counter-sue and ask for an injunction to keep you from performin’ and then where’d you be?” His rising left eyebrow gave the illusion of lifting his six-foot 165-pound frame to his feet. “Not without a lawyer or until this matter does go to court. Keep in mind that it could take months, even years.Meanwhile, we would stay and perform until the sheriff came with his men to force us out.”
He walked over and sat down in the armchair facing her. “Look, Arna, I’m not trying to be unreasonable. All I’m trying to do is do my job. If my taking action against you will buy us the time needed to make a modicum of income and search for a new venue for our act, on which we have worked very long and hard, might I add, well then, so be it. I’ll do anything rather than see all our efforts get tossed out with yesterday’s trash.” Yeah, trash. That’s where your devil behind and its deviant act belong. She though it but didn’t say it for the tired sincerity in his face, like that of a lean old hound begging not to be sent to the pound. Still, he was a hound with plenty of legal bite left in him. She knew it was time to throw in the towel on this round. “Look, I’m pooped. Let’s say we take up this engagin’ conversation come daylight.” “All right. But don’t get in my hair or my way. And mind that Manny’s downstairs keeping watch over my machine. Sweet dreams.” He got up and left. “If only that were possible,” she invoked. “Hey, leave the light on, will ya?” Shortly after the door clicked shut she dropped off to sleep. Arna felt her full bladder nudging her awake. “Now where the hell’s that damned toidy?” She applied Clayton’s euphemism as a soothing poultice on her pained mind. She ambled down the dimly lit hallway, trying to relocate the women’s bathroom Marque had shown her. Just before the wide stairwell that led from the balcony section to the lobby, she saw a door marked “Ladies’ Lounge” and pushed through the door. Pink and white candy cane stripes papered the walls. Candy-apple red lauqered the doors. “Real ‘50s retrotacky,” Arna commented. She sat down in a stall and (continued on page 12)
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Mystery of the Majestic (Continued from page 11)
peed. When she finished, she went over to the great oval mirror that hanged precariously above two sinks. She looked at her tired raw reflection and turned on the spigot. A thin stream of water ran down a rust stain’s trail. Grabbing a handful of paper towels, she placed them under the faucet. She applied the cool moist wad to her neck and face that craned back to flex stiff neck muscles. At that moment, the lights went out. Thinking someone had hit the switch outside she called, “Hello? Hello? Who’s there?” No one answered. “Hey!” she bellowed. “There’s someone in here and that someone is me!” No one replied. “Goddamittohellnback.” Arna dropped the wet wad into the sink and felt her way toward the door in the pitch. Her hand found the handle and pulled. It didn’t open. She pushed. It wouldn’t budge. “Hey, you goddamsonuvabitch! Open this door or I’ll kick yer sorry practical joke playin’ ass!” The creepy realization that she was not alone in the darkened lounge climbed over her skin like a tub full of escaping night crawlers. She rattled the immovable door but soon found her own movement curtailed by a force pushing hard from behind to pin her to it. She writhed beneath the weight as a pair of hands rambled over her buttocks, breasts and crotch. They tugged her ponytail and pulled at her hair band. A deafening breath roared in her left ear. She strained to move but couldn’t. She opened her mouth to scream. Not even breath dared come out. As suddenly as the incident had started, it stopped. The lights flickered back on. The pressure on her back lifted, yet Arna remained with the right side of her face flattened against the door. Gasping, she turned around slowly to face her attacker. Her eyes saw the line of stalls. Her back braced against the door, she made a full scan of the room. There was no one there. Shaking like a woman with the palsy, Arna cautiously pushed open the door of each stall to see she was utterly alone. A deep masculine laugh rumbled in the restroom. Arna didn’t wait to find out to whom it belonged or from where it was ema-
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The creepy realization that she was not alone in the darkened lounge climbed over her skin like a tub full of escaping night crawlers.
nating. She rammed the door with full force and found it opened without resistance. She burst through the door and stumbled down the hall. She bounced from wall to wall in order to keep from falling to her wobbly knees. Back in the office, she switched on all the lights then checked the clock hanging above the bookcase across from the sofa. It was 3:26 a.m., smack dab in the middle of the evil hours. Arna paced and smoked until dawn. As soon as she heard Marque and his troupe arriving for rehearsal, she stormed onto the stage forbidden to her by legal sanction. “Listen, you sons of bitches, you ain’t got no call doin’ that to me.” “Well, howdy pardner,” Lily greeted, “You come down to set a spell?” she teased. Lily was sitting on a stool. Her hands were bound in a device that could only be described as medieval. She hollered for her mentor. “Marque! Your li’l cowpoke is here.” “Look, you,” Arna seethed, “I don’t take kindly to —” A loud thwack interrupted. From his director’s seat, Carl had slapped his stage directions onto the floor. He unnervingly clacked the heels of his boots across the stage and over to the fracas. “Madam, I know are upset over matters that concern us all” he scolded Arna, “but you are upsetting the leading lady even more. I must ask you to please leave the stage.” “Screw your lame-ass leading lady.” Her eyes aggressively scanned the bony bondage queen. “Where’s that sonuvabitch, ‘Sod’?” She tried to walk toward the back of the stage, but the barking Chihuahua caught her jacket sleeve with his claws. “Leggo-a-me you skanky varmint!” Her voice shook dust from the rafters. “Why so mean?” Carl bit his knuckles and scampered off. Marque stepped out from the shadows of backstage. Heavy metal links dangled from his neck, wrists and ankles. They clattered loudly as he walked over to the front of the stage where Arna was having their altercation. Manny jogged up to lend his brawn in case it would be needed. “What’s going on?” Marque demanded. “I think I’ve upset your girlfriend, again,
darling.” Lily cajoled. “She really needs to lighten up.” “I’ll lighten you up, that’s fer sure.” Arna pulled back her right arm and formed a tight fist. She was on the brink of lunging when steely arms dripping in chains banded around hers. “What are you doing here?” Marque demanded “You know the stage area is offlimits. Manny!” Manny pulled out his bandana. Like a trapped cougar about to be tagged, Arna slapped his hand and snarled. “Git that thaing away from me!” Marque signaled for Manny to back down. He softened his tone. “Arna, what is your problem?” Arna jerked away from his hold. “As if you don’t know.” “Know what?” “In fact, I imagine it was you who set it up with one of your kinky magician friends here or perhaps you even did it yourself!” Marque looked at Manny; Manny looked back and shrugged. “Arna, we have no idea what you’re talking about,” Marque assured. “If’n you thaink you’re a-gonna run me off by sendin’ someone to attack me in the middle of the night, then you got another thaink comin’.” Her voice ascended to an owl-pitch screech. Marque raised up his hands. “Whoa, calm down and tell me what you are talking about.” Marque raised up his hands. “Whoa, calm down and tell me what you are talking about.” Marque looked around at everyone on stage before coming back at Arna. “Molested you? Who molested you?” “I wouldn’t know since I couldn’t see him as he had turned out the lights then pinned me up ‘gainst the door from behind and…” “And?” “Touched me in indecent ways.” Her voice torqued to a high pitch. She fought for composure; she was not about to cry in front of this crowd. “Not t to mention the night before when one o’ y’all snuck in on me dressed up like an ol’-timey miner to steal my boots then pull one o’ your vanishin’ acts. I let that one pass figgerin’ it was harmless.” (continued on page 13)
Adventures for the Average Woman
Mystery of the Majestic (Continued from page 12)
“Boots?” Marque asked. “Try all you like, you ain’t gonna scare me, no way no how. Y’all are stuck with me like a cocklebur on the underbelly of a bull. Get used to it,” Arna insisted. Marque searched his cast and crew for an explanation. “Was anyone in the building last night?” To Arna, “What time did this happen?” “’Round three thirty, I reckon.” She wiped a surly tear from her right eye. “Anyone? Carl? Jim? Manny? Lance? Lily?” “Don’t look at me, boss. I have no reason to vex the poor girl.” Lily worked her manacles. Manny piped in, “I locked up at one. I don’t recall anyone staying behind. I did a dressing room check too.” “Carl?” he looked around the stage area. “Where’s he gone?” “Deadeye Dickette here fired both barrels at him,” Lily jibed. “He’s probably in his dressing room bawling his eyes out.” “Great. Now see what you’ve done?” Marque lamented. “What I’ve done? What ‘bout what’s been done to me?” He put his right hand to his lips and raised his brow in a look of consternation. “Perhaps we’d better report this to the police.” “That won’t do any good.” Marque blinked. The words didn’t come from Arna or Lily. Everyone looked around to see who had spoken. Cindy, the Goth, stepped up onto the stage. She walked up to Arna and stared at her with big green black lined eyes. “It was Willy,” the zomboid assistant clarified. “Who’s Willy” Arna asked. “One of the Majestic’s revenants, Ms. Yutter.” Her sweet polite tone contradicted the dark horror deliberately painted on her face. “And what, pray tell, is a revenant?” Arna asked. “A ghost,” Lily evinced with a diabolical laugh. * * * Had she dreamed it or was it a delusory manifestation of having been sleep deprived for so long? Arna’s eyes batted her awake. Rays of sunlight filtered through the grime-covered window at the
Volume 1, Issue 5
The closest she had in the way of formal wear was her pine-green and white uniform with name Driveway Diner stitched on the back.
foot of the sofa. She sat up and took in her surroundings. She was in her uncle’s office at the theater and not back in her own springy bed in Tuckers Corner as her subconscious had been implying for the past few hours. Her hands raised to stretch her arms then proceeded to scratch her throbbing head. Her fingers tangled up in the knotted strands. Her left hip shot a sharp twinge of pain when she stood up. She looked down and tried to smooth out her rumpled sweat-stained jersey. Her jeans looked more faded and dingy than usual. A toe stuck through a hole in the gray sock on her right foot. She looked around for her boots and saw them standing at the far end of the sofa. Had she or the grizzled miner’s ghost taken them off? She couldn’t recall. Over on the cluttered desk sat her duffle bag. She limped in haste to it, zipped it open and gabbed up some fresh clothes. She hadn’t brought much along: a couple of sports bras and jerseys with only one extra pair of jeans. The closest she had in the way of formal wear was her pine-green and white uniform with name Driveway Diner stitched on the back. Her fringe jacket, Stetson hat, and handtooled leather purse hung from a coat rack by the door. Someone had come in to set them proper. Thoughts of Clayton hanging up his pint-sized overalls or folding up his “jamjams” with the yellow cartoon sponge guy and pink starfish man on them rose to the surface as though the hooks on the bookshelf had snared and reeled them in. She inhaled deeply. The feel of his hair. The warmth from his skin. Let it in. Let it in. There was a single rap at the door. Arna turned to see it open toward her. Marque’s face peered around its edge. “Good morning. Ready for round three?” “What time is it?” she asked. He glanced at his Seiko. “It’s just about 8:30.” “In the mornin’?” Marque raised an eyebrow and glanced toward the sunlit window. “What day?” “Wednesday, the thirteenth.” Arna calculated the dates on her fingers. “Well, I’ll be Mrs. Rip van Winkle. Hell, I must’ve slept an entire day.” “Almost. You were, uh, exhausted.”
“Yeah, and now I’m right skanky.” She sniffed her grimy jersey. Marque was smartly clad in a black sleeveless knit under a cream colored jacket with matching trousers. He donned black socks and a pair of tan loafers. His black hair fell about his face and neck in feathery waves. He carried a scent of cinnamon and clove. “My, oh my, aren’t we lookin’ and smellin’ classy today?” Arna remarked. A rap came to the door. In strode Cindy with a hot water thermos, cups, and bags of tea and instant coffee. Arna dove for the coffee. In her usual sullen manner, Cindy disappeared out the door. “Strange gal,” Arna observed before inhaling the rich micro-waved brew. Marque sipped his Darjeeling and studied her. “You’re a mess.” “Yeah, well, considerin’,” she sucked in the bitter black elixir that filled her mug with the hairline crack and the words THE MAJESTIC glazed on its exterior. She made a distasteful face. “Hell, my teeth ain’t been brushed in for four days.” He reached into the lining pocket of his jacket and pulled out small plastic blue packet containing breath tabs. “Here, if you’re bothered about it.” “My stainky breath is the least o’ my worries at the moment.” The feisty mare was kicking up her heels.
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The Spoiler, Part V Holding the curtain about her lower half and struggling not to trip on its fringes, Marsha was led across the great foyer, up the grand staircase and into a dressing room. The floor was covered in a large carpet the color and design of an exotic garden from a palace in the Far East filled with orchids and peacocks. Up from the rendered garden rose scenes of Asian women in silk robes and parasols walking about, playing games, and feeding coy in a cobalt blue stream painted on the walls. In the center of the room stood a green marble fireplace the mantel of which bore oriental vases and a clock set in the twisting alabaster figure of a dragon. Dark blue damask covered the chaise-longue stretched out in front of the fireplace. On either side were two armchairs upholstered in matching damask fabric. A lustre of candles hung from the center of the stucco ceiling. Each candle base was set in a glass bobèche to prevent wax from dripping on the fine furnishings and dresses the lady would change into for every occasion. On the right side of the room, French doors opened out onto a balcony that hung above the back door to the foyer below. A refreshing breeze teased the chiffon curtains with the tantalizing relief of the sub-tropical torpor. Left of the fireplace, ceiling-high casement windows framed the verdant foliage of the back lawn. In front of the windows stood a half-closed folding screen painted with the same exotic bird and flora motif. It served to divide the room into two halves: one side for bathing and the other for dressing. The dressing half took up the right side with a large knee-hole dressing table with drawers and paneled doors covered in tortoiseshell and brass Boulle-work marquetry, a lacquered corner cabinet, a gilt bronze commode, and a lacquered wardrobe with a full-length mirror. The green marble top of the dressing table displayed a variety of brushes,
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A lustre of candles hung from the center of the stucco ceiling. Each candle base was set in a glass bobèche to prevent wax from dripping on the fine furnishings and dresses the lady would change into for every occasion.
combs, dentifrice, small hand mirrors, a manicure case, bottled tinctures, tins of powder, a porcelain job and basin, lace hankies, silk ribbons, lacquered boxes filled with dress pins, hair pins, and curlers. A large gilded mirror oval in shape rose up from the back. Fancy candelabras stood on each end of the table. On the left side of the dividing screen was a collection of chinaware jugs for pouring clean water and washbasins for light washing. There were basins for foot soaks and water cans for the dispensing of dirty water, but the pièce de resistance was the short and narrow bathtub with its bronze panels embossed with green peacocks as a complement to the room’s theme. To the right of the tub at the back of the folding screen stood a marble-top console table holding glittering bottles of scented oils, perfumes, vinegars, and toilet waters, two bars of lye, a tin of cleaning powders, a pumice stone, and several sponges. Next to it was a wooden stand holding fresh folded linen washcloths and towels. Behind the head of the tub sat a stool that could be used for placing a jug to rinse with or for sitting and preening. On the far wall to the back towered a large cedar wood linen closet. Wedged in the corner between the cabinet and the wall sat a corner chair with embossed leather seat. Marsha studied the décor in complete awe. It was authentic to the period in every detail except that the colors in the room seemed a bit garish for a lady’s boudoir. Women of that time preferred muted hues so bring out the brilliance of their silk dresses. Definitely, this room had had a man’s hand in its design, and judging from the treatise, this man had a bent for all things Eastern. A bath and a fresh change of clothes were not on Marsha’s list of priorities at this point. “Where’s the, uh, the facility?” Raeph’s pause bespoke his puzzlement. “The facility?” Both Marsha’s patience and bladder were wearing thin. “The commode?” Raeph eyed her curiously. “Why, the commode is over by the dressing table. Do you wish to choose your chemise?” Marsh, ol’ gal, her inner voice reminded,
he’s using the period reference for a clothes chest. The connotation you mean wasn’t used until the mid-nineteenth century. Damn, I wished you’d shut up with this trivia shit,” she scolded herself. I gotta pee and then I gotta get out of here. Why can’t you tell me anything that’s useful? Now what terminology would work on this maniac? Aloud, she qualified her need. “How do I put this not so delicately? The pisser, the crapper, the loo, the John, the friggin’ toilet.” “All stuffs you need for your toilette are here, madam.” He indicated the etched glass bottles filled with various oils and solutions sitting atop the console table next to the bathtub. “Oh, for crissakes! Unless you want me to pee on your pricy rug right here right now, I would advise you get me to the nearest privy.” “Me thinks you require the necessary then.” With knees knocked together and hands clasping her abdomen, Marsha grunted her recollection of the archaic nomenclature used when the first water closets were invented. “Yes, the necessary. How could I be so obtuse? Where is it?” “Outside, where it should be. Might I suggest you use the chamber pot over in the corner? I fear the necessary may be too foul for your olfactory sense to bear.” “You have got to be kidding.” She waddled over to a wood box with rococo carvings of vines and leaves. She lifted its lid and beheld an opening with an oversized porcelain cup sitting inside. “Oh, we are really going all out for historical accuracy, aren’t we? And where, pray tell, is the, uh, the...” Raeph rotated his hands to coax it out of her. Marsha struggled. “The stuff to wipe your ass with.” “My dear vulgar woman, just wash your arse in the bidet.” He indicated a nearby basin in which lay a metal syringe with a rubber bulb. (continued on page 15)
Adventures for the Average Woman
(continued from page 14)
From the commode she extracted the bodice, stomacher, pocket hoops, stockings, garters, a chemise, modesty skirt, quilted petticoat. From the corner cabinet she found a matching pair of high-heeled satin shoes.
Marsha coughed up a laugh. “Yeah, right. Look, don’t you have some—“ A knock sounded on the mahogany door. “Enter,” Raeph entreated. A young black woman shuffled quietly into the room. Her arms hung pendulously with heavy buckets of steaming water suspended from her firm grip. She grunted softly as she lifted and poured their blistering content into the tub. She next set about preparing the typical items required for a lady’s raiment. She went to the wardrobe and pulled out a dark green-andgold satin brocade dress with petticoat and jupe. From the commode she extracted the bodice, stomacher, pocket hoops, stockings, garters, a chemise, modesty skirt, quilted petticoat. From the corner cabinet she found a matching pair of highheeled satin shoes. She laid out the articles of clothing along the chaise-longue. Raeph pulled the folding screen out along the side of the tub. “Now, madam, here is Carmelia who will assist you.” He stood at the end of the screen. “You recall meeting Carmelia, don’t you?” Marsha recognized her from the women’s room mirror in the Ashcroft Building in Baltimore. She no longer bore the garb of a journeyer but the clothes of a maidservant with a white cloth cap pulled over her wiry black hair and apron over her work shift and broad cotton skirt. Marsha thought it a curious coincidence for the woman to be showing the same degree of pregnancy she had two years previous. “I am housebroken, you know.” Marsha’s urgency caused her to bounce on the balls of her feet. “But if you don’t get out of here and let me do my business...” She looked over toward the receptacle for collecting bodily evacuations. He let the trope fly over his head. “Carmelia has been graciously lent you as your personal domestic. I would advise you accept the offer with equal grace.” “Look, I don’t need help to take a leak or a spritz. And I don’t cotton to having others – especially those with child -- do my dirty work.” Raeph rubbed his aching head and declared, “Madam, you have a choice
before you. Either Carmelia helps you bathe and dress, or I do.” Marsha opened her mouth but withheld comment. Any further dalliance and her dam would burst. “That’s the wisest decision you’ve made yet, madam.” He walked to the double doors and pulled them closed. The clink of keys in the lock told Marsha she was not to venture out. “Do me a favor, and stand over there, behind the screen.” She hurriedly shooed Carmelia. “Pardon me, Mistress Gwynyvere, but I been told—” “If you don’t mind, I’d like to do my business in private, OK?” Carmelia’s long gray skirt swished as she walked over to the chaise-longue and nervously rearranged the garments. Marsha unwound the green curtain from her waist, jerked down her panties, sat on the box and emptied her bladder. Once the pressures released at one end, they did an about-face to push up and out the other. She had fought the urge to vomit all night long but now the surge was irrepressible. She dropped to her knees. The smell of urine provoked her gag reflex all the more. Her heaves were mostly dry and guttural. “You all right, Mistress Gwynyvere?” Carmelia called from behind the screen. Marsha covered the pot quickly for fear of provoking more puking and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. From her hands and knees, she looked down at the floor to notice she hadn’t exactly been on target. “I’m OK. Just stay there.” She reached around her and saw a jug full of water. Now she needed something to wipe up with. Marsha stood up and stumbled. She kicked her panties from her ankles. She stepped over to the bathtub to grab a towel to wipe up her mess. “Oh, no, Mistress! Let me do that!” Like a fish eagle honing in on a perch, Carmelia swooped in and snatched the towel. She fell to her knees and began sopping up the spillover. “Now, missum, let’s tend to your bath.” Water jug in hand, Carmelia motioned Marsha to the tub. She poured the contents of the jug into the piping bathwater. “You should test the temperature with your hand, ma’am. If’n it be too hot, I’ll add more cold.
The Spoiler
Volume 1, Issue 5
too cold, I’ll fetch more hot.” “It’s fine. Now do me a favor and stay over here.” Ignoring her order, Carmelia’s hands began working the lace at the back of Marsha’s corset. “Stop that!” Marsha turned and slapped at the girl’s hands. “I told you I’ll do it myself!” “I knows I shouldn’t disobey my mistress but I is under orders to assist and I must do as my master say or else suffer at the end of his whip.” Carmelia was on the brink of tears. Marsha got free of the dreadful device and threw it onto the floor. She turned to face Carmelia. “Look, I think y’all are really going way too far with this Mardi Gras cavalcade of historical figures, but bottom line is you are kidnappers who are holding me against my will. And if that’s not enough, you are willing to play part in this wanton criminal activity! Given your condition, I can’t understand why.” Carmelia looked to the floor and set her hand upon her swollen belly. “I have no will in this, missum. It’s what I was born to.” Marsha furrowed her brow in consternation. “Why, that’s utterly ridiculous. Who told you that? I don’t know about you, but I won’t stand here and let them subjugate me with their prurience of having you watch me piss and wash. I’ll stay soiled. Do you hear me?” Marsha loudly declared. “Please, missum, don’t rile up Master Raeph or Master Parfrey. You don’t want to go through no more of their treatment. I implore you. You make a fuss and they’ll set you in shackles. That be surely painful. I knows too well. See.” She rolled back her sleeve to show scars cut into her wrists then lifted her skirt to show similar marks on her ankles. Carmelia’s round brown eyes brimmed with tears. Marsha stood jaw agape at the sight and stammered, “What sort of deviants are we dealing with? Are you really being held against your will and forced to do their bidding?” (continued on page 16)
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The Spoiler (continued from page 15)
“I don’t think I am the one doing the terrorizing around here, and I certainly don’t go around using the ‘S’ word when referring to AfricanAmericans. That’s just sick and twisted!”
Carmelia nodded sadly. “Jesus, girl, we have got to do everything we can to get out of here and find the nearest authorities. You can’t go through this what with a baby on the way. Do you know if there is a telephone in the house?” Marsha looked about the room. “Tay-lay-fo…?” Carmelia’s thin eyebrows pinched together over her uncertainty on how to pronounce the word. “No, missum, I never heard of no such thing.” Marsha found her reply suspect and pressed for more information through the ruse of small talk. “Expecting again, I see.” “Pardon me, missum?” Carmelia didn’t follow. “Two years ago, when I saw you in the women’s room in Baltimore, you were pregnant. Was it a boy or a girl?” Marsha queried. “Oh, I ain’t had no baby before. This will be my very first.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” Unsure about the girl’s mental stability, Marsha didn’t address the touchy issue of miscarriage. “How long have you been here?” “Why, ever since I was a babe at my mama’s breast, missum.” Carmelia prepared the towels and told her history. “My mother was bought at auction in Baltimore by Mr. Montrose Fletcher to serve in his home as kitchen slave to his wife, Missus Hephzibah Fletcher and their daughter Abigail. I was born and raised in that home and served Mistress Abigail. When Mr. Fletcher died, Missus Fletcher was forced to sell my mother to a plantation in Virgi-“ Marsha covered her ears and shrieked. “Stop it. Stop it Stop it! Stop with this utter bullshit!” The door burst open. “What now is the reason for your racket?” Raeph’s nose crinkled. “Have you got sick then? Carmelia, please take it out to the privy.” Clad only in her peasant blouse, Marsha snatched up the green curtain to cover up. Then in a measure of defiance, she blocked the girl’s way. “No, Carmelia, don’t you touch it,” she barked. “If he wants it removed, he can remove it himself.”
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Raeph’s sun-kissed complexion rouged. “I warn you, madam, don’t tax my patience anymore.” “Or what? You’ll do me a huge favor and end this torment by cutting my throat or shooting me in the head? Please, please, do so and put me out of my friggin’ demented misery!” “Carmelia, do as I have ordered.” Marsha stepped in front of her. Carmelia fell in a heap at Raeph’s feet, “Please sir, I try, I try again. Don’t send me back to Master Parfrey, please.” Her body shook from her sobs. He bent down and gently raised her up by the shoulders. “Carmelia, I want you to go tell Milo to heat up more water for I fear the lady’s bath has gone cold. Have him bring it here with a fresh set of clothes for me. You are under my orders to accompany him. Hmm? Now compose yourself and please remove the source of what befouls the air.” “Given the real stinkers in this room, I’d leave that open to interpretation.” Marsha jabbed. “Stop your sass and step aside or...” Raeph advanced menacingly. “Please, missum, you don’t want him to put you in the shackles” Carmelia implored. She wiped the tears from her face with the hem of her apron. Raeph didn’t need to underscore the threat. Marsha moved to the side and watched Carmelia carefully gather up the chamber pot and cleaning rag. She meekly slid past them and went out the door. “How could you, madam?” “How could I what?” “Terrorize that young slave girl in her delicate condition?” “I don’t think I am the one doing the terrorizing around here, and I certainly don’t go around using the ‘S’ word when referring to African-Americans. That’s just sick and twisted!” Raeph’s vexation turned to befuddlement. “How else should I refer to her, madam? She is a slave as I am a kidnapper. By refusing her services, you have insulted her perfidious owner, Parfrey Von Huys, and his equally opprobrious sister, Prucilla.
“They will only take out their miserable indignation upon her yielding black flesh. Why are you so insensitive to the issue?” Marsha shook her head and backed away from him. “You have gone absolutely ape-caca, haven’t you? No wonder she lost her first child given the abuse she has suffered.” She laughed hysterically. “Or maybe I’m the one who’s bonkers! Maybe I drank that bourbon and fell and hit my head or had a massive aneurism.” She backed into the corner where the chamber pot had been. “Am I dead? Is this then hell with a capital gilded rococo ‘H’?” Arms outspread Raeph approached her as he would a wild bird that had gotten trapped inside the house. “Calm down, madam. I assure you.” He backtracked, “Prithee, what child is it you speak of that was lost?” His query held concern. “Micah? Has he then,” he swallowed hard before uttering, “gone?” Marsha flung out her right arm toward the door. “Oh, come on. You know which child. Carmelia’s child. The one she was due to deliver when I saw her in Baltimore. What did you bastards do with it? Feed it to the ‘gators or that devil hound?” Raeph shook his head. “You are egregiously mistaken, madam. Carmelia has never given birth in all of her seventeen years. This is her first conception.” “That’s impossible, unless,” Marsha drudged up a rational explanation, “she wasn’t really pregnant when she came to me in Baltimore. So, she must’ve been faking it to gain my sympathy and a handout. Well, it didn’t work now did it? I scared her off along with you.” Marsha didn’t dare venture as to the how Carmelia had gotten into the locked bathroom or suddenly disappeared without a trace or how the security cameras never picked up either her or Raeph’s image. To seek such explanations would be tossing her rationalism to wolves in a snake pit. To be continued. Subscribe today!
Adventures for the Average Woman
Natalie and the Blue Dragon, Part IV Story Notes: This story was written for a dear friend of mine in Maine whose loved ones suffered the painful destruction of Hurricane Katrina that devastated that grand old city, New Orleans. — Cytheria Howell
The dark swirling water swiftly engulfed Natalie’s body shivering with fear and cold. “Angel! Dragon! Help me! I can’t swi—” The surge swallowed her cries. In a shroud of bubbles, her life breath escaping, terror enveloped her. “Is this then my end?” She thought. “I’m brought back through time and space to the place of my birth only to meet a horrible death? Can a person even cry under water?” “Don’t cry, dear one.” A calming voice washed in her ear with the rising tide. “Who said that?” Her thoughts sought him out. “Is that you, Angel? If it is, help me out of here, because I don’t have long.” “Look up,” directed the voice. “It’s pitch black!” “Keep looking.” “This isn’t helping! I’m running out of air!” Her lungs clawed like a thousand starving small animals at her rib cage. “Look up, surrender, and trust.” “Wha—?” The soft black velvet of unconsciousness wrapped around her fearful awareness. She awoke to the sound and feel of warm waves lapping her legs and feet. Her ebon eyes opened the see a world a-kilter. The antique buildings of the French quarter tilted precariously like they belonged beside the Tower of Pisa. It took a series of blinks for her to realize she was lying at an incline up the embankment of a levee. Natalie righted herself to see it was early evening. A forlorn trumpet sounded a funerary wail. An instruments’ chorus of lamentation joined it. Clutching the mask in her hand and
Volume 1, Issue 5
Dressed in night’s svelte black, her bare streets glittered with the bangles of gas lamps from the Vieux Carré’s classic age.
checking the hat on her head, she clambered over the camber and stepped onto the road. Memory oriented her. She was on Decatur Street near the French Market, but the time frame she walked through wasn’t within her lifetime. The grand old dame of a city was clad in the garb of her youth. Dressed in night’s svelte black, her bare streets glittered with the bangles of gas lamps from the Vieux Carré’s classic age. Wrought iron balconies trimmed her shapely architecture. The music wafted from the city’s pores like thick perfume filling the sultry air. Natalie wiped it wearily from her brow. Heaviness weighted her being and pulled her down the street toward the dame’s sorrowful bosom. Nary a soul moved up and down the rue. Natalie turned the corner of St. Philip and Royal Streets. The night gloved finger of sound waggled for her to follow it past grandiose buildings with French Baroque exteriors and Spanish tile roofs. The music stopped. An uncomfortable silence settled thickly on the dark street. Natalie’s ears perked to a sharp pop and crackle. Her eyes widened at the sight of each building bursting into flame and crumbling into charred ruins. She spun around to see the street and sky turn red with scorching fever. A pox of blistering conflagrations broke out all over the lady of New Orleans most sacrosanct neighborhood. “What’s happening? The city’s burning down!” Natalie wailed. The searing heat stung her tear-stained face. She turned to flee but fire surrounded her in all directions. She drew her hands to her face to cover the horror. A blue wind chased away the fiery torment. Natalie looked up to see Askuwheteau descending from the crimson sky. He landed gently beside her, his great sword in hand and pointed to the ground. “Do you see?” he asked.
“See what? Floods and fire and total destruction? What is going on? Why are you putting me through this?” Natalie snapped. He took her arm and wrapped it about his massive arm and slowly strolled with her down the lane through the flames. “Didn’t she tell you?” “Who?” “The city.” “The city talks?” “She does if you listen.” “Wha—?” He raised a finger to his cobalt lips. “Shhh. Listen.” The fingers of a warm soft wind brushed Natalie’s tears from her face. “Don’t cry, cher l’enfant. It’s all right,” whispered a saucy alto voice accented with Cajun, wine and tobacco. “Who are you?” Natalie asked. “Je suis la ville de Nouvel Orléans.” “What’s happening to you?” “The fire of Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty eight, eight hundred and fifty homes destroyed, many lives lost. It was utter devastation.” “But why show me this?” “To show you my scars. They are the map of my existence through the pain and suffering of your ancestors and your descendants.” “I don’t understand,” Natalie puzzled.I thought I was brought here to find a lost child.” ““You can never find her without knowing my travails and my triumphs. For you are a child of the Vieux Carré. My blood runs in your veins. My flesh covers your frame. My soul fills your heart and mind. My wounds are your wounds. My tragedies, your tragedies. You have no choice but to feel them, ma chère. You have no hope but to find her.” The voice faded with the dying flames. (continued on page 18)
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Natalie and the Blue Dragon (continued from page 17) Charred shadows of what once was blew away in a fine black ash with the beat of Askuwheteau’s splayed iridescent wings. “A fleeting wisp across the face of humanity,” he commented. “What now?” Natalie wondered as she reviewed the empty plane surrounding them. “Now, you will slumber atop a silky cloud under a blanket of moonbeams.” A billowing mist picked up Natalie from the ground and gently placed her supine. “Close your eyes.” Askuwheteau’s fingers brushed feather-soft down her face. Natalie fell fast asleep. The tender caress of sunlight aroused her. She had no notion of how long she had slept. She had no inkling as to where she was, but it was no longer upon a bed of magical clouds and moonbeams. Sunbeams dazzled her eyes and highlighted her cark tresses in flecks of gold. She was on a four-poster bed draped in flowing gossamer. The sheer fabric tinkled like musical chimes with the tug of her fingers to pull it open. She was in a vast room with a high vaulted ceiling. Orchids covered the floor and kissed her bare toes. Natalie looked around for her red hat and Mardi Gras mask, but they were nowhere to be seen. “Angel?” she called. He was nowhere to be seen. A long dark shadow slowly sailed past a set of French doors. Natalie pushed them open to step out onto a balcony. In the yellow sky she spotted the silvery blue serpentine body of Kesegowaase. “Dragon!” she called and waved. Her glee was only outmatched by her exuberance over seeing the magnificent creature once more. Kesegowaase dipped his wings to turn. He approached but veered off.
She had no inkling as to where she was, but it was no longer upon a bed of magical clouds and moonbeams.
“Wait!” Natalie leaned over the wrought iron framework of the balcony then looked down. She was high up in a tall tower rising above the clouds. Far below lay the microscopic city. “Hey! Why am I way up here? Dragon! Come back and take me down!” Kesegowaase shone as a glinting spec in the sky. The he was gone. Natalie went back into the room. She rubbed her rumbling stomach. “Man, I sure am hungry. How long has it been since I’ve eaten I wonder?” She looked around the room. In the center stood the bed with its chiming curtains. She traced the four walls, padding softly on orchids but could find no doors or windows save the one that opened onto the lofty balcony. “How the hell am I s’posed to get out of here and get me something to eat?” She circled the square space again and again. She felt the smooth walls for any knick or bump that might suggested a hidden panel but to no avail. Natalie sighed. She went out onto the balcony, planted her elbows on the railing, put her hands to her cheeks and sulked. “Maybe I can climb down.” She leaned over to inspect the walls. To her dismay, they were polished marble with no ledges to grip as far as her eye could see. She returned to the bed. The gossamer chirped its crystal tones. She spread herself out, placed her hands behind her head, and lay in wait. But for what and for how long? The bed curtains rhythmically sang with each breath the room took. Natalie felt the pulse of the place move through her body. It was if she were inside a living being, and the awareness of such began to creep her out. She leapt from the bed and wrapped her arms about her. She went back to the balcony to look for Kesegowaase, the giant blue dragon, but the sky stood empty in all its goldenness.
“Can anyone hear me?” she shouted. She leaned over the railing and called down-ward, “Hey! You below! How do I get out of here?” A silent wind carried no consolation. “Man,” she whined. “How much more riddle-solving do I have to do? I am plum riddled out!” She walked back into the room. Her voice bounced off the smooth wooden walls. “What am I supposed to do here?” “...here… here… here…” echoed the room. “Angel? Where are you? Why aren’t you helping me?” “...me… help me… help me… help me…” It took but a few seconds for Natalie to realize the echo had changed into another’s plea for help. It was the voice of the little girl from the flooded bathroom. “Little girl, is that you? Where are you?” Natalie held her breath to hear a faint reply. “I am still in a dark place.” “Is anyone with you?” “No. I’m all alone.” She started to sob. “Don’t cry, child. I’m going to try and find you.” Her fingers probed the walls as her feet waded through orchids. “Where are you?” asked the voice. “I’m in a room with a great big bed.” “The bed with the musical curtains?” Natalie froze. “How do you know?” “I was there once, before I got lost and ended up in this dark place. Please come find me.” Her whimpering echoed into the distance. Natalie swallowed to contain her fear. “I will, honey, but you have to tell me how to get out of this room.” Bleak silence snaked its way around Natalie’s hope and squeezed tight.
To be continued. Subscribe today!
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Adventures for the Average Woman
Boundary Waters, Part V
The serene tension snapped with the roar of snowmobiles spinning up her driveway.
me. Now go.” Erik darted into the bedroom and latched the door.
Timber Wolf Solo
by L. Notch
The morning arrived without a ruckus. Claire silently worked out the frustrations over her captivity by pouring plaster into the new molds. Erik had rummaged through her dresser to find a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants that he could squeeze into. He also invited himself to using her fold-up gym and free weights which he found under her bed. His intimacy with her private affairs set her on edge. She would have to keep her temper in control or risk being bound up throughout the day, something her sensitive mental state couldn’t abide. She had put off molding his face for fear she might go too far and kill him. Thoughts of casting his death mask played in her head. She stared over the rims of her detailwork glasses to see him splayed on the sofa with his face buried in a book while the fire quietly crackled. The serene tension snapped with the roar of snowmobiles spinning up her driveway. Erik flew from his spot and hurdled to grapple her. He dragged her over to the side of the window and peeked out. “It’s that patrolman again, and he’s got someone with him. Get rid of them.” She jerked his hand from her face. “Do you have to do that?” “Just get rid of them.” A loud thud hit the door once then twice. “Look, go hide in the bedroom.” Erik’s eyes dropped a dubious look. “If I don’t act neighborly and let them in, they will get suspicious. You have to trust
“Morning, Claire,” blew across the threshold on the steam of Tom Hanson’s breath. “Hey, Tom. Howdy Hank,” she acknowledged his companion in the snowmobile suit and hunter’s hat with ear flaps. “Won’t you come in? How about some coffee?” “Oh, wouldn’t want to be a bother,” Tom feigned out of Minnesota niceness. “No bother, it’s already made.” She rushed to the kitchen to clear the double set of plates left over from breakfast. The two men stomped the snow from their boots. “Are you sure we’re not being an imposition?” She came over with two piping cups in reply. “Thank you kindly,” said Hank. “How you feeling?” Tom inquired over a sip of joe. “Oh, much better.” With keen patrolman’s eyes, Tom looked around the log house to note anything out of place. “Been working I see.” “Gotta keep up with my orders,” she explained. His gaze caught on the straw hat atop the coffee table at whose foot he spied the cowboy boots. He moved in for a closer study. “Nice pair of boots.” Claire felt a nervous trill move up her spine. “Uh, yeah I got those in Denver. I bought them for a friend down in Mankato.” He picked one up. “Looks a little worn in the heel. You sure you didn’t get ripped off?” Claire stepped over to take it from him. “You know, used boots are all the rage with young folks today, like faded jeans frayed in the knees.” “Your friend that young then?” asked Hank. “They’re for my friend’s son, actually.
say, what are you boys doing out in this tooth-wrenching cold anyway?” Tom set his cup down on the coffee table. “Hank here’s willing to tow your vehicle out of the snow bank.” “Thought I’d see if you’d like your drive plowed too.” Hank handed her his empty cup. “Of course. When could you do it?” Claire asked. “I could come by this afternoon,” Hank figured. “Sounds good.” She looked around the room for her purse. “Oh, God. That’s right. It’s still in the car.” “What is?” asked Tom. “My purse.” “You left your purse in the car?” Tom puzzled over why a woman would leave behind her most important possession. “Gosh. You know how I get when I’m tired, Tom. I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t attached.” She noted how he and Hank looked disconcertedly at the disembodied heads sitting on shelves. “Okay, then,” Tom clapped his hands together and turned for the door. Out of habit, he flipped the light switch. “Say, Claire, why don’t you have power? Your generator on the fritz?” Claire patiently abided the two men’s tinkering with the machine in the basement. Four cups of coffee and several pieces of bread smothered in preserves later, the motor roared to life. The lights upstairs incandesced to the coda of a Mozart rondo coming from the stereo. “You’re all set Claire,” said Tom putting on his hat and gloves. “Hank here’ll be by later with his truck and plow.” Claire leaned against the door with a heavy sigh. She saw Erik coming down the hall from the bedroom. “They gone?” he asked. She nodded. Suddenly, the door jolted at her back. (continued on page 20)
Volume 1, Issue 5
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Boundary Waters (continued from page 19)
She shooed Erik back into his hiding place and opened it. Tom was standing there with a large baggie full of brown squares. “Nearly forgot. Trudy made these brownies and asked me to bring ‘em over. She’d have my head if I forgot to give ‘em to you.” He slipped the chocolaty treats into her hands and tipped his hat. “Give Trudy my love,” Claire shouted before shutting the door on the blowing cold. Erik conducted a fitness workout in the confines of the bedroom while Hank and a helper labored to clear Claire’s drive and tow her car into the garage. Claire found her purse and began writing him a check. “Ain’t that somethin’ awful?” Hank commented. “What?” Claire’s pen paused. Hank pointed to the tabloid sitting on the dash. “That movie star fella killing that poor girl. Still looking for him I hear. Think he may have gone down to Mexico.” He looked out across the snow ridge lining the driveway. “Wish I were there. Nice and warm I hear.” Claire crisply ripped the check from her book and handed it to him. Hank nodded his gratitude and strode bowlegged back to his truck. His headlights caught Claire’s pale complexion in their glare. She closed the garage door on the encroaching dusk. Erik saw the newspaper imprinted with his image on the kitchen table. He lifted it up then dropped it back in its place. “Why didn’t you tell them?” he asked. “You had plenty of opportunity.” “I don’t know.” She set two clean plates on the table. Slipping an oven mitt over her hand, she opened up the electric oven and pulled out a golden-roasted partridge. Plucking its feathers had proved a tedious chore but one she needed to vent her stress. “But do I have your trust now?” She glommed onto him from the corner of her eye.
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Her fingers reached for the keys beckoning her from their hook then recoiled. Why? What was keeping her from gaining her freedom?
Erik drew a carving knife from the woodblock holder and set to slicing the toasty bird. He didn’t answer the question. They ate in complete silence save for the rumble of the generator from beneath the floorboards. Turning pages with greasy fingers, he perused the paper and scowled. Claire’s heart raced with the clearing up. She dawdled by wiping down the counter and stove. It was approaching bedtime. Was it the anxiety of being cooped up with a wanted felon wracking her nerves something else? Her eye strayed away from oven grease and slipped over to ogle his magnificent form. His glance suddenly caught hers. Claire shifted her attention to the grime covering the stove. Erik folded the paper with a loud rustle. “I think I’ll go for a long soak in a hot tub.” Claire closed her eyes to picture it. “Go ahead.” To her surprise and relief he didn’t force her along. As soon he shut the bathroom door, Claire saw her chance. With the driveway clear, she could grab her keys and make a run for it to Tom and Trudy’s. Her fingers reached for the keys beckoning her from their hook then recoiled. Why? What was keeping her from gaining her freedom? What spell did the dashing, dangerous stranger hold over her? She knew it was his perfect body. She needed it to work her craft. She was obsessed with it and unable to leave it, even if it posed a danger to her life. Claire finished up her kitchen cleansing ritual and poured herself a glass of blackberry wine. She sat by the fireplace in the living room and poked the fire. Thoughts on how to keep him flickered with the flames. For the first night since he forced himself into her life, Claire slept solidly. With the passing days, the power and phone service returned, the snow receded, and Claire’s desperation to keep him grew. She collected the gun and handcuffs that had surfaced in the melt and hid them
behind a heavy cabinet in the cellar. She watched Erik’s beard thicken like moss on marble. She found various ways to manipulate him into her designs of plaster, latex, and clay. Above all, she played up his fears of capture. Her stratagems worked for a while. One sunny day, he posed nude while she composed a charcoal tableau. She dropped the black drawing stick when he asked, “Exactly how far is the Canadian border from here?” It was the first time he’d sought the specifics. “Twenty miles as the crow flies.” She reached down to pick up the charcoal. “But as human travel goes, you may as well make it hundreds.” “Why is that?” “Raise your head,” she ordered before setting shadows to his image on the paper. “I told you: there are no roads to the border, only the boundary waters surrounded by dense forests. At this time of year, you’d need a snowmobile or dog sled to cross over. Come the thaw, you’ll need a canoe, which you’ll have to portage a good deal of the way.” You wouldn’t happen to have any of those, would you?” He smiled teasingly. “No.” She continued to draw in silence. He took a breath. “What do you think I should do?” The shock of his question tingled. “I, uh, well… why not stay here where you’re safe?” She blushed at her unspoken implication. “For now, but what happens when they find me? What will happen to you, for instance?” Claire couldn’t think about such consequences. Her sole fixation was on holding him in her home far-removed from social reality. She noticed him shiver and brought him a blanket. “Here, let’s take a break. How about some tea?” To be continued. Subscribe today!
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A Word With You First off, thank you for the astute and attentive reader who caught a glaring lexical error in a previous chapter of Neomodern Nosferatu. The word “sequence ” should have been “sequins.” We occasionally make mistakes like that just to see who, if anyone, is paying attention to our modest literary compendium of serialized stories — never mind the mindless automatic spelling corrector resulting in the inappropriate usage of language. Now, if only we can get more of you to do the same. Although we are getting more and more subscribers with each and every issue of our publication, we’re not getting much in the way of email or feedback. Come on, ladies (and gents)! Let’s hear from you! Got comments, story ideas, submissions for our consideration? Send ‘em in! You’ve got our snail-mail and e-mail addresses. What are you waiting for? I can drum my fingers on this table for only so long before they get beaten down into bloody nubs. Not a pretty image, I know, but if it’s graphic description that will get your attention, then so be it. We are now in our fifth month of publishing. Each issue is crafted from blood, sweat,
Volume 1, Issue 5
We occasionally make mistakes… just to see who, if anyone, is paying attention to our modest literary compendium of serialized stories...
and tears. Well, maybe not so much blood as sweat — unless you want to count paper cuts — but the tears, oh yes, tons of those! I’m surprised the ink doesn’t wash right off the pages! Why so many tears, you might ask? Well, they could be due to my heart breaking over Natalie’s tribulations in the devastation of New Orleans, or they might be tears of laughter at the campy detective tale, “The Cardiff Grandma.” Maybe they’re tears of terror from reading Arna’s unnerving encounter with a pervert spirit or tears of joy for the fact we’re actually going to meet our deadline! Or perhaps it was this heart-felt e-mail I received from a reader in need of respite from her daily woes: Although our mailbox is conveniently located on our walkway... neither [my husband] nor I collect the mail frequently or daily. This comes from 12 years of finding overdue bills that we are unable to pay, disconnection notices, bounced checks and hate mail from collection agencies with every visit to the mail box.... And so, it wasn't until... I found your February publication … stuffed in our box with a week's worth of mail. (Only 1 piece of hate mail).
Gee, you're a terrific writer. I love your exciting stories. It was so sad to read your 1st paragraph because I know how hard it is to weather upheaval and distress and bewilderment. Add to it heartbreak, loneliness and betrayal and you've got a nasty stew. Just plow through it.... You've got what it takes. So do you, sister! You can rest assured that this is going to be one sopping issue. So, break out your box of tissues. (Or just blow your nose in this rag. It’s got loads of practical applications: lining for a birdcage, kindling for a fireplace, bathroom material for reading or when you find the roll is empty. You know what I mean.) I may jest about AFTAW and its many uses, but this doesn't mean I underestimate its value as a vehicle to carry the literary and artistic efforts of its contributors. Before this feuilleton meets its fate in the recycling bin, it should have fulfilled its purpose to entertain and enlighten readers throughout the land. Keep those subscriptions, cards, letters and e-mail coming, folks! — Cytheria Howell, Principal Author, Editor, and Incurable Romantic
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Adventures for the Average Woman