Adventures for the Average Woman

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Adventures for the Average Woman

IDEAGEMS ® April 2006

A MONTHLY PUBLICATION OF SERIAL FICTION AND FACTBASED ADVENTURE TALES PRINTED WITH EARTH-FRIENDLY RECYCLED MATERIALS

Volume 1, Issue 6 Inside this issue:

The Wandering Fool

The Wandering Fool The Fool goes forth in blind faith towards infinite possibilities. Ever on her way to new horizons, she has all she needs in her bundle to achieve anything she desires. But should she ignore the barking dog, she might trip up for all her daydreaming and wind up looking the utter fool.

Carrying a bag laden with creativity, we venture we know not where, our heads filled with hopes and dreams, Pesky reality dogs our heels to remind us of the perils: joblessness, poverty — and worst of all — a life of mediocrity. In spite of these threats, we stumble onward guided by our vision of bringing adventure to each and every reader stuck in the doldrums.

We now open our bag to set before you the familiar fare of “The Spoiler,” “Mystery of the

Majestic,” “Neomodern Nosferatu,” “Katie and the Errant Knight,” “Natalie and the Blue Dragon,” and “Cutlass Moon” (featuring New Orleans and Blue Earth, Montana — one a real place, the other fictional — as cities of focus. Curious.)

This issue marks the end of the road for the chilling suspense tale “Boundary Waters,” but picks up new works for perusal along the way, including poems by Gemma Forest, “My Story: A Sci-fi Tale of Apocalyptic Woe” by MSM, and a flash fiction piece, “The End,” by LEN “The Cardiff Grandma” by Lady Benjamin Desktile, continues to demonstrate just how bad a badly written detective story can be. (Please note that all repetitions, misspellings, and other glaring errors are deliberate.)

Highlighting our stories are the

The Cardiff Grandma

1

3

Gemma’s Poetry 5 Page Tarot

by Linda Kent

photos, sculpture, and drawings of Ron Cameron, Jamie Studebaker, Linda Kent, and Laurie Notch — a group of motley fools all marching to the edge of the cliff to see if this crazy literary paper can fly!

We thank all our subscribers and sponsors who’ve graciously decided to help us in our journey.

We hope many more will join in support. We need all the help we can get!

— Cytheria Howell, Principal Author. Editor-in-chief, and Incurable Romantic

We welcome this brand new sponsor who promotes the beauty and empowerment of women!

Be your own boss and look gorgeous to boot! Contact Heidee Claflin to find out how!

A Word With You

6

Flash Fiction: The End

6

My Story: A Sci- 7 fi Tale of Apocalyptic Woe Mystery of the Majestic

8

Boundary Waters 10 Natalie and the Blue Dragon

12

The Spoiler

14

Katie and the Errant Knight

17

Neomodern Nosferatu

18

Cutlass Moon

20

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Experienced federal government contractor Professional abstract writing Accurate fact checking

Adventures for the Average Woman

The Cardiff Grandma Or “How to Write a Hilariously Bad Mystery Novel”

by Lady Benjamin Desktile

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.

WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh, sloppy spelling, goofy organization and shaky syntax.

In the previous episode, Ddwwchllyff offers microchips for the call girl's consideration as Wolfcastle motors towards town.

(Huh?) Chapter 4 The bar door opened and a short figure entered the room. He paused briefly and dusted the fresh snow from the shoulders of his trench coat. It had been snowing for hours now – this was typical weather for the time of year in Reykjavik. But this wasn’t Reykjavik and snow storms in Manhattan during April weren’t typical at all.

It was an ordinary looking bar on the upper east side. Inside sat a dozen or so ordinary looking customers. The bar was what you would call ‘off the beaten track’.

Quite a long way off in fact. The establishment wasn’t one that regularly entertained tourists. But then it wasn’t a place known for entertaining anyone.

The new arrival calmly limped over to the bar and tried to catch the attention of the ordinary looking barman who was glued to a TV set which was fixed to the wall at the far end of the bar. The limping man remained unphased. He had been around long enough to know it was best not to ask about such things. Besides, in his time he’d pretty much seen it all… twice!

“You busy pal?” asked the figure sarcastically. This was enough to get the barman’s attention alright. The barman threw a menacing look in the figure’s direction. If it hadn’t been fixed to the wall,

Volume 1, Issue 6

Sat alone in the far corner of the room was the man he’d come to see. The man he’d spent two months tracking down.

he would have probably thrown the TV instead.

“Get me a bottle Hemerrinberg TM the figure commanded. He had been in New York long enough to think he knew how to order a drink. The figure was called Peppet. He’d been in New York for two months now and had hated almost every minute of it.

Peppet was not what you would call a happy man. Most people tended to call him a miserable bastard. However, they only did this when Peppet wasn’t in the room.

There was no particular reason for the miserable bastard’s unhappiness, it was just a personality trait he had carefully nurtured and developed over the years.

The barman, at full stretch, reached into the glass fronted cooler and extracted a bottle of beer. Brushing off the broken glass from his now bleeding free hand, he slid the beer down the length of the bar.

“Two bucks” said the bartender. He’d turned ugly and was glaring at the stranger.

Peppet tossed two one dollar bills on the bar, just short of the barman’s restricted reach. “Keep the change” said Peppet turning from the snarling barman and taking a sip from his bottle of European beer. He hated the taste of most beer but he had an even greater dislike of European beers. Having hated his time in New York he wasn’t about to ruin it by enjoying himself on his last night. Peppet took another long sip, grimaced, and scanned the room. Sat alone in the far corner of the room was the man he’d come to see. The man he’d spent two months tracking down.

Peppet casually limped across the room.

Chapter 4b (Don’t ask.)

“You’ve dropped something Mr. Tresovian,” Peppet said (with a rising intonation) as he reached the lone figure.

The figure was amazed; how could this stranger tell that he’d recently imbibed another hit of acid just by looking at him?

He had been sat minding his own mind and not drawing attention to himself… hadn’t he?

Was the stranger some kind of DEA agent?

Had they started to train ‘sniffer men’ to replace sniffer dogs? Why was the floor ablaze with burning leopards? What day was it? What planet? Where was his gun?

All these questions immediately came to the figure's attention at the same time.

“Looks like a piece of sky to me”. As the seated man slowly raised his head from the jigsaw he had been so studiously working on, desperately trying not to look like a man who looked freaked and in the midst of a particularly vicious trip.

‘Sky? Jigsaw? Yes, that would explain it,’ the tripping man thought to himself, ‘that’s why I could figure out four across.’

“You ARE Mr. Tresovian?” Peppet leaned in, pausing to glance behind himself to see whether anyone was listening.

Nobody was. “You ARE… The Cornishman?”

There was a pause while the active parts of Tresovian’s brain processed the questions. ‘Cornishman’ that sounded familiar. Where had he heard that before?

Finally a reply came.

“I am(?)”. There was something in the man’s reply that didn’t seem right to Peppet.

Something in the intonation perhaps. Of course, being merely a fleeting disturbance to the local atmosphere Peppet couldn’t put his finger on it. Was it a low mid rise?

Perhaps a mid low fall?

Peppet decided to continue. “You’re not an easy man to find Mr Tresovian” he said, “not easy at all. Mind if I sit down?” he continued as he pulled up a chair and sat down. “My name is Wiggton” Peppet lied.

“I’ve been waiting for you for a month now, they said you were due in New York on St. Roderick’s day. A whole month…”

The Cornishman sat impassively, listening to Peppet and occasionally adding another piece to the jigsaw. Even with his drug addled mind Tresovian couldn’t fail tonotice, or to be annoyed by, Peppet’s irksome habit of repeating himself. “… but here you are and here am I. Sir, (continued on page 4)

Page 3

The Cardiff Grandma (continued from page 3)

I represent some people who are very keen to meet you…” Peppet reached into his coat, pulled out a large bundle of 25 Euro notes, and flipped his thumb over the top of the bundle. “Very keen.”

“Keen”, repeated The Cornishman.

“Very keen . Well, it would seem that you are indeed keen indeed. Outstandingly, even keenly keen. Whence this ‘keenness’ ? Whence this Bre’r Peppet? Whence whence whence?”

Peppet acted exactly like he was gazing at The Cornishman, and The Cornishman obliged by giving a credible imitation of a man being gazed upon. In fact, nothing could have been further from the truth.

Each was thinking about what he felt was being thought about by the other and that was The Incident. The Incident which had preceded their encounter and brought it about it as inevitably as spilling coffee on a white shirt.

Suddenly Peppet wondered something.

He’d introduced himself as Wiggton.

Tresovian had addressed him as Peppet.

How had he known his name was Peppet?

It was the name that appeared on his birth certificate, it was the name his father had gone by, but beyond that, he’d always felt a rightness to it, a sureness – he just knew.

And then Peppet wondered something else – how had The Cornishman known? And how had he known his given name was Wence? It could have been a shot in the dark, but…Peppet gave no sign of discomfiture.

“I believe you meant to say “Bre’r Wiggton,” he said with two gees.

Tresovian’s face lit up like a flashing “Reduce Speed Roadwork Ahead” sign.

He leaned forward on both elbows and another sky piece, which stuck to his bare forearms. Hardly noticing them as he peeled them off and squashed them back into place, The Cornishman said excitedly, “Peppet means Wiggton in Polypponesian.

The really interesting thing is how both are related to “Eninac” in Lokeek„, the language of a tribe of Native Americ --”

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There it was, then. The classic Cornish-English standoff. Ever since Cymru had gained its independence, the Corns had become intractable – intractable and disobliging.

His field promotion weighing heavily upon him, Colonel Peppet massaged his limp miserably. “I’m not here for an etymology lesson, Mr Tresovian,” he cut in. “I think you have something for me. I think you have something for me and it would be best to just give it to me and be done with it.”

Tresovian’s face extinguished. Thrusting a dirty hand in his shirtpocket, he caught himself, pulled it out again and fitted it in at the end of the left elbow. It sounded strange saying it that way to himself, but because of the foreshortening caused by the perspective, that’s where it belonged.

“You’ve got something for me, too, and you’ll get yours only after‚ I get mine.”

There it was, then. The classic CornishEnglish standoff. Ever since Cymru had gained its independence, the Corns had become intractable – intractable and disobliging. Disobliging and uncooperative.

So uncooperative as to be uncool, which is what one gets for looking up uncooperative in an electronic dictionary.

Peppet sighed and handed over the envelope. The Cornishman’s eyes glinted as he swiped up the envelope,-- “or ‘sobre’ in Spanish” he thought with inward delight -- and he carelessly tossed the crate he’d been seated on across the table.

Peppet jammed it into his trenchcoat pocket. It created an unsightly bulge and he’d have been slightly less miserable had he opened it up and removed what it contained, so he didn’t. He stood to leave, and started for the door.

Halfway there he heard a shout, “Hey you miserable bastard – how about a crowbar!?” It was the bartender, he’d turned uglier. Peppet was about to retort with a bleeping expletive but noticed the menacing looks from the other patrons.

Grunting, he detached the tool from his belt loop and tossed it onto the bar. He’d probably wind up needing it later, it was the last he had, but what the hell – he’d do anything to get out of this godforsaken country where a man was required by law to carry a rifle

longer than his own leg stuck down his pants.

Peppet limped out the door and back into the whirling snow.

Chapter 4c He hailed a cab. It drove past him. He tried again and the second time the taxi pulled over and stopped just ahead of Peppet, splashing him a slushy mix of snow and dirt as it did so. Peppet climbed into the back of the foul smelling cab and barked his destination.

"Hotel ! th Street and Ave!" Peppet was an unaturally suspicious man: he had to work at it. He didn’t like anyone knowing where he was staying -- this wasn’t something he’d picked up in his time in the military, it was a result of having three failed marriages and three ex-wives.

The cab driver pretended to understand, muttered "something" in a language Peppet didn’t recognize and then accelerated away into the oncoming traffic.

In his hotel room a half hour later, his mustache began to thaw. As it did, something hard and small fell from it onto the tatty floral bedspread. Peppet picked it up and stared at it. It was a piece of a human finger.

Ring finger? Index? He couldn’t absolutely identify it but he was sure of one thing: It was another piece of the puzzle…

Back in the seedy bar, the locals had successfully detached the TV from the wall and the bartender strutted freely about while everyone stared at him dully – the game had for all intents and purposes been lost in the second quarter – and Tresovian the Cornishman had ceased to wonder why that idiot messenger boy from Grandma hadn’t seemed to give a rat’s ass about the message he’d come for. It was as if the miserable bastard didn’t know the derivation of "americ". Oh well, not Tresovian’s problem.

Tresovian’s problem was the plaid inch-tall gnome goose-stepping back and forth across the tabletop. Which reminded him: where had he put that last hit of acid?

To be continued in our next issue.

Adventures for the Average Woman

Gemma’s Poetry Page

NEW

Order one of our handcrafted books, or Let us write your personal adventure or memoir. Write your request to the Fantom Scrivner at ideagems @aol.com or by snail mail to: Aimless Doodle

Ideagems Publications 1110 Bonifant St. Silver Spring, MD 20904

by Linda Kent

Cover of a memoir produced by Ideagems © 2003.

— Gemma Forest June 6, 1986 Volume 1, Issue 6

— Gemma Forest June 8, 1986 Page 5

A Word With You

If you happen to have a favorite bookstore whose owner might be interested in having us make a port of call, we’d be happy to oblige.

Do you ever feel you are captaining a ship sans sails manned by a crew without a clue? That’s what it seems like driving this endeavor of a literary publication out of dock and out onto the turbulent seas of hopes, dreams, and shaky finances.

It’s been a six-month voyage through choppy production, foggy review, and sinking funds, but all hands are on deck to stay the course. Still, I gotta keep the boat afloat and that takes money.

We need your support, people, and ask that you encourage others to subscribe. If you know a local tradesperson that would like to slap an ad on our hull, please refer them to us. And if you’re as rich as the Doge of Venice, then please lend your generous support to rig our vessel with the necessary fittings: paper, ink, glue, envelopes, stamps, and miscellany (never mind feeding the editor).

We’ve developed a print-cartridge-aday habit just to power this puppy and it’s

getting costly. Thank God for the talent who have so generously donated their time, work, and creativity to fill the hold. But we struggle with the matter of distribution.

If anyone out there can help guide us through the rocky shoals toward finding open channels of support, please don’t hesitate to beam your signal our way.

Call our Sales and Distribution Rep., Laurie Notch at 202-746-5160 or e-mail her at ideagems@aol.com to show her the way.

She is about to launch on a bookstore tour (with at least one of the authors who has plenty of free time on her hands) starting in Maine, to promote the publication and do live reading performances. Woo-hoo!

If you happen to have a favorite bookstore whose owner might be interested in having us make a port of call in your town, we’d be happy to oblige. Again, have the interested party contact Laurie at the number listed above to set a date.

Now all we need miraculous funding to

NEW

Flash Fiction: The End by LEN

In one mighty searing pulse all life burned out. A giant swell of souls gushed through the pitch toward a tiny pinpoint of light — the office door with the frosted glass to eternity.

“Oh, my, my, my,” sighed a grizzled celestial being sitting behind a massive polished oak desk in a sea of white mist.

The gray of his eyes showed the ages.

They scanned the scripted parchment held in his right hand. His tongue clucked wearily while knotty fingers worried long silvery strands of beard.

“What?” anxiously quipped an equally ancient being who appeared quite the spectacle in his bright blue Hawaiian shirt and canary-yellow Bermuda shorts. The ethereal light of his hoary head shot beams around his designer shades. “Now, don’t give me any bad news, old man. I’m expected to join some very heavenly hostesses aboard a cruise ship in less than a sidereal hour for a much overdue vacation.”

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pay for printing and assembly! Hey, I know!

I think I’ll just put the whole kit-n-caboodle on CD-Rom in PDF files to e-mail for you, the reader, to print out. Or how about audio files for you to listen to while you do your last-minute taxes or swiff the cat hair from the window sill? That would save on paper and ink which would in turn spare the crew from hours of printing and gluing plus help the environment by not contributing to the hacking down of more innocent trees.

What do you think? Are you game? Do have any thoughts, notions, opinions, or creative contributions to make? Know anybody with some business sense or resources? Should I put AFTAW on Ebay to see how much it’s worth? Maybe I can auction investment into the project? Is that even possible?

I am asking way too many foolish questions, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want them answered! I await your savvy answers.— Cytheria Howell, Humble Editor

Flash Fiction is a form of writing that tells a story in 500 words or less. If you’d like to try your hand at it, send us your submission at ideagems@aol.com.

“Sorry to say, my friend, but as of now, all leave is canceled.” He shot a timeless gaze at his flustered colleague.

“What? Why?” He approached and snatched up the parchment. Milky gossamer clouds wafted in his wake. “Let me see this.”

Leathery lips silently mouthed the elaborately penned edict. “You’ve got to be kidding. This can’t have happened.” He slapped the crisp tawny page with the back of his hand.

“I’m afraid it has, my old friend.”

“The whole planet?”

“I’m afraid so.”

The would-be vacationer sat his Bermudaclad rump on a corner of the desk. His head hung so low his long white beard touched the floor of clouds. “After all this time, they finally did it.”

“It appears that way.”

“Why?” “Ours is not to reason in the matters of

irrational human nature. We are only here to process them through to the other side.”

“No, I mean why now when I’m just about to take the cruise of several lifetimes.” He put a hand to his face and groaned then collected himself. “All right, how many are we talking here? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand?

“More like ten billion.”

“Ten bil --? It’ll take forever to process all those souls! Now I’ll never get to limbo with that foxy angel from the Cloud Nine Condos!”

“There, there, old chum, you’ll get your chance. This shouldn’t take us longer than a dozen millennia or so.” He clapped a reassuring hand on the bright blue silk stretched across his cohort’s curved back and walked with him slowly towards the small gilded door with mother-of-pearl inlay through whose opaque window beamed the light of eternity into the void.

Adventures for the Average Woman

NEW b

My Story A Sci-fi Tale of Apocalptic Woe

by MSM

It’s all gone, just broken debris and the drifting dead. It is the end of all we have known.

MSM

the Ring, a horrific explosion. I am brought back by a violent jolt as part of the massive structure is torn apart and fragments begin their fiery entry into the atmosphere below.

Below: In many places my mind links. I am now in one of the kilometer high skyscrapers in a desert city. A flash of a hundred suns fills the sky. A wall of fire wind races toward the city at supersonic speed. It hits! The towers buckle, glass and carbo-crete explode, debris fills the sky. The firestorm passes. The city is a flaming ruin. A conflagration like I never have seen before.

Prologue: Disintegration by Jamie Studebaker Another city somewhere on Terr’ Sa. The I see myself with someone who is not capital? A shuttle is preparing to dock at a clear to me-just a presence in shadows. Yet tower docking terminal. An emergency report this presence is good and comforting. We cuts in on the view panel ahead of me. are together nearly a kilometer high in one They’re descending from space above. I drift. of the wrecked skyscrapers that tower Dreamily I look out the shuttle window as the above the ruined cityscape. It wasn’t long twin suns of Sol begin to set, “What a after the strikes, just as the last fires of the particularly beautiful sunset” I think to Burn lost their fury with little left to myself. Then a blinding flash of light fills the consume. We look out toward the city…… picture. A boiling wall of fire races toward A Collage of Images the city. In a moment it is over as the shuttle Just Before: and city are engulfed in plasmafied Something has gone terribly wrong. An atmosphere. eruption of light, a powerful EM burst I am climbing out an entrance of a transit emanating from Sol Minor. Did the tube. The air is so hot, thick with smoke and Attempt go wrong? The star was entering hard to breathe. As I ascend up the stairs Red Phase. The need to contain its potential littered with wreckage. I see the sky above expansion and effect on Sol Major was orange and angry red filled with clouds of imperative. The best scientific and debris, fire and ionized atmosphere. As I technological minds of Home System were climb further out the city or what is left endeavoring to construct a containment becomes visible. Wrecked and blazing field that would keep Sol Minor’s skyscrapers and buildings as far as I can see. expansion at bay and harness its energy. It How could this have happened? The scale went awry. and instantaneousness of it defies reckoning.

What have we done?

I’m paralyzed with grief. God, this can’t be They Come: happening!!

Aboard Habitat Ring, a massive structure Above a strike zone, fire and ruin spanning the diameter of Home World built unfathomable. The rescue ships try to enter a century before First Unification. My mind the area, but can’t. Violent thermals and stretches into system space. I see thousands ionized air prevent any of them from entering of fireballs of varying size entering the the zone. I want to take my ship closer, but system. It is quiet and serene out here as the thermals buck it like a toy. I/we just these stars of The Devastation arrive and hover and eventually turn back. It will be an begin their assault. Who or what sent them? agonizingly long time before any ship can How? Why? The questions, the anger whirl enter any of the stricken zones. The fires are within like a hurricane. The first strikes just left to extinguish themselves-nothing can begin. I see some descending toward the survive that hell below. There is little we planet below. One strikes a distant part of

Volume 1, Issue 6

can do.

On Sarasin Second Most Populous World of Home System: A light descends from the sky. I look up. It never touches ground. Brilliant light erupts. In seconds the sea cities of Sarasin are engulfed in flaming holocaust.

Nothing survives. Life on Sarasin ceases to exist.

Out There A Billion Light Years Away: Aboard the Soul Ship Taren Vedra I with the others stand and watch the holographic display showing broken transmissions of the catastrophe that struck Home System. Images come in as distorted fragments. Only the Emergency Broadcast Net seems is able to transmit images from the system worlds as the disaster unfolded. Ship’s sentience struggles to boost the incoming transmissions. Then without warning the images mist out, only holographic static fills the void. Sadness of unspeakable depth fills the ship.

Head home.

Entering Home System: Approach to Home System Station.

The station is wrecked. For centuries she has served well — a welcoming beckon to all who enter Home System. Taren tries to link to System Nav and Com Net. There is nothing. There is little of the comprehensive sentience that bound the system together. Taren is on her own as she enters the Periphery. I stand with the others overwhelmed by the sheer totality of the destruction witnessed on the way back to Terr’ Sa. It’s all gone, just broken debris and the drifting dead. It is the end of all we have known.

Do you like this story? Would you like to see it continued? Send us your feedback at ideagems@aol.com

Page 7

Mystery of the Majestic, Part VI A healthy dose of fats and carbs gave Arna the boost she needed to shovel life’s shit. She was still mad at Marque for obliging her to stay, but part of her admired his determination to save her uncle’s theater and her legacy. Add to that the fact she had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no money to spend, she made herself useful by helping him sort through the confused piles of documents covering Armand’s desk. They lined the office floor with categorical piles of receipts, bills, contracts, inventories, and the miscellaneous. The solemn organ solo from Saint-Saëns’ Symphony Number Three streamed from the Aiwa.

“Ain’t you got nothin’ livelier to listen to instead o’ funeral music?” she griped.

Marque glanced over the top of the document in his hands. “Any requests?” he humored.

“Reba’s got a new song out called…,” she dropped the rest of the sentence and scowled at the subtle condescension lining his face. “You do take me for a rube, don’t you? Well, I may not know nothin’ about your uppity music, but I sure can kick up my heels to a Texas two-step, bad leg ‘n all.

Bet you don’t even know what that is.” She rattled papers to show her annoyance. “So much fer your sense o’ what’s cultural.”

Marque shut out her hillbilly blabber by focusing on the task at hand: find out what assets and liabilities the Majestic held. He came across several unopened envelopes bearing posted marks from prior months. He picked up the antique silver letter opener and gutted each one and groaned.

“What?” Arna probed.

The crease in the center of Marque’s brow deepened. His eyes reflected a serious worry.

“What?” Arna had her palms planted on the desk in front of him.

He handed her the documents, stood up, and rubbed the strain from his eyes.

“We’re screwed like the goose gettin’ stuffed for Christmas dinner, ain’t we?” She set her rump on the desk and looked down

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With the tips of her fingers to his muscular chest, she pushed him back. “How ‘bout I read and you sit over yonder and listen to my melodic voice?”

at the words and figures etched in black and white.

Marque stretched and walked over toward the window. He stared blankly into the grimegrayed glass.

“How could he ignore these notices from the Tax Office? And now with late fees he owes… what?” Her eyes skimmed the page to find the shocking amount. “Fifteen thousand six hundred and fifty two dollars! And lookie here, it’s due by the fifteenth. That’s in two days.

How the hell can we pay this in two damn days?”

Marque considered how she had resorted to using the pronoun, “we,” in light of the dilemma. He walked over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it.

Let’s just keep looking. Maybe the solution is right here in this haystack of papers. Maybe there’s a receipt to show he paid it.”

Arna held up the last notice received. Her stubby finger with its nub for a nail pointed at the send date. “This’un was sent not but two days afore he died.”

“Then there’s still hope. Back to work then.”

He took up his leather throne and gave each scrap of paper his regal scrutiny.

Neither of them noticed when the sun gave it up and went to the other side of the planet where more interesting human endeavors might be found. Arna rubbed her eyes while Marque’s fingers scratched at the stubble sprouting along his jaw line. He was checking out the desk drawers, one of which was locked.

A locked drawer was no contest to a master lock-picker like Marque D. Sade. A drawer that was seriously wedged in because of age and water damage proved a different challenge.

Arna slouched back on the sofa and puffed out her cheeks. “Gawl, I just cain’t look at another paper. If’n I do, I’ll hurl.”

A loud crash startled her.

“Shit,” he exploded. “Uh, sorry. The whole drawer came out and I…,” he paused to let his fingers explore the underside of the drawer. He pulled off a slightly thick yellowed envelope and looked at the writing on its face.

“What the hell?” Arna wondered aloud.

In a bold move, Marque rushed over and sat next to her. “Arna, take a look at this.”

She dog eyed him in warning not to test her. “Didn’t y’all hear what I just said? I cain’t hardly see no more ’cuz of all this junk, junk I cain’t make heads nor tails of, and here you come sidlin’ up to me cozy like expectin’ me to catch any of this drift?”

Marque smiled at her quaint and cranky rambling. “Just look. It’s got your name on it.”

Arna took the old envelope between her fingers. “Where’djy’all find this?”

“Taped to the bottom of the drawer that was stuck. I jerked it free and it came apart in my hands.” He didn’t add how he had sprung the lock.

She pulled back the flap that had been tucked in and not sealed. Out slid a bank book with a green vinyl cover bearing the embossed name, First Bank of Helena, wrapped up in a single-paged letter.

Marque slipped his arm behind her and leaned in close. Arna threw him a disapproving look.

“What? I just want to read it.”

With the tips of her fingers to his muscular chest, she pushed him back.

“How ‘bout I read and you sit over yonder and listen to my melodic voice?”

Marque held his ground.

Men and their goldarned sniffin’ and pissin’ rites, she gritched internally. She tried to ignore his encroachment on her personal space and read: “Arna, my sweet, I hope that it is you who finds this and not that money-sniffing mongrel lawyer of mine, Levitt, or else he’d bury it like a bone, so that you would never benefit from my estate. I sure wish, Alma, your mama were alive to enjoy the Yutter legacy as you will.

“By the time you read this, I will certainly be by her side up where the angels (continued on page 9)

Adventures for the Average Woman

Mystery of the Majestic (Continued from page 8)

sing Grand Old Opree. Hee-hee. Given you are reading this, I take it you followed the trail of clues I left in the documents Levitt was required by law to give you: my last will and testament, the deed to the Majestic along with her blueprints, letters of credit, insurance policies, tax records, business license for the Majestic and the Paine & Pleasure Shop, ltd. (Sorry, dear niece, about that one. I know how it must offend your prim and proper sensibilities. I only hope your mother will forgive me.) Not to forget my account ledgers, business transaction logs, and bank books registered to the theater and the shop respectively.

“I know you to be a clever girl, smart enough to read between these lines. You are the only one whom I can trust to keep the Majestic standing, for if she falls, so will your inheritance. You’re sitting on a cloud with a silver lining, dear girl. Don’t let the sagging ceilings and cracked brick walls fool you. Follow the lines and study the signs. Look to the angels above to guide and protect you.

“Love, Unkie Armand” Arna could feel the water pressure building in her sinuses. She sniffed to stifle the impending rush of tears. “He… he remembered that I used to call him ‘Unkie’ when I was a little girl.”

Marque gave her the moment to collect herself. “He meant a lot to us, as well.” He felt a slight burning sensation in his own eyes.

Arna found a post script: “Most important, no matter what happens, don’t ever let her fall into to the dirty mitts of those soulless cretins, Mendelssohn & Co. Don’t go into ‘BED’ with him just because you might feel the financial and legal nooses tightening. Tell them what I told them a hundred times: ‘You touch her and I’ll burn her to the ground. Damned the insurance. Damn the law.’ And child, if you have to do it then do it. Raze her to the ground, wipe her ashes from your shoes, and move on.”

Volume 1, Issue 6

Marque tried to decipher the squiggles and jots. “Hmm, I can make out the dates and the amounts.” He ran a well-manicured finger down the column. “Strange.”

“Hey, check out the date,” Marque alerted.

Arna sniffled and looked to where he was pointing. Although the parchment was antiquated, the date was fairly fresh: April 2. “That’s two days afore he died.”

“Some coincidence, huh?” he mused.

Arna leaned forward and took the account book in her hands. Her eyes squinted to decipher the nearly illegible penmanship. “Can you make this out?”

Marque leaned his head closely to hers to peruse the entries. “It looks like he made a deposit the day he wrote this.”

“But fer how much?”

Marque tried to decipher the squiggles and jots. “Hmm, I can make out the dates and the amounts.” He ran a well-manicured finger down the column. “Strange.”

“Strange how?”

“These numbers. I can’t tell if the dollar amounts listed are deposits or withdrawals.

He didn’t exactly write inside the lines.

And the dates are listed oddly, not sequentially. See? 06/63, 11/85, 05/79.”

Arna squinted at the squiggly penmanship. “You mean he’s had this account since the sixties?” She blew a falling whistle.

“09/64/ No44/MAC&C/885F/17.09 AU/$256.35,” he read. “10/75/5220/ BARTLETT/897F/8.19AU/$122.85.” His finger underscored faded writing as he continued, “01/79/7085/MORGAN/142AR/ $1999.53.” He thumbed through the pages.

“Every line on every page is filled, but I don’t see any checks, deposit slips or an account number. Just a bunch of transaction registers.”

“So, what does this mean? Does he have money or not?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to contact the bank I guess.”

Arna frowned. “Why didn’t Mr. Levitt tell me ‘bout this’un?”

“Levitt probably didn’t know where it

was. But he was definitely lying about your uncle leaving this place with nothing but unpaid bills and overwhelming debt.” He pulled back, looked her in the eyes then directed his attention to the towers of paper rising up from the smoky glass of the coffee table. “From what I can garner from these invoices, he’s been making the deadlines on payments for utilities, property taxes, equipment rentals.” Marque was impressed with himself for having achieved the Herculean feat of putting the pieces of Armand’s accounting jigsaw together.

Although he had worked with the man as an impresario, he had never had to pry into Armand’s financial affairs or worry about the Majestic’s solvency. He had trusted Armand to handle everything, and he had never been disappointed.

Arna reach down and drew out of her duffle the documents she had received from Levitt. She flipped the wrinkled pages to the list of properties to be bequeathed upon his death. “It don’t make sense. Why ain’t no bank accounts listed here? Why didn’t Levitt hand over his ledgers and —” “Logbooks,” Marque supplied. “Yes, looks like Levitt is pulling a disappearing act with Armand’s financials.” Marque flexed his long fingers and the checkbook vanished.

“Hey, where’d it go?” Arna peeked childlike around him.

Marque leaned toward her. “What do you say we tackle that one tomorrow?”

“Fork it over or I’ll--”Arna stopped her threat to feel something poking out from the neckline of her jersey. She slid the stray bankbook from her cleavage then shot him a scolding look. She quickly secreted it away with the legal documents into her duffle.

What are the mysterious numbers? Will Marque’s slight-of-hand tricks save the old theater or merely irritate our heroine?

Find out in our next issue.

Page 9

Boundary Waters, Final Chapter

Erik ran his hand over the statue of the thin woman stepping out from the body of the fat one. “I have to ask, what on earth inspired you to do this?”

She handed him his cup of tea. “That reflects my own battle with obesity. Inside every fat woman is a thin one clawing to get out.”

He choked on the hot tea. “You were obese?”

She took a sip before explaining, “Most of my life. When I tipped the scales at two hundred and eighty pounds, I took radical measures. That was seven years ago. I used my own body as the model for both women featured in the work. Incredible, isn’t it?”

His fingers explored the face and neck of the triumphant sylph; they slithered down the smooth glazed ceramic of her breasts, waist, and thighs. “What loveliness,” he said seductively.

Claire veiled her embarrassment with the steam from her cup. “I think that’s enough for today.”

“Claire,” he called softly, taking her by the elbow.

Her cup dropped to the floor and shattered. She moved to pick up the pieces.

“Leave it.” His lips teased her mouth while his beard tickled her chin.

Page 10

His fingers explored the face and neck of the triumphant sylph; they slithered down the smooth glazed ceramic of her breasts, waist, and thighs.

She gently pushed away. “Look, you don’t have to…”

“But I what if I want to?”

“No, it’s not right.” She stooped down to gather up the shards.

He followed her into the kitchen. “Why? Because of our age difference? In Hollywood I see old men cuddling up to young girls all the time, and no one raises a Botox-injected eyebrow.” He turned her to face him. “Besides, for you to be my mother you would have had to have given birth at the age of twelve.”

Her eyes scoured the smooth surface of his skin for the telltale lines. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I’m fifty, you know.”

“Which makes me thirty-eight.”

“Feh,” she retorted and pulled away from him.

“No, really. I look young for my age, ergo, why I’m such a hot ticket item with the studios.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck.

She fought to cap the passion roiling in her veins. “Still, I can’t.” She peeled his arms back and took a seat at the table.

He sat in the adjacent chair and took her hand. “What do you want of me, Claire?

Somehow, I sense it goes beyond serving as your model.”

“I…,” she stammered, “I don’t know.”

He took back his hand. “Maybe I should leave then.”

“No!” she declared. “I mean, you don’t want to rot in prison do you?”

“Isn’t this just another type of prison?”

He raised his hands to the four walls.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it, Claire. If I stay here as a fugitive, I’ll have to give up my identity, my bank accounts, and all hope of freedom. If I turn myself in and go to trial, there’s a fair chance I’ll be found innocent.”

“The press isn’t painting it that way,” she shot.

He studied a hangnail developing on the middle finger of his right hand. “How would you know? You don’t follow the press.”

“I follow what you’ve told me and you said you’re being framed by… by… evil movie moguls or some such. Well, what if you’re found innocent then the people framing you want you dead?” She knew her excuse was weak but exercised its logic. “At least, here you can hide from all that.”

“And what would I do here? How would I live? Mooching off of you? I like having my own bankroll, Claire.”

“What good will it do if you’re convicted and sentenced to life,” she paused dramatically, “or worse?”

He sighed and drummed the table.

“Let’s be realistic. If I stay, how long will it be before the good folks around here recognize my infamous face?”

Claire’s eyes lit up. “We can disguise it.”

“Everyday for the rest of my life? In my experience, people eventually see through the makeup.”

“Not if you tell them you lost your nose in an accident and have to wear a prosthetic device.”

His left eye peered through the curling strands of his Samsonian hair. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve got everything going for you, a disguise crafted by an expert, an isolated hideaway. Why, terrorist Sara Olson successfully posed as a St. Paul suburban housewife for over twenty years.”

Erik leaned forward and stared intently.

“And they caught up with her and hauled her SLA ass away, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but she had a good long run before then.”

“Okay, let’s say I go along with your plan. How will my staying here affect us?” (continued on page 11)

Adventures for the Average Woman

Boundary Waters (continued from page 10)

She had laid claim to his perfect, symmetrical face the moment she saved him from freezing to death.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’ll be intimately sharing this house. What sort of relationship am I to expect: body-parts model or something more significant?” He set his hand upon hers.

“What do you mean?” she reiterated and edged away.

He placed his other hand on the back of her neck and pulled her toward him. Their lips met over bread crumbs and coffee-stain rings. “I know that I can’t stay here in these cramped quarters with you without having intimate relations in some shape or form.”

“Would you have said as much if I were still morbidly obese?”

He softly plied a kiss then spoke. “Don’t be offended, but no.”

“And now?”

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed where he laid her on the cobalt bedspread. He shucked off her clothing to reveal the nacre of her skin. He polished her like a pearl to bring out her luster but not before she closed up her shell.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve, uh, never… done… it,” she stammered.

Erik bolted up. “Don’t tell me you’re a virgin?”

“Is that so impossible?”

“I guess not if you live in a convent, but you’re not a nun. Otherwise you wouldn’t have me posing nude for your artwork.”

“So?” “So, how? Why?” “I told you. I was horribly fat all my life.”

“Yeah, but even fat chicks have sex.”

“Not me. Never,” she mewed.

His fingers swam through the flowing strands of her hair. “And now?”

Charily, she cupped her lips and drank from the pool of kisses. She splashed in the shallows of his caresses before taking a deep breath to plunge headlong into his

Volume 1, Issue 6

deep. She rose to the surface to find him at the helm of her birch-skinned canoe -- like a French Voyageur of yore -- exploring her virgin waters.

After lovemaking, Claire served up the morphine-laced wine. She cast a mold of his features then charted a map on his face for her surgical circumnavigation. Launching from the glabella, she sliced across the broad sea of his forehead, across the eastern superciliary arch around the sphenoid sinus across the zygomatic down to the eastern maxilla. Her scalpel sailed around the cape of the canine fossa to hook up over the western side of the face back to the point of origin.

She had laid claim to his perfect, symmetrical face the moment she saved him from freezing to death.

She kept him doped and locked up until he fully healed.

Permanently disfigured and wanted for murder, Erik had little choice but cede to her will. With the fitting of an exact replica of the missing facial area, Claire had declared dominion over him.

Inevitably, winter’s icy tendrils recoiled to the tundra at the slap of spring’s sunny hand. The bright rays coaxed the buds on the trees and blinded people to the truth of Claire’s man. When Trudy commented on the similarities between his appearance and that of the wanted actor, Erik Lang, Claire pointed to the picture in the paper purchased in South Dakota the night of the blizzard.

Trudy bought the line that Claire had modeled facial parts from the photo and cheerfully imagined all the men with crippling facial damage sporting Erik Lang’s movie star looks.

Erik played the greatest acting role of his life by adopting the accent and gestures of an older gent who went by the name of Wade Crosby from Pierre, South Dakota.

With his hair flocked to show signs of age and the plastic patch covering his disfigurement, he settled into the community. Folks

found him so affably credible and movingly pitiable that not even lawman Tom Hanson asked him to produce documents.

Claire had conjured up the story of how she met him when fitting his prosthesis.

The story further went that he had lost forty percent of his face to frostbite.

Reported macular degeneration forced him to wear sunglasses even indoors. To the outside world, he was a decrepit widower; inside Claire’s log estate, he was a gorgeously mutilated Adonis.

The couple carried out their charade for six seasons without a hint of suspicion from the authorities. His beauty inspired in Claire her passion to create while the castings of his perfect parts spread confidence to those who wore them. The world couldn’t have turned more right on its axis, until one day…

In the fiery swirl of autumn leaves, Erik read the headline in the paper he’d bought from a coin-operated box in front of the post office. “Missing Actor Found,” it blackly announced. He read the report of how police had located bits of bone and designer clothing in a gravel pit in Northeastern Colorado. In a nearby creek bed, some kid hunting turtles had unearthed a wallet with Erik Lang’s driver’s license and actors’ guild membership card. As far as the authorities were concerned, he was the dead-and-gone suspect in the unsolved murder of a noname Hollywood slut.

A sly grin stretched underneath his fake nose. He tossed the paper into a nearby receptacle without a care that Claire would ever know.

Did you like this story? Send us your feedback at ideagems@aol.com Order the complete hand-crafted, illustrated version for $5.00.

Makes a nifty gift!

Page 11

Natalie and the Blue Dragon, Part V

The Other Side photo courtesy of Ron Cameron©2005

“Do you see the door to the other side?” peeped the girl’s voice.

Natalie fingered the seamless wooden surface. “No. There’s nothing.”

“Look hard.”

“I am.”

“If you look, you will see.”

Natalie stopped searching. “Girl, I am trying to see a door, a keyhole, anything.

Your badgering me won’t—” Sobbing echoed through the chamber.

“Don’t cry, honey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get trifling with you. It’s just that I am so frustrated.” She went to the window of her tower and looked down into the clouds below. “Dragon! Angel! Where are you? I need your help to get out of here!”

A dry voiceless wind blew its reply that no one heard her plea.

“Is someone there? Who are you talking to?” asked the girl from the other side.

“I thought maybe Dragon or Angel would hear me, but I guess they’re busy saving other damsels stuck in towers.” The gossamer curtains tinkled like crystal when Natalie plopped down on the bed. She found herself drawn to lie down across its inviting spread. Sleep beckoned her to its breast. Natalie closed her eyes to the chiming of bed curtains.

“Where are you? Did you go away? I can’t hear you!”

Natalie shot up on the teeter-totter of consciousness. “Wha— Baby, Honey, I’m

Page 12

As a reader, I’m tired of being led down the same dreary trail chapter after chapter where Natalie finds herself encountering weird characters in some godawful fix from which she must escape. I mean, is there a point to all this?

Where is the life-changing revelation or… or the grand gestalt experience?

here. I just dozed off…” Her voice dried up for the sight of a ghostly face leering down at her. “Holy crap!” she yelped.

Instead of the soft, white, singing bed curtains but her hand brushed up against a cold, tattered and moldy veil.

The face scowled at her. “Look where you are going,” it said in a deep watery voice.

“Who are you?”

“I am Face.”

“Face, where am I?” Natalie’s wide eyes took in the changed surroundings. It appeared to be the same room with the great four-poster bed, but the walls were dark and water-lined from a flood. “How could water ever rise to this height?” she wondered aloud. “This room is above the clouds.” She noticed the window in her tower had disappeared. “Lord, I don’t know how much more I can take of this.”

“See the door,” ordered Face.

“What door?”

“See the door below me..”

Natalie kept the frightening image to the corner of her eye. “I don’t see no door. All I see is slimy mildew and a creepy face staring at me.” She squeezed her arms about her to hold back her tears.

“Look at me,” the face demanded.

“I don’t want to look at you. You’re some old evil dead thing, and I don’t want to look at you.” Her eyes hungrily scoured the gloom for a morsel of light.

“I am not evil. Look at me.”

“You sound evil.”

“I am as innocent as the child you seek.”

Natalie looked up at the visage and confronted, “Do you know her? Where is she? I was sent to find her.”

“Sent? By whom?”

“By an angel whose name I can’t pronounce. Do you know him?”

“I know many angels, but I know of only one lost child. She’s alone, afraid and waiting for you to come.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can see her cowering in a corner on the other side.”

“Other side of what? The wall? How do I get there? Tell me!” Desperation wrung her voice like a tired rag.

Critic: Hold it right there. Just what kind of crappy metaphor was that? And what’s with this never-ending passage through

door after door after door? Is this story leading us anywhere? I mean, here we are in Chapter Five and all you have your heroine do is crawl through creepy dark spaces and encounter mysterious twilighttype beings.

Writer: So? Critic: SO? Where is it leading? As a reader, I’m tired of being led down the same dreary trail chapter after chapter where Natalie finds herself encountering weird characters in some godawful fix from which she must escape. I mean, is there a point to all this? Where is the lifechanging revelation or… or the grand gestalt experience?

Writer: It’s coming. Just be patient.

Critic: It’s been five chapters already. Five chapters of Natalie on a mission that’s not very clear. Who is the girl? Why is Natalie the one sent to find her?

Writer: If you’d read on and let the story unfold as planned then you’d know. In fact, I’m about to deal with those very questions. May I continue?

Critic: I suppose so, but you’d better get to the point.

“Open it,” goaded the face.

Critic: Open what? What did I miss here?

Writer: You missed the part where the door appeared in the wall. Now, if you’d stop interrupting and let me follow my train of thought, you’ll see where the story is going.

Natalie pressed up against the damp surface, and the door creaked on its rusted hinges. She found herself staring down a dark corridor lined with doors.

“Not again,” she moaned.

Critic: My sentiments exactly!

Writer: Quiet! Let me write the scene.

“Wherever you see my face, the way is safe,” said Face. Then it vanished.

As soon as Natalie entered the passageway, the door behind her sealed shut. She pounded at it in the hopes of making it a hasty retreat, but it wouldn’t budge. She had no choice but to go on.

“Why am I all alone here?” she grumbled. “Where is my Angel and that big blue Dragon? Why can’t they just take me to where I need to be instead of making me go through all this mucking around in… in muck?” She shook a muddy substance from her shoe. (continued on page 13) Adventures for the Average Woman

Natalie & the Blue Dragon (Continued from page 12)

Critic: See? Even your own character is bugged by your lack of direction or explanation. And just where is the dragon?

It’s in the title of the story and you barely write about it. The whole reason I follow this story is to read about the dragon.

Where did he come from? Why is he there?

Is he even in this chapter?

Writer: No. Critic: No? Why not? Isn’t the dragon critical to the story?

Writer: He is.

Critic: Then where is he?

Writer: He’s coming, just not in this chapter.

Critic: Why not? He should be in every chapter. I mean, Natalie met the great blue beast for a reason, right? So, what’s the point of putting him in the story if he’s never going to be mentioned?

Writer: Look, I don’t know. He’s just not in this chapter. But I have a really great scene coming up. Want to read it?

Critic: Not if the dragon’s not in it.

Writer: He’s not, but it’s still a good scene. Here it goes...

A door to her right stood ajar. A sliver of light begged her enter.

Natalie stepped toward it then stopped.

“No, wait. Face said it was safe if I saw him.” She looked around. “Face? Where are you? Do I go through here?”

A chill silence reverberated in the hollow corridor.

Critic: Booooriiiiing. How about you give it to me in a five-line nutshell?

Writer: You got ADD or something? Why can’t you just read the whole scene?

Critic: I’ve been reading the same scene for the last four chapters! If I have to endure your heroine going through another door to meet more strange people, I’ll puke! I want the blue dragon!

Writer: Just bear with me, will you? I promise this is a good bit.

Critic: Well, hurry it up. There’s a real dragon story on the Sci-fi Channel in thirty minutes.

Writer: This won’t take long, promise.

Laughter playfully slid down the shaft of light coming from the partially open door.

Critic: Can’t you at least come up with better imagery than that?

Writer: Hush and let me write!

Natalie smiled at the sight of Creole folk gathered around a great steaming grill

Volume 1, Issue 6

Waves of filé gumbo washed over her. She struggled to get up from the chair, but a current of currant dragged her down. She closed her nose and mouth and pushed her way to the surface. In the swelling river of foodstuffs, she saw people succumb to appetite and sink to the bottom of the surging stew.

heaped with slabs of pork and prawns.

“C’mon in, child,” called a large man smacking the grease from his fingers. “Y’all must be tired from yo’ travels. Why don’t you sit a spell in this here easy chair whilst we serve you delectable vittles.” With an uncle’s affection, he hooked an arm across her shoulders and directed her over to a plush red easy chair.

Natalie nestled in its cushy confines and took in the scent of Cajun spice. “Sure smells tasty,” she commented.

“We’ll be eating soon ‘nuf,” he said. His tongue chased a crumb across his lips.

“That your appetizer before dinner?” approached a statuesque woman in a ruby dress. A red bowler topped her curly black crown.

“Love your outfit,” Natalie complimented “In fact, everyone is so beautiful being all dressed up. What’s the occasion?”

“Why, It’s Fat Tuesday!” shrieked another woman draped in royal blue with a feather boa snaked around her throat.

Critic: How cliché. New Orleans. Mardi Gras. Come on! Can’t you come up with anything else relative to the Big Easy? I mean, it’s the came old stereotype: black people in bright colors cooking up gumbo. I believe the city has a lot more going for it.

Writer: Well, it is germane to Natalie and her upbringing.

Critic: It sounds stale to me. Admit it. You’re stuck and don’t have a clue how to continue this story because you don’t know a goddam thing about the culture of your own character.

Writer: All right, I admit that I am floundering a bit, but this issue is about wandering.

Critic: That’s no excuse for leading your readers down the path to Dullsville. Come on, what’s really the issue here?

Writer: I sort of lost the feeling for this story and don’t know what to do with it.

Critic: Ah, ha! There’s the rub! That’s why it’s treading water in a dead pool.

Writer: I know, I know. I just need time to rethink and retool.

Critic: And write more about the dragon?

Writer: See, that’s where I ‘m stuck. I just can’t come up with anything on him.

Critic: And you’re filling up space and buying yourself some time for the sake of meeting a deadline.

Writer: Sort of. Now, do you mind if I can at

least play out this one scene. I’ve come to the last column.

Critic: I’m sighing to say it, but knock yourself out.

With that a flood of food engulfed the room. Mounds of mouth-watering meat rose to her chin.

“What’s happening?”

“Eat up!” said a man floating by and stuffing his gob. His crisp white shirt and neat black suit glistened red with sauce.

“It’s too much,” she sputtered. Waves of filé gumbo washed over her. She struggled to get up from the chair, but a current of currant dragged her down. She closed her nose and mouth and pushed her way to the surface. In the swelling river of foodstuffs, she saw people succumb to appetite and sink to the bottom of the surging stew.

She had to get out or get cooked in the casserole. She topped the crest of a swell of dirty rice and bodysurfed toward the door.

In a whirl of beans and collard greens, She came crashing out into the corridor.

“It was a good thing you didn’t feast, or else you would have drowned like the others, said Face who hovered above the lintel. I told you to look to me for the safe way. Instead, you listened to your longing for light, warmth, food and comfort, and look where it lead.”

Critic: The easy road leads to hell?

Groan! Don’t tell me that’s the moral of the story! What else you got?

Writer: Well, it is a good lesson even if it’s a bit redundant. Besides, we’ve arrived at the end of the segment.

Critic: Just when we were having fun. So, can I expect more on the dragon in the next installment?

Writer: You’ll just have to wait until next month to find out. Just promise me one thing — no more interruptions!

Critic: Ha! We’ll just have to see about that.

Any ideas for the dragon? Send them in: ideagems@aol.com In all seriousness, this story was written for a dear friend of mine whose loved ones suffered the painful destruction of Hurricane Katrina that devastated that grand old city, New Orleans. — Cytheria Howell

Page 13

The Spoiler, Part VI

“Madam, you may have painted me a rogue, a pirate, a larcenous scoundrel, but the qualities of a ravisher you never wrote of me.”

“Madam, she was pregnant then as much as she is now. The reason she hasn’t given birth yet is because you haven’t written of it.”

Marsha was frantic. “Just what is this game?” “’Tis no game, madam.” Raeph asserted.

“No, it is. It’s one of Rolfe’s friggin’ schemes, one of his presto-change-o routines. So maybe old Rolfe isn’t paying you enough to simply harass and torment me; maybe you think he’s rich enough to pay for those clothes and this mansion with its fancy furnishings that he’ll fork out for ransom on top? Well, I got news for you – he’d rather pay you to commit sadistic torture and feed me to the ‘gators along with Carmelia’s baby.”

Raeph ran his hand through his straggled hair and sighed. “I assure you, madam, we seek no ransom or any other fiscal compensation for your return from this man Rolfe you refer to or any other.”

Marsha pulled the next string of logic out from her sleep-deprived opiateinfluenced mind and dangled it before him.

“Then I guess that leaves only one heinous purpose for this pathetic charade.” She bit her lip, looked upwards and dropped the shielding green curtain to the floor. With eyes closed she swallowed the hard dose of her conclusion. “Go ahead. Have your perverted way with me. Then tell that bastard Rolfe all about how you reduced me to abject whoredom.”

Raeph bent down and drew up the green curtain to cover her. “Madam! I certainly don’t know who this Rolfe character is or how you think he is related to my plans, but I do know how you injure me with your flagrant display and sordid accusations.”

Page 14

“Hell, let’s just get this bathos performance of the French-Lieutenant’sWoman-meets-the-Collector over with.” She pushed past him and stepped into the short and narrow tub and sat down. “This is what you want to see, isn’t it?” She scooped up handfuls of water and splashed them over herself; she reached over to the table and grabbed one container after another. She splattered their contents then dashed the dainty bottles against the floor, spilling their scents and unguents. She looked around the room. “I s’pose there’s a webcam in the room, right? Well, here I am in all my glory!” She grabbed the hem of her long blouse and began to pull it upward. “For your perverse viewing pleasure.” She threw more glances anywhere a suspected webcam could spy her.

“Cease and desist this nonsense, madam.”

He had her by the wrists.

“Go ahead. Do your dirty business!” she shouted.

Horrified by her unabashed goading, he snatched a large damask linen towel from the stand and wrapped it about her arms and torso. He lifted her from the tub and held her firmly by the upper arms. He shook her in punctuating measure. “What is this vile predilection of yours? Do you suffer from demonic possession? Upon my person, how could you dare infer such a dastardly thing?

What this web cam you speak of? Are you blithering mad?” He released his hold and stepped back.

With indignation he exclaimed, “Rape? Do you think I have in mind to rape you?

Madam, you may have painted me a rogue, a pirate, a larcenous scoundrel, but the qualities of a ravisher you never wrote of me. I was always gentlemanly to the ladies – even those I did abduct for ransom. Never, madam would I...” His eyes reflected hurt at her insinuation.

She slowly gathered the towel tight to her chest. “Then why have you brought me here?” she strained through clenched teeth.

“As I have told you, madam, to find answers, answers to questions about my future and the future of us all.” He extended his right hand to suggest the presence of others. “Where you ended our story, there was no finality. We are all hanging helpless

from the yardarm over a sea of endless possibilities when there are adventures to be had, fortunes to be made, families to return to and true loves to find. You are here to auger our destinies, madam. No more, no less.”

She ogled him warily. “So help me, if you tell me that CIA telepaths are screwing with your mind, I’ll...,” her words traipsed away.

Raeph paced the floor furtively. He stopped to address her: “I have noted that look from you all this while, madam. You continue to deem me mad as that maniacal despot, King George. I am at a loss as how better to convince you that I am as sane and real as you.”

“Given the circumstances, that’s not going to be easy.”

He went to her and placed the palms of his hands against her cheeks. “I am real.

Feel.”

“Oh, I don’t question that you are real – just who you really are. You certainly aren’t one of my fictional characters become incarnate. No way. No how.” Her head swayed side to side in his hands.

“I seem to recall, madam, how you oft dreamt of my appearing to you in the flesh, was it not? Well, here I am - still young, strong, virile and in need of your faith and trust.” Fixing his gaze upon her, he drew close. “Am I not the veritable manifestation of your oneiric inamorato?”

A rap at the door snapped the string of tension. Raeph’s hands dropped from her face. He stepped aside to make way for Milo and Carmelia who entered bearing large pots of piping-hot water that they proceeded to pour into the tub.

“Mistress Gwynyvere has already seen to her bath. She will assuredly need assistance with her dress. Carmelia? Are the lady’s accoutrements in readiness?”

“Yes, Master Raeph. Everything’s laid out,” Carmella affirmed.

“My dear woman, I adjure you to abandon all plots on making your escape.

Milo and I will stand outside whilst you dress. If you should consider flight by leaping from the balcony, be advised that Pangloss, my mastiff, patrols the grounds. (continued on page 15)

Adventures for the Average Woman

(continued from page 14)

She relied on Carmelia for putting on the complicated clothing with its puzzle pieces: stays, hoop pockets, petticoat, jupe, busk, stomacher, and jacket-style robe.

“Carmelia, as soon as she is decent, call me so that I might enjoy the bath before it grows cold.”

Carmelia curtsied to Raeph and his mute manservant who then exited. She led Marsha to the dressing table with its many drawers, powder cases, colorful bottles, and gilded mirror that reflected the scene.

“God! And people think alien abductions are weird and brutal. Heaven only knows what the other characters lurking about in this house are like. Wait’ll the inquiring minds read about this one.“ “Which one is that, madam?” Carmelia absently fed back.

“Carmelia?”

“Yes, Mistress Gwynyvere.”

“Why am I here?”

“To help us, Mistress Gwynyvere.”

“I am a prisoner here, Carmelia. How is it I am supposed to help you?”

“Here, Mistress Gwynyvere. Let me remove that wet blouse.” Her small hands pulled up the dripping hem.

Marsha pulled away. “Do you mind? I can deal with it.”

“But, missum…”

“Just hand me a clean shirt or something, OK?” “Here be your chemise.”

Marsha grabbed the linen shirt and pointed Carmelia to the area on the other side of the folding screen. Having covered her upper half, she grew concerned for her lower quarters. “Hey, where are my panties?”

“Pan teas?” Camelia imitated.

“Underpants? Briefs? The small strip of cloth that I took off to use the toi—, I mean, the chamber pot.”

Carmelia’s face took on the shadow of thought then beamed with recognition.

“Oh, that thin strip? I took it out when I emptied out the pot. The cloth was soiled, madam.”

“Great. Guess I go bare-assed then.”

“Madam,” Carmelia tittered, “You have your modesty skirt to make certain that won’t happen. Here.” She slipped her a wrap-around garment from the other side

of the screen. “Ready for your stockings then?”

Marsha reached her hand out to take them.

“I can handle these, thank you.” She sat on the stool and pulled on the knee-high footwear but found without elastic banding, they would slide back down the leg to the ankle. “Goddam things,” she gritched and tossed them over the screen. “Forget this crap. I’ll just go half naked. What difference does it make? I’m doomed to be worm food or ‘gator bait.” She cupped her trembling hands to her face and sobbed.

“Oh, missum, let me.” Carmelia came around the screen, knelt down and pulled the stocking tops to the knee-joint where she wrapped the garters. “Come, Mistress, let’s go out to the dressing table.” She meekly offered her hand.

Marsha wiped the wet from her face and collected herself, thinking, Look, ol’ gal, you gotta keep it together, go along with this routine until you can find a way out. Don’t lose it or you will be lost!

She relied on Carmelia for putting on the complicated clothing with its puzzle pieces: stays, hoop pockets, petticoat, jupe, busk, stomacher, and jacket-style robe. Although the eighteenth-century bodice was far less constricting than later model corsets, Marsha found the bulk and weight of the outfit bothersome.

“Oh, it suits you so beautifully, Mistress Gwynyvere.” Carmelia cooed as she attached the chatelaine.

“Stop calling me that,” Marsha snapped.

“What, Mistress?”

“That! I am not your mistress. My name is not Gwynyvere. That was my pen name eons ago. Look, just call me Marsha if you have to call me anything.” She paused to gaze at her transformed image in the mirror and tugged at the décolleté hugging her bulging bosom.

Carmelia couched her confusion with the whish-whish of her hand brushing the dress’s green-and-gold brocade satin fabric.

“Where’s the fichu?”

“Fichu?” Carmelia giggled. “Missum is far too young to be dressing like an old woman.”

Marsha went to the dressing table. “Well,

The Spoiler

Volume 1, Issue 6

I’m a believer in modesty. Is there one?”

Quick, find a weapon, a pair of scissors or a letter opener, she silently urged while ferreting through the drawers.

Carmelia took over the search. “Here, missum, let me. No, I don’t see nothing. If you be so insistent, I’ll have to fetch you one from Mistress Prucilla.” She returned to brushing out the jupe.

“So, you didn’t answer my question.”

“I told you, ma’am, there ain’t no fichu in that dresser.”

“No, not that.”

“Then what was it you asked me, missum?”

“How is it I am supposed to help you?”

Marsha eyed the reflection of the busied girl in the mirror.

“By writing about us, Mistress Gwynyvere.” Carmelia looked down and patted her protruding stomach before dragging one of the plush armchairs over to the dressing table. “Please sit here.”

Marsha found it cumbersome to fit the pillowed hips of her dress within the confines of the armed chair.

“Please to give me pause, Mistress Gwynyvere.” Before Marsha could chastise further, Carmelia was at the door to let Milo and Raeph into the room.

“Madam, I take it you’ve had no trouble adjusting to clean clothes.” Raeph invoked from behind her. Much of the gore on his face and hair had turned to a brown crust.

The stains garishly disgraced his white shirt.

“Clean is one thing. Constricting is another.” Marsha chafed in the dress.

“Constriction you will have to suffer for the time-being.” He snapped his fingers.

“Milo.”

Marsha’s eyes and mouth widened to see the tall silent man in the mirror step forth with long stretches of rope in his hands.

She shook her head in disbelief.

Carmelia bit her knuckles and quietly cried, “Oh, missum.”

“I regret, madam, that I cannot as of yet (continued on page 16)

Page 15

The Spoiler (continued from page 15)

“For I was a man with a dual vocation: by day, a courier for a countinghouse in Londontown; by night, a Spoiler who roamed the highways and byways intercepting British envoys, and spies on horse, foot, or coach to relieve them of their purses and their information.”

trust you to sit obediently still whilst I tend to my own matter of hygiene, which, in total violation of everything that’s descent and proper, I must needs see to in a lady’s boudoir. Oh, the extremes you press me to!”

Raeph looped the line over her waist around the back of the chair then wound the ends about her arms and the arms of the chair while Milo pressed down on her shoulders with gargantuan hands.

Marsha resisted. “Please, don’t! It hurts!”

“It hurts because you fight. Sit still and I promise you won’t suffer more than is necessary.” He pulled the cords taught over her lap. “Would you prefer I clap you in irons? I can assure you, they are far more humiliating and intolerable.” He knelt down and wrapped the ends around her legs. “A last lanyard to secure the spanker.” He patted the arches of her shoeless feet then stood to his feet. “Keep in mind my nautical experience, madam. My knots are tried and true.” He stood up and placed his right hand on her cheek. “Now, I will leave you free to speak, but if you do not refrain from the base idiom you are wont to employ, I will obligingly scrub down your scurvy tongue with a bar of lye.”

“You really are a psycho, aren’t you?” she decried.

He leaned close and softly intimidated. “I am, madam, as you have portrayed me, a treacherous ruffian to rapine bred with nary a qualm over lashing hapless damsels to the mizzen.”

Marsha glared at him. “And you enjoy every moment of it, don’t you?”

Raeph matched her stare. “‘Fettering a feisty wench is no different from hobbling a horse or leashing a hound.’ Your words in my mouth, madam. Poor Abigail had to suffer comparable manhandling when I kidnapped her.”

“Gee, I knew I should’ve prefaced that chapter with an advisory. This scene is purely fictitious. The abduction was carried out by highly-trained professional makebelieve characters. Do not try this at home,” she hectored.

“Jest all you care, but keep in mind how much more she suffered.” He patted her cheek and stepped back. “Carmelia,” he commanded “Go down to the kitchen to

Page 16

prepare us a morning infusion.” Then to Milo, “Let us hence to the bath.” The two men disappeared behind the folding screen.

Marsha tried working free of the ropes if only to prove the point that she could.

“Since you are reluctant to believe who I am, I hope I can change your conviction by regaling you with my tale while I bathe,” Raeph supplicated from behind the folding screen.

“Believe me when I say you have me completely riveted to my seat.” Marsha jolted the chair to underscore her claim.

“I always have enjoyed a captive audience.” Water sloshed and words spilled in a phantastical cascade over the vivid scene Raeph then described to his hostage.

“It was late in the afternoon on a crisp October day in seventeen hundred and eighty two when I held up a stagecoach along the Baltimore turnpike just over the Patuxent into Prince George’s County. I was on a mission to rob a British intelligencer cum merchant of his profits and the pouch of coded documents concerning troop movements against our nation’s forces. For I was a man with a dual vocation: by day, a courier for a countinghouse in Londontown; by night, a Spoiler who roamed the highways and byways intercepting British envoys, and spies on horse, foot, or coach to relieve them of their purses and their information.

“On this particular October day, my faithful friend and partner in crime, Milo, knew a coach to be traveling to Montpelier from Baltimore. In preparation to meet it, we covered our faces completely with dominoes and black neckerchiefs and waited on our horses just behind an elm tree we had felled around the bend on the narrowest portion of the highway. The coachman had no choice but to pull in the reins of his four Percherons.

“At gunpoint, we forced everyone from the vehicle. Imagine my astonishment when I recognized Parfrey, my childhood friend and shipmate during the war but with whom I had fallen out of company for the diverging paths we each chose to follow in life. Parfrey rode in the comfort and style of respectable citizens while I roamed the rugged back roads of outlaws.

“He was in escort of Hephzibah Fletcher, wife to Montrose Fletcher, and her only daughter, Abigail, whom, despite her funerary attire of black bonnet and mourner’s veil, I recognized; but for her terror she did not me.

“There were only the three plus the driver. Parfrey started up about the audacity of our robbery against two harmless women returning from a funeral of a maternal cousin. While he prattled on with Milo’s weapon trained at his poltroon head, I searched the coach for the British spy I was informed would likely be aboard. It was then I saw a brown satchel with the letters P.V.H. embossed in gold. I extracted the pouch and opened it to view its contents.

“Parfrey made a move but was quickly set back at the point of my revolver. He fussed over my handling the papers and claimed they were confidential business accounts. He handed me his purse full of coin and promised me more gains if I would only return the pouch. That is when I realized there was no British intelligencer on board. The treacherous rogue was none other than Parfrey.

“Now, madam, I may have been a bit of a profiteer in my day, but I never ever was a traitor.”

Marsha tossed him an anachronism.

“Wouldn’t Homeland Security be proud?”

“Homeland Security - that’s a very apt appellation for the concern of our Continental Congress.” A dull thud interrupted his musing. “The soap has slipped my grip, madam. Let me retrieve it then continue with my account.”

“Hey, can’t talk trash without something to clean up with.”

“Mind your sass, madam, or this soap will stopper your saturnine gob,” he cautioned. “As I was saying, to prevent Parfrey from making a rash move, I seized Abigail and held my revolver ever so roguishly to her head.”

“Roguish seems to be your style.”

Beneath her sarcasm crept the fear of how far he would play out the dreadful fantasy.

To be continued. Subscribe today!

Adventures for the Average Woman

The Adventures of Katie Madigan: Katie and the Errant Knight

Fed up with work and a lackluster life, Katie longs to escape.

In a series of graphic stories, she descends into one grueling adventure after another. Katie, be careful what you wish for.

THIS CONTEMPORARY GRAPHIC THRILLER CONTINUES IN OUR UPCOMING ISSUES. SUBSCRIBE TODAY! Volume 1, Issue 6

Page 17

Neomodern Nosferatu, Part VI Mr. Poe, Nevermore

by L. Notch

Clive wrapped Gina in his necrotic arms and stroked her silky head. “Darling, I’ve told you over and over I’m not going to eat you.” He tipped her chin up to meet her fretful gaze. “Besides, you’re so puny, you wouldn’t make a very satisfying meal.

Maybe a nice snack.” His lips landed dovesoft upon hers.

Gina eased away from his embrace and brushed the flush from her face. “Wow,” she squeaked, “but no, this isn’t right.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“It’s not as nature intended.”

“What does that mean?”

“First of all, you told me you don’t fly that way. You like XY types,” she reminded.

“Yes?” “Well, isn’t that enough to make a double-X like me have second thoughts?”

He squeezed her shoulders. “And what’s second of all?”

“You’re an undead who makes his living sucking the life from the living. It really creeps me out to imagine where those lips have been.” She grimaced.

“Did you like my kiss or not?”

“Yes, it was nice.”

“Nice?”

“Okay, it made the blood rush to my cheeks, happy?” She bit into her finger.

“Only your cheeks?” He smirked. “Look, I suggest you don’t think so hard about it and simply enjoy it.” He drew in for another kiss.

Gina balked. “But you like dressing up as a woman and sucking on men. How could you come on to me?”

Clive sighed then launched into a diatribe.

“Gina, I am over five hundred years old. In that exceedingly long time I have had thou sands of lovers of both genders. It doesn’t

Page 18

“You’re an undead who makes his living sucking the life from the living. It really creeps me out to imagine where those lips have been.”

matter to me which way I fly as long as I feel for that person and he — or she — does me.” He clasped her hand between his. “I don’t know why, but I feel for you in a very profound way. Maybe it’s because you accept me for what I am and are not after me for the immortality I have to offer like so many mortals who court me.”

Gina scrunched her brow in bemusement.

“That doesn’t make sense. If you’re gay you’re gay. If you’re straight you’re straight. Those are the fundamental determinations of nature’s hardwiring as empirical studies have shown.”

Clive chuckled. “Gina, my naïve little Ordinary, it has never in all of human history been as black and white as that.

There are many gay men who have loved women and fathered children in this world.”

She recoiled from his enlightenment. “I hope that’s not what you’re after!”

“No, no, no,” he assured and approached.

“I fathered mine when I was a mere man with limited longevity eons ago. As a vampire, I can no longer procreate. I have no seed.”

“But you can create other vampires with your bite, right?” she winced.

“That is the tradeoff.” His mouth gently played her lips then juggled kisses down along her throat.

“Keep away from there!” Gina yelped.

She threw up her hands as a shield.

“What?”

“My neck. You… you don’t go near it with… with… those.” She pointed at his fangs.

“I told you. Only the fabled Dracula and his followers are neckophiles. I like to place my bites in unseen areas.” He winked and resumed his labial ministrations.

Gina fought the swoon he stirred in her.

“Please, stop. I…” “Now what?” He took a breath to stave his frustration.

“What about STDs?” Gina blurted.

“STDs?” “Sexually transmitted diseases. I would think with all the screwing and bloodsucking you do, you’d be rife with the stuff. I

wouldn’t want to be infected then die some miserable agonizing death.” She shivered not so much from fear as from nervous excitement.

Clive took her by the hand and led her back to the table. “Sit.” He went back to the counter, opened a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Beaujolais and two jelly glasses. “Ugh,” he commented with a roll of his eyes. “We have got to get you appropriate glassware.” He offered an answer to her question as he poured wine into one of the glasses and bought it to her. “I told you, we vampires harbor powerful germ-killing antibodies.”

“You could still be a carrier.”

“It’s never been scientifically proved,” he said as he opened the fridge and pulled out a packet of blood. He squeezed it to half-fill the other glass, added the wine then stirred the cocktail with his index finger. He sucked the concoction from it.

“Hmmm, delectable,” he purred.

Gina screwed up her brow at the sight.

“Since when do you drink?”

He picked up the fallen chair, sat down at the table, and raised his glass.

“Sliante.”

“You think getting me drunk is going to change the issue?”

He took a sip and licked the thick red line of residue from his upper lip. “I just think you need to relax. You’re very tense.”

“I see men haven’t changed their strategies when it comes to getting laid – at least in the past five hundred years.”

Gina sniffed at her drink. “Damn the torpedoes.” She kicked back a hard swallow and exhaled then downed the glass. She grabbed the bottle for a refill.

“Whoa, why so rash?”

“I need to get numb before… before…doing it, you know.” Her large round eyes watered from the sting of inebriation and sexual frustration. “What am I doing? Am I out of mind? You’ll just wind up teething on my flesh!”

He snatched the bottle away and placed it beyond her reach. (continued on page 19)

Adventures for the Average Woman

Neomodern Nosferatu (Continued from page 18)

“I assure you, I won’t sink my fangs into your sumptuous flesh.”

“That doesn’t sound very reassuring.

Hell, I should be harpooned for even considering a tryst with a vampire.” She pushed back from the table and tried to stand.

In a lightening-fast black streak, Clive had his hands pressed to her shoulders.

“Stay.”

“I know I’m not that drunk! How did you move like that?”

He fondled the curls cascading down her neck. “Don’t you find me alluring?”

“You do possess that classic vampire charm,” she noted breathily. “Or maybe it’s the wine affecting my better judgment.” She grabbed up her glass and slugged back what she had managed to pour.

He pried the glass from her fingers and gently drew her hand to his breast. “Well, then, what could it hurt? Sweet O, your life is short. Don’t let your youth and beauty get covered in cobwebs and crumble up waiting for that right man or moment. Take it from my half-a-millennium’s worth of experiences, it doesn’t happen that way.”

“You won’t bite me and turn me into… you know?”

Clive searched her eyes. “I only want to turn you on.” His nostrils flared at the relish of her adrenal-driven anxiety. He closed his eyes and honed in on the muffled sounds of her rapidly beating heart coming from deep within her breast. His eyes opened to reveal his desire. His intense stare bore into the core of her soul.

He realized the effect his preternatural powers were having on her and withdrew his hypnotic gaze. He wanted her alert and alive and not a nervous wreck. He poured more into her glass and passed it to her, “You sip slowly and get mellow whilst I ready the conjugal chamber.” He gave her a peck on the cheek, finished his drink, and smacked his lips. Then he rose and disappeared into the bedroom.

Gina was feeling the buzz of the wine and the rush of hormones. She puzzled over the how and why of her attraction to such a forbidding man who kept her place pristine, set a fresh rose in a vase with every breakfast, and understood her womanly needs.

Volume 1, Issue 6

She puzzled over the how and why of her attraction to such a forbidding man who kept her place pristine, set a fresh rose in a vase with every breakfast, and understood her womanly needs.

She flinched at the sudden sound of his voice in her ear.

“Come,” he invited and led her into the bedroom.

Their ride to ecstasy shook the bed with preternatural force. The frame fell apart and sent the mattress crashing to the floor. The two of them lay akimbo, their sighs harmonizing in a post-climactic lullaby.

Gina’s sweaty brow rode upon his heaving breast. “God almighty,” she exclaimed.

Risqué content omitted for the sake of sensitive readers. If you want the full Monty, you’ll just have to buy the book.

Clive looked up at the window, kissed Gina and stated, “It’s nearly sunup. I have to go.”

She scowled. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s getting light, my darling. I can’t tarry.” He kissed the furrows in her forehead, pulled back the sheet and sat up on the collapsed bedspring.

“I see men don’t change even when they’re the undead.” She crossed her arms and drew her face in an outraged pout.

“You know how photophobic I am.”

“Well, at least that’s one of the more novel excuses for a man to cut and run from a woman’s bed once he’s snatched the trophy.”

“I’m a vampire, remember? I can’t abide daylight.”

“But the shades are down. How can it hurt you? What does it matter? I shouldn’t expect anything anyway. Thanks for the pity sex.”

The sheet billowed in the wind of her temper. She slapped on a robe and stomped to the kitchen where she determined to drown her grief in the last half of a carafe of wine.

Clive stole nervously after her. “Gina, I—” The door imploded with the force of a battering ram. Two masked and armored harpoon-wielding SWAT troopers burst inside. “Freeze!” bellowed one fiercely.

The glass in Gina’s hand fell to the floor and exploded into shrapnel.

“On the ground, now!” yelled the man through his mask.

Gina was too petrified to obey.

“Easy, G. She’s not the one we want.”

In stepped a plainclothes officer bearing a loaded crossbow. “Just tell us where he is and you can party in peace.”

“Who?” Gina timidly ventured while drawing up her bathrobe over her tiny naked frame.

“The vampire.”

“Vampire?” She fearfully looked around. To her heart-pounding befuddlement and relief, Clive was nowhere to be seen.

“We have it on good report from reputable sources that you are harboring one that’s feeding on the tenants. Do you realize it is now a class-A felony to give sanctuary to the criminally undead?” The officer lowered his weapon and grabbed her by the back of her head. “Let me see your neck.” Steel blue eyes scrutinized her carotid. His rough hands pulled down the lapels of her bathrobe.

Gina held her robe tight. “Stop it! You have no right!”

“Be thankful for that red face of yours,” he squeezed her flushed cheeks in the palm of his gruff hand then released her.

“We’ll check the premises for coffins.”

The masked agents ransacked the rooms then returned. “Nothing,” one said in frustration. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” said the plainclothes officer.

“Check the fridge.”

Gina’s intestines knotted into a tight ball.

“Blood packets,” declared a SWAT with a slithery plastic bag dangling from his gloved fingers.

“Bag it as evidence.” He pulled Gina’s arms behind her back and zip-tied her hands. ”You are under arrest for aiding and abetting a human-feeding Vampire.”

Find out what happens in our next issue.

Page 19

Cutlass Moon, Part V Blue Earth

by L. Notch © 1998

DEAD LIVES Peter Brett’s strong survivor skills served him well on dangerous missions like this one. He was on the hunt for suspected ecoterrorist, Kalinda Tawee, a.k.a Kally Thorpe, the girl from a time and place when he went by his birth name, Zachary Brettleman.

Two decades ago, authorities had declared Kalinda Thorpe deceased by reason of suspected homicide upon discovering the skeletal remains of a young female four years after the twenty-year old’s mysterious disappearance. In the past six months, military intelligence believed her to be alive, well, and a viable threat.

As Peter sat and studied the handwritten journals that lined the walls of her hut in the Micronesian island wilderness, he looked for evidence of her alleged involvement with the nefarious eco-terrorist group, the Green Avatars. Much of the writing was in a foreign script Peter couldn’t decipher. His eyes scanned the cryptic circles, lines, and loops in the hunt for legible text; his mind retraced his connection with the girl of his youth.

The fact Kally (as he called her back then) was considered geeky, pudgy and a spoiled only child led to general unacceptability and envy among her peers.

Young Zachary Brettleman never saw her through their eyes.

Zack first knew Kally through his older sister, Carmen. Kally was her best friend who’d come over to play or baby-sit him while his mom ran errands. All three were children raised in the military culture predominating the backwater defunct mining town, Blue Earth, Montana.

Kally was part of the military family circle by virtue of her father’s contracted

Page 20

In the 1960s, Blue Earth was an isolated military community smack dab in the middle of an Indian reservation tolerated by U.S. Government treaty.

employment as a computational linguist and encoder who worked top secret projects in the paranoid military community that would just as soon cannibalize their own subordinates rather than let the Commies gain the advantage in the Cold War, Arms Race, Space Race, and the New York marathon. Which is why Martin Thorpe took his daughter, Kalinda, to live way out in the boonies near an abandoned quarry and not on base.

Following in her father’s footsteps as a linguistic brainiac, Kally studied languages (even making one up of her own) which helped compensate for her chronic stuttering and diagnosed deficient social skills quotient. Kally’s inner charm and intuition endeared her to the few who could see past her social awkwardness.

Zack was among the few. Ever since he could remember, he longed to be close to his sister’s strange best friend. Maybe it was Kally’s interest in all things multilegged like centipedes and spiders. Maybe it was how she used the thick lenses of her glasses to experiment and understand optical physics or the weird way she hid behind her wispy hair betokened a celestial being. Maybe it was the fact she had lost her mother to cancer, a traumatic event that left a hole for someone to fill. Whatever it was, by the time Zack realized how drawn he was to this enigma of a girl, he was six and Kally, a whopping twelve.

Blue Earth in the 1960s was an isolated military community smack dab in the middle of an Indian reservation tolerated

by U.S. Government treaty. Much of the rugged area consisted of classified military proving grounds where the U.S. Army operations remained as mysterious as the numbered areas lying to the south in Nevada.

Blue Earth received the extra benefit of having Department of Defense schools, a mixed blessing of America’s fine standardized education as taught by the intellectually challenged who barely passed state certification and considered empirical method a lesson in ancient Roman despotism.

Because of the remote area, kids within a fifty-mile radius would be bused in to town to attend school, including Native Americans from the nearby “rez.” Kally began to experience first hand and for the first time in her life the process of social prejudice.

On one end of the racial ruler, the “frybread” kids ignored her or called her assorted derogatory names for Caucasian.

On the other were the “white-bread” students and teachers who had no appreciation for Native American culture and communication style. Many couldn’t cope. Teacher turnover was high. Some packed up and left without notice.

Native Americans constituted about a third of the entire student body but by the age of 16, 70% would drop out, return to the reservation to live on government subsidies, or take menial jobs around town, like doing the lawn work, caddying and working cleanup or busboy jobs at the local officers’ club and golf course. Some would pump gas or work as ranch hands in season. Some would venture over the Gallatin Range to cities like Billings and Helena to find work.

Still, a handful would finish the ordeal of white man’s high school and move on to higher education through subsidies and scholarships. The moment the tribal kids got off the bus and entered the DoD school doorways, their fate of persecution and determined failure was sealed. The system was designed to serve and support white middle class mediocrity where being too intelligent proved as large a failing as not being white.

Many of the Great White teachers taxed the clever young Kally Thorpe with their ignorance. From kindergarten on she would go so far as to point out their rote knowledge by challenging them with astute observation and commentary. Most of the time the caught-off-guard teacher would just smile and politely cut off the precocious towheaded child with the annoying stutter. One or two teachers respected her knowledge, but most wouldn’t endure the one-upmanship of (continued on page 21)

Adventures for the Average Woman

Cutlass Moon (continued from page 20)

a fourth-grader.

One exceedingly hot day, during a Cold War duck-and-cover drill, she defied Mr. Johnson’s order to scramble under a desk.

She argued with the man of learning that no desk could protect her or anyone else against a nuclear blast, so why get her dress needlessly dirty? Mr. Johnson’s face darkened to a deep scarlet and his DoDapproved crew cut bristled in tiny black stubs on his reddening scalp. As punishment for her insubordination, he made her run lap after lap around the football field in the blazing heat. After two hours of trotting and crying from thirst, Mr. Johnson let her go home long after the school buses had departed.

If it had not been for Carmen running home and telling her mother who then called her high-ranking officer husband who in turn drove to the school to retrieve her, Kally would have had to limp the seven miles back to her house by the abandoned quarry.

A preschooler playing with Tinker Toys, Zack recalled his father’s ranting over the incident and Kally’s silent tears. She had remained extraordinarily tightlipped, refusing to tell Carmen, her closest confidant, what happened, or even her own father. To his frustration, no action was taken against Mr. Johnson. Kally learned early in life how brutish ignorance ruled the public school roost and how questioning the stupidity of authority would set her on a high-risk road.

In spite of the flat-earth system of learning she was required by law to endure, she made the best of it. Even though most of her classmates revolved around the jocks and cheerleaders in a tightly formed sociopolitical universe, Kally managed to keep a couple of oddball peers in orbit throughout her K-12 ecliptic: Carmen Brettleman being one; Tony Standing Elk becoming another.

Tony was a scrawny Crow kid who was very shy around whites, but his fascination with Kally’s sun-kissed white hair drew

Volume 1, Issue 6

Zack had a difficult time hiding his bilious jealousy of the older rival male. His sister, Carmen, would tease him mercilessly for it, too, when Kally was alive and weird.

him toward her in his tenth passage around the sun. In Tony’s traditional Absarokee upbringing and perception, white hair implied deep wisdom imparted from the ancestors.

He’d often sit and stare at Kally in the sand lot. One day, he ventured close enough to reach out and touch the golden strands of Kally’s heavenly hair. When she looked up, he recoiled, kicked up sand with his heels and fled. Kally got up and chased him, but he was far too fast for her and simply disappeared down the dusty dirt road.

Little by little, Tony would approach Kally in this way, stalking her like a cat would a toy mouse on a string. Kally would learn to patient him out, leave the mouse lie then “jerk the string” to surprise and frustrate her harmless, curious predator. They both got such a thrill from this game and it finally brought them together in an unusual bond of grade-school misfits.

Through Kally, Tony learned that white people could be human, for Kally was willing and able to learn the tongue of the Absarokee people and not rely solely on the harsh hollow noises that resonated from her nose but on the sounds emanating from her heart.

In fact, Kally often performed better in Crow than she did in English. Amazed at her ability, Tony tried to trip her up with unpronounceable words of his tribal tongue. Kally would dazzle him with her precise pitch and rhythm. Eventually, he adopted her as his private pupil to teach her the true language of true human beings.

In return, she helped him with his English so that he could do better on the tests designed to measure white people’s standards. Tony always downplayed his knowledge and association with the gifted little white girl in front of his mother, the tribe, and the white devil teachers for fear of ostracism. The tribe would make him an outcast for learning the white man’s

ways. They would all chastise him for trying to act and sound what he wasn’t — namely, white.

Silence was Tony’s greatest refuge and weapon in times of culture clash. His silence drove Kally crazy whenever a teacher called on him, especially when she knew he knew the answer. When he couldn’t get a passing grade on his homework after she’d spent an entire afternoon going over the work with him, she’d stomp off in a fit of utter exasperation. The Anglo in her didn’t understand the ecology of failing and how this would keep the two worlds he was caught between from toppling out of balance and crushing him into oblivion. Tony kept hoping that one day she would learn and truly know his human soul.

Zack was fourteen when police arrested Tony for Kally’s alleged brutal murder. The papers said her room was a bloodbath even though her body was missing. Tony had been the last person to see her alive, and Zack hated him for it.

Zack had a difficult time hiding his bilious jealousy of the older rival male. His sister, Carmen, would tease him mercilessly for it, too, when Kally was alive and weird.

To get back at her (and get near Kally) he would sneak into Carmen’s room during “fairy princess high tea time” with all the dolls and stuffed animals at court in a circle on the pink bedspread. He knew Kally only attended to humor his silly sister and that he had to rescue her from stupid girls’ stuff. He would lunge at the bed and send the inanimate objects flying. Only by means of a wicked wedgy delivered by his sister would he be promptly banished from the realm.

When Kally wasn’t there, he would blackmail his sister for information by threatening to tell Mom he’d seen Carmen smoking (even if she wasn’t) or kissing some low-life boy from the wrong side of town.

This is how Zack caught up on the years of Kalinda’s life that he’d missed out on by default of being born too late. It was also the beginnings of his career as a covert operator.

The saga continues in our upcoming issues.

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