Adventures for the Average Woman by Laurie Notch

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Adventures for the Average Woman

IDEAGEMS ® May 2006 Volume 1, Issue 7

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

Riding the Crazy Carousel of Life Round and round and round we go through our routine, day after day after day. Wheeee! Isn’t it fun? Or maybe it’s nauseating. No matter. Now it’s time to join our characters on their wild rides on a merry-go-round of fantasy and adventure, where you will hop from one colorful tale to another like changing so many carousel horses. Fly into by our word-twirling Poetry & Painting Page and lose yourself in the sensually surreal acrylic and tempura on paper, “Ascetic,” by international artist, Imsook Kim. Twist around the May Pole to celebrate workers all over the world with “Norma’s Daily Bread,” a photographic essay. (We hope Norma’s story inspires other women to send in their pictures of themselves on the job.) Spill into the mystery of the strange theater that harbors secrets, ghosts, and kinky escape artists in “Mystery of the Majestic.” Hop into the hinterlands of Poland to experience the true story of a young girl with

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awesome psychic powers in “The Elusive Force.” Climb aboard the spaceship bound for sci-fi apocalyptic turmoil with part II of “My Story.” Land in the lap of the steely knight on the white steed where Katie Madigan rides through a dark forest to a fairytale realm. Follow that flight of fancy with one back in time to the 18th Century in “The Spoiler.” Whirl around to find yourself tracking down a mysterious shaman in the jungles of “Cutlass Moon.” Is your head spinning? Why not stop and take a break with our new column “How Do You Take Your Music”? Once you’re thoroughly jazzed, you can enjoy the creepy antics of ordinary Gina and her vampire roomie. Boy, are they in for a whirling dervish of a day! Top it all off with a heaping helping of nonsensical sleuthing à la blind man’s bluff with the offkilter and convoluted “The Car diff Grandma.”

Inside this issue: Riding the Crazy Carousel of Life

A Word With You

Contests? Really? 3 Poetry & Painting 4 Page

Whew! What a literary ringaround-the rosy. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Not yet. There’s more to keep you going round and round. Check out our two contests. No, it’s not double vision caused by spinning too fast. One is for you to come up with an ending to the seemingly never-ending “Natalie and the Blue Dragon” story. The other is to conjure a clever caption for a funny photo. All readers are invited to participate, but subscribers definitely have the advantage. So get off your work-a-day treadmill and jump on the AFTAW carousel for your thrills and spills today! — Cytheria Howell, Principal Author. Editor-in-chief, and Incurable Romantic

Be your own boss and look gorgeous to boot!

Norma’s Daily Bread: a Photographic Essay

Mystery of the Majestic

The Elusive Force

My Story: A Sci- 10 fi Tale of Apocalyptic Woe Katie and 11 the Errant Knight The Spoiler

Cutlass Moon

How Do You Take Your Music?

Neomodern Nosferatu

The Cardiff Grandma

Contact Heidee Claflin to f i nd o ut how ! Page 1

Place a quarter, half, or full-page ad for your product, service, or event – like these fine organizations. To find out more about our reasonable rates, contact Laurie Notch at (202)-746-5160 or e-mail us with your request for information at ideagems@aol.com.

Green Earth Realty Our goal is to fulfill your dream by helping you to buy a house. E-mail: ctcdc@yahoo.com

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Professional abstract writing

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Accurate fact checking

A Word With You

“I like it. There’s more testosterone than one would expect

Not to keep beating a dead horse with a mixed metaphor, but it’s money that makes AFTAW go round, and we are in sore need of some. So, please, please, please, please, please encourage your friends, neighbors, and countrywomen (and men) to subscribe. It’s only $15 for an entire year! $18 if you want AFTAW in audio format. How cheap is that?

“I like it. There’s more testosterone than one would expect from a woman’s pennydreadful periodical. The heroines are real ballsy for grrlz,” notes B. Caldwell of Washington, D.C. And J. Mancco of Silver Spring, Maryland comments, “I really want to keep reading about the Neomodern Nosferatu. It really got me hooked!”

I know we are grossly underselling our talents. (Isn’t that typical for women?) But we believe in the mission of our little magazine-that-can to bring entertaining literature and eye-pleasing artwork in reader-friendly format to help lighten up your life. Here’s some feedback on how AFTAW soothes the savage mood swing after a hard day on the job. “I always look forward to reading AFTAW at the end of the day to completely escape and read some good oldfashioned fun stuff,” says S. Shah of Washington, D.C. “Your stories are delightfully breezy to read,” says E. Mechan

Contests? Really?

from a woman’s penny-dreadful periodical.”

Okay, let’s be fair and balanced here. Others have said, “It’s just not my thing,” or “I’m not an average woman, so why should I read it?” or even , “I’d like it if your publication would cover women’s issues.” (Actually, the issues are in the stories — just not journalistically annotated.) Still, I’d love to hear comments from you — even if they’re not glowing. We could always do with some constructive criticism, but mostly we could do with more subscriptions and paying advertisers. Maybe your local independent bookstore would be interested in showcasing our package set with the first six issues and CD

The fantasy story was written for a woman who loves dragons and angels and whose loved ones suffered the painful destruction of Hurricane Katrina that devastated that grand old city, New Orleans. But after six chapters, the author has run out of steam.

The photo on the right is aching for a caption. Send in your caption by July 1 by email (ideagems@aol.com) or snail mail to:

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS BLUE DRAGON CONTEST 1110 BONIFANT STREET, SUITE 600 SILVER SPRING, MD 20910

Volume 1, Issue 7

— Cytheria Howell, Beggar of Funds

to AFTAW. Third prize — your name and entry published with an honorable mention.

“Hey, I need a clever caption over here!” Come up with a good one and you could win $25! Only $1 to enter! Pay by check or PayPal at ideagems@aol.com.

Send your submissions by e-mail to ideagems@aol.com. Your electronic document can be in TXT (text file) DOC (MS Word), or PDF format. Hard copies go to:

This humble author, editor, and assembler shall not dissemble her fear for falling financial reserves! I need your help to spread the gospel according to AFTAW — that we all need a colorful and entertaining woman-centered pulp rag (where the heroines kick butt) to unfurl on that long bus ride home, during the midday break or right before bedtime. Cheers!

First prize — fistful of $ in he form of a nifty check. Second prize — a free subscription

Submit an ending for the story “Natalie and the Blue Dragon” and win a whopping $50! Only $3 to enter! Pay by check or PayPal at idegems@aol.com.

So, the call for submissions is out. Write an award-wining ending containing up to 2,000 words by July 1 and the glorious prize could be yours!

recording of our first issue. Put ‘em onto us! And to all our current subscribers, advertisers, investors, contributing writers and artists — THANK YOU, THANK YOU! (Blowing kisses here.) You are the ones who have made this publication possible. Let’s all do our darnedest to keep it going and growing, which means more paper, ink, glue, and woman hours, which in turn means more cost. So, enter our contests for a modest fee, or if you haven’t yet subscribed, please do so! We now have PayPal! Just send your payment via ideagems@ aol.com

IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS PHOTO CAPTION CONTEST 1110 BONIFANT STREET, SUITE 600 SILVER SPRING, MD 20910 AFTAW will announce the winners by August 31, 2006. The winning texts will appear in the October issue. Be sure to include your name and contact information on your submitted material. If you prefer to use a pen name, let us know. As you will note, I am not going to annoy you with rules and regulations in legalistic fine print. Let’s just say, I encourage all who love to write to try their hand.

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Poetry & Painting Page

Ascetic

The lithesome beauty once reflected before me I have sealed in a tomb of cellulose reinforced by ramparts of chocomint ice cream powdered sugar donuts and other sweetly comforts to the palate and the soured soul. The ageless innocence of youth I have painstakingly lacquered over with the flesh-eroding crevasses of time and experience. My intelligence, wit, and wisdom I have buried deep under an Everest of meaningless quotidian platitudes acceptable to society assuring me a semblance of security The intimacies of relationships along with nurturing caresses I transmute into cyber touch whereby no real nerve ending ever comes into contact with ecstasy or agony

uninvited unwelcome interlopers, to protect the ruins from a lifetime of bitter disappointment. My opinions on what matters in this life, my yearning intuition , my sighing intelligence, my aching ascetic, I hide under a veil of silence for fear of cruel litigation or brutal reprisal with lethal weaponry.

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: Ideagems Publications 1110 Bonifant St., Suite 600 Silver Spring, MD 20910

These shields and scars of ugly abuse I wear in a world driven by fear vanity intolerance to hide the truth of my beauty my sensuality my gifts my hopes

my dreams My most precious heart, in the name of mere survival. pounding wearily deep within my agonized breast, — Laurie Notch, Tuesday, palpitates with the need to February 15, 2005, 5:16:53 PM love and above all, be loved, I have barricaded with thick thorny hedges, Are you a poet and know it — or not? Send whose barbs will cut to the quick us your work: ideagems@aol.com any and all

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NEW

Norma’s Daily Bread: A Photographic Essay

Norma does alterations at a dry cleaner’s. She puts in eleven-hour days hemming pants, repairing torn fabric and broken zippers, and making alterations. At the end of her shift, her fingers are sore and her eyes are strained. Norma is a hardworking woman whom we’d like to honor for May Day, the international day to honor workers around the world.

Reflecting on the day’s lot

Calibrating Zippers & scissors all the livelong day

Sharp & pointy tools of the trade

Meet the presses. Mighty fine finger work

Susie, the no-frills mannequin

Are you a woman with a demanding livelihood? Do you have pictures of your day on the job? Send tem to us at ideagems@aol.com or any of our mailing addresses listed in this publication. Volume 1, Issue 7

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Mystery of the Majestic, Part VII If you happened to miss out on earlier chapters of this or any of our other stories, order the back issued for $2.00 a copy. Or better yet, sign up for a year’s subscription for $15.00 and receive all the back issues plus our current issue for up to twelve total issues. Simply fill out the coupon inside this magazine and send it in with your check or money order or go to PayPal to place your order today!

BALANCING ACT “So,” Marque stood up and extended his right hand to her. “That dinner invitation I made is still open if you’re interested.” Arna looked at his palm then decided to decline his offer of assistance. She raised her rotund bottom from the indented leather, balled her hands to the small of her back and stretched. She ruffled her fine bangs with her ink-stained fingertips “Long as it ain’t that squishy sushi stuff. Just let me get my hat and coat.” “And blindfold.” He held out the black kerchief. “I thought that darned injunction was agin me sayin’ anythaing about that gizmo – not about seein’ it.” “Would you prefer I strap this across your mouth then?” Arna gasped at the implication and turned to submit to the treatment. “The eyes have it.” He tied the cloth behind her head and adjusted her hat. He stopped just before reaching the stairs. “I forgot something. Wait here and don’t move.” Arna placed her palms against the peeling wallpaper for security. “This is so humiliatin’,” she bemoaned. “Arna,” a deep voice whispered. “Marque? Is that you?” “Come with me.” Arna felt a hand firmly tugging her arm to move her toward the stairs. “Arna! Stop!” Marque shouted. He flew down the corridor to catch her before she toppled down the steep staircase. “I thought I told you to stay put,” he breathed heavily.

The hair rose on Arna’s crawling skin. “Willie the ghost,” she muttered. She gripped Marque like a life preserver until they made it through the lobby and out the theater’s front doors.

“Wasn’t that you leadin’ me on?”

fork.”

“No.”

Arna shook her head then changed the subject. “I know I’m under an injunction not to discuss anything with anyone outside of the theater and all, although I did kinda violate that by goin’ to that Mendelssohn fella’s office the day you saw fit to slap me with papers. But…”

“Well, then who was it?” “There was no one, Arna. Now let’s go down carefully.” The hair rose on Arna’s crawling skin. “Willie, the ghost,” she muttered. She gripped Marque like a life preserver until they made it through the lobby and out the theater’s front doors. They agreed on Italian. Marque knew a cozy little restaurant called Luigi’s just a few minutes’ walk down Gallatin Street. Arna was happy to be blindfold-free outside of her theatrical prison. She caught sight of her wrecked Jeep inside the warped gate. Marque pulled her by the arm to redirect her attention. “Just don’t tell my lawyer you did that.” Marque admonished. “Mum’s the word.” She pinched her thumb and forefinger together and ran them across her lips. At the restaurant, the hostess seated them at a small window-side table. Arna ordered a salami sub. Marque preferred the low-carb fare, antipasto and pesto. The waiter started them off with a glass each of the house red. “Sorry it has to be domestic, but considering our limited budget, I have to keep it on the cheap.” He raised his glass to hers. “Here’s to saving the ol’ gal.” “Who, me?” “I was referring to the Majestic.” She looked out the window at the passers-by. “Seems like I been skippin’ a few years, ya know, from twenty to thirty to sixty.” Not daring to pick up the touchy thread of a woman aging, he clanked his glass to hers. “Chin-chin.” He tipped the glass to his lips then set it back on the table. “I think that maybe tomorrow we should drive to Helena and check out the bank account.” Arna crinkled her brow. “And how long might that take?” “A couple of hours,” he garbled through a mouthful of antipasto. “Want some?” He held out a tidbit for her on the end of his

“But what?” “I really need to call my boss and my landlord to tell ‘em there’s been a delay in my return. I mean, it’s been five days since I left and I’m sure they’re plum concerned over what’s become of me.” Marque smiled with the feeling of guilty pleasure of having this much power over her. He was a master of manipulation and made a decent living from it. He played it to the hilt. “Well, I’m not sure if that would be wise. We might have to do it in the presence of my lawyer and of course, he wouldn’t be available at this hour.” Arna gave him that look a kid gives when denied a sweet treat. “All right, I suppose you can as long as I am a witness to what you say, but I hope this gesture on my part doesn’t lead to any conflict of interest.” He pulled out the cell from his jacket. Arna reached for it, but he pulled it back. “If you don’t mind, I’ll dial. Now what’s the number?” He punched in what she recited and handed her the phone. Marque couldn’t figure out if it was the crappy wireless signal or the fact Texas was so far away that made Arna talk so loud . He buried his face into his plate of pasta to try and shield himself from the stares of the couple seated at the neighboring table. “Hee-yello, Charlie? Heya, this is Arna! Yeah! So how’s thaings down thar in Tuckers Corner? Oh, you got to be kiddin’? Did she take her first steps already? And I missed it. Yeah… yeah… Rah-ight. Oh, I know. Uh-huh. Yeah well, Charlie, the reason I’m callin’ is— Whazzat? Yeah, I know I been gone for quite a spell. Uh-huh. Well, tell... well tell Lulu thanks for coverin’ for me. Uh, look, Charlie, I’m in sort of a legal mess up here with my uncle’s death an’ all… Uh-huh… well, thank you kah-indly, Charlie. I sho’ ‘preciate y’alls’ condolences an’ all, but… Uh-huh… Uh-huh… yeah, (continued on page 7)

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Mystery of the Majestic (Continued from page 6)

Negotiating the four blocks back to the Majestic from Luigi’s felt more like riding a unicycle on a high wire lined with obstacles while juggling an incendiary bomb.

well, I do understand and I wouldn’t want to hold you up in runnin’ the diner and…Yessir, I will sir. Bah-ye and thanks for everythaing.” Arna pulled the phone away from her ear and examined at as though looking for a tick on a coonhound. “How’dy’all work this thaing?”

done? Wha... Clayton’s li’l bronzed baby shoes, all my family pictures, n’ all? Mrs. Lewis? Mrs. Lewis? You skanky ol’ bitch! Donchya hang up on me! Goddamitohellnback!”

“Here,” Marque held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. He took it and hit the end button. “So, what was that about?”

She found herself standing at the center of everyone’s unwanted attention. She slapped the phone on the table, her hand trembling, then asked the passing busboy, “‘Scuse me, where’s the ladies’ room?” He pointed to a door in the back near the kitchen area.

The waiter came with the salami sub. Arna wrapped her mouth around the end of the sandwich and bit off a chew that sat inside her left cheek as she explained, “Nothin’ other than news from home: Cathy Gullich’s baby walked for the firast time. Lulu has been workin’ double shifts at the diner to cover for me. Charlie McKerny, he’s the owner ‘n manager o’ the Driveway Diner out thar on Country Road 44, just north of New Hope.” Marque began drumming his fingers on the table. “Well, to make a long story shorter than a prairie dawg’s tail, Charlie informed me that he was very sorry and all, but that he had to let me go. He’s already hired a replacement, some gal named Jeannie.” Marque rotated his hands to urge, “Take this as a sign.” “Pardon?” Her attention pointed toward another concern. “A sign. You know, a portend, a herald, a —” “Could I call someone else, please?” Fret worked her brow. “Who?” “My landlady,” she swallowed along with the bite of sandwich. “Guess I better tell her to pack up my thaings and look for another renter.” The conversation with Mrs. Lewis was cut shorter and harder than the previous one. Arna had barely gotten past the cordialities when the bad news swamped her sailing. “You cain’t do that, Mrs. Lewis!” she shouted, drawing the attention of the other fine patrons at Luigi’s Restaurant. “Whatchya mean it’s been

Volume 1, Issue 7

Marque stood up and implored, “Arna! Arna! Please, tone it down!”

Marque stood with his mouth open and watched her disappear into the sanctuary designated solely for her gender. *

Negotiating the four blocks back to the Majestic from Luigi’s felt more like riding a unicycle on a high wire lined with obstacles while juggling an incendiary bomb. The streets were nasty at this time of night. Marque dodged drunks, punks, and hookers all the while keeping Arna from losing it with anyone who crossed her path. For all his debonair charm and grace, he was at a loss over how to handle the explosive Arna. She was fit to be tied and he did not have the necessary equipment at his disposal. He threw his cell phone into the toss and placed a call to Lily. Now that was a feat! He asked her to meet them at the theater. He knew it would demand a woman’s expertise to diffuse this bomb, and although Lily was a bit of an emotional pyromaniac, she possessed the know-how. After twelve minutes of guiding Arna past strung-out junkies, loitering skinheads, and hustling hookers, he got her to the doors of the Paine & Pleasure. He quickly unlocked them and got her inside. Arna’s fuse had burned to the core. Her dynamite blew. She rent the display racks to pieces. “Arna, stop it! Stop it!” Marque ordered. He put both arms around her and held her from behind and knocked her Stetson to the floor. She kicked at a mannequin sporting pony play gear. He tried pulling her back so she’d miss, but her right foot had deadly aim.

He looked around for a restraining device, of which there was a great variety. He noticed sets of handcuffs hanging off a board to his left. He pulled Arna’s right arm around to her back and caused her to yelp. With his left hand he snatched down a pair of cuffs. He put his left arm around her neck and brandished the glittering restraints. Breathing heavily he said, “Don’t make me use these.” Arna’s eyes widened with revulsion at what he proposed. She knew she had to cease and desist or be thoroughly subjugated. “That’s better.” Marque slowly pulled his arms away to release her. A triple knock at the door signaled Lily’s arrival. “Ah, the cavalry,” Marque quipped. He tried to brush back the hair that had strayed over his face during his bout and opened the door. “Holy shit,” cried Lily, “What kind of tornado blew through here?” She hopped over the downed mannequin and surveyed the path of destruction. “An F-3 named Arna.” Lily made three cups of instant coffee in the store’s microwave and brought them over to the back of the counter where Marque had set Arna in a padded folding chair. Her tears rained a salty wash into the box of tissues that Marque had placed in her lap. Lily set the tray down on the glass counter, handed Marque a cup then sidled up to Arna. “C’mon, honey, drink this.” Did Lily just use the word ‘honey’? Marque mused to himself as he sipped the hot bitter brew. He sighed with relief knowing he could count on her strength and support. He hoped the two of them could pull off this balancing act with a disenfranchised woman teetering on the edge. No matter what it took, they had to keep outcast Arna from crashing into hopelessness. To be continued, of course!

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The Elusive Force by Ana Ostrzycka and Marek Rymuszko Translation by Joel Stern

A moment later, pandemonium broke loose in the apartment

occurred in mid-January of 1983 (one version) or in early February (second version). Little attention was paid to them at the time; they were simply ascribed to static electricity from handling plastic articles, wearing wool garments, etc. People would only joke that one had to be careful when shaking Joasia’s hand, because lately she gave a “jolt.”

There is nothing remarkable about Plonow Street in Sosnowiec [Poland]. It has many old houses, most of which date from before the war, and the families in that district have been there fore twenty years or more. Andrzej and Ewa Gajewski and their thirteen-year-old daughter Joasia occupied an efficiency on the first floor of the building at 5 Plonow Street. The girl attended sixth grade in Primary School No. 1 in Sosnowiec. Her mother was a telephone operator at a local office, her father a plumber employed at the Sosnowiec Steelworks. All in all an average family, one of many such in [the region] of Silesia. On June 28, 1982, Maria Tomecki, Joasia’s maternal grandmother, passed away. We note this event because psychological tests administered to the girl later on showed that she had been very close to her grandmother and was profoundly shaken by her death. We must also point out that the youngster was then undergoing intense hormonal changes connected to puberty. Accounts by Joasia’s parents and other persons who came in contact with her during the several weeks before the sudden outbreak of the paranormal phenomena repeatedly mention that she “cracked.” This sound resembles a finger snapping or clicking (the exact words used by our interviewees) concentrated around the teenager. The acoustical effects first

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Another circumstance that may or may not be important in determining the origin of the phenomenon is Joasia’s illness at the time. From early March 1983, the girl had been down with the flu. Her cough persisted, and her temperature exhibited strange fluctuations. For example, it would inexplicably rise all of a sudden to 40 degrees Celsius [104 degrees Fahrenheit] and then fall to remain on a level close to normal. What is more interesting, a comparison of the thermometer reading with a direct touch of the girl’s body seemed to rule out such a high fever. The physicians who examined Joasia considered her influenza atypical; some of them suspected a contagious disease but could not find any tangible symptoms. The routine medical procedures and conclusions in this case can be attributed to the fact that in Sosnowiec, as in all of Silesia, children often suffer from bronchitis and other respiratory disorders because of the severe air pollution accompanying the region’s heavy industry. April 4, 1983, was the second day of the traditional Polish Easter festivities. It went by uneventfully in the Gajewski home, except that Joasia had felt worse since the morning, complaining of a persistent headache. After the family dinner, Andrzej went to his job on the night shift at the Sosnowiec Steelworks, while the girl, her mother, and her grandfather, Marian Tomecki, watched TV. All three of them went to bed around midnight. The mother slept on a cot in the kitchen; Joasia and her grandfather, on a sofa bed in the parlor. [It all] began around three o’clock in the morning [when] a straw mat fell on Marian Tomecki’s head. Awakened, he tried to

fasten it back onto the wall, but (he claimed) the mat “tore itself from his hands and danced around.” At first, he thought Joasia was playing a trick, only it turned out the girl was asleep. A moment later, pandemonium broke loose in the apartment. According to all three witnesses, various objects began flying through the air — mostly plates and glasses. Some of them, hurtling at a tremendous velocity across the apartment, smashed into the walls and buffet. Windowpanes rattled; furniture shook. Matches fluttered about as if thrown by an invisible hand. Afraid they might start a fire, Grandfather Tomecki chased them around the parlor and stomped on them. The light was turned on at once, but that did not stop the devastation. What was even more terrifying, fragments of the shattered glassware, as if drawn by some uncanny force, flew at the girl and cut her. The blanket covering her was so charged with electricity it gave off sparks. With very passing moment, the bedlam grew worse. The frightened mother, daughter, and grandfather fled to the couple living upstairs, Jan and Gertrude Jach, who had already been roused by the din on the first floor. Jan Jach, in fact, was the first outside observer of the psychokinetic effects. His statement on this subject is presented below on the basis of a tape recording we made in December 1983 while accompanying a Japanese film crew. Q. Can you describe for us what took place? A. My wife and I were awakened by a tremendous commotion downstairs. It sounded as though someone was breaking dishes on the floor and pounding the wall with a heavy object. I thought the neighbor might have had too much to drink, maybe a family squabble was going on there. That really surprised me, because the Gajewskis were quiet people and such things never happened among them… I no sooner said that to my wife when Mrs. Gajewski ran up here with her daughter and father. They were scared to death. They said things (continued on page 9)

The Elusive Force (continued from page 6)

Glasses, screws, and other items started flying about in trajectories contrary to the fundamental laws of physics.

vice who came to examine the feverish Joasia asked curtly who in the family was mentally ill and then departed, leaving the girl unconscious. At every step, her parents met with mistrust and hostility. The repeated cannonades in their apartment angered the neighbors, who were unable to sleep.

were flying around the apartment like the end of the world had come. They asked to stay with us awhile, since they were afraid to go back. Q. What was your reaction? A. I thought it was a dumb joke. I went down to the first floor with them. When I opened the door, I saw everything in the apartment was smashed. There was glass everywhere and dents in the walls. The place was in shambles. Q. Was anything flying around when you went down there? A. Not then. We stood around a long time, but nothing happened. Q. In that case, did you only see the aftereffects or something else? A. That was only when I came in the second time. Q. Tell us more about it. A. When the racket downstairs started up again, I returned there and saw glasses, plates, pots, and a lot of other objects smash into the wall. The noise was unbelievable. Q. You saw objects flying? A. Not flying, only they hit the wall. Nobody was in the room; Mrs. Gajewski and her daughter were standing with me in the doorway. Those dishes must have been flying incredibly fast, because you couldn’t see them until they fell. Q. What did you do then? A. Well, naturally I was scared. I didn’t know what to think, so I hurried back upstairs with the Gajewskis. Q. While the girl and her mother were in your apartment, did any objects move spontaneously? A. Not at first, only later on. Q. Exactly when was “later on”? A. A few moments afterwards. My wife made tea, and all of a sudden things began “acting up.” The first object to fly was a book, which fell under the buffet. Joasia

Volume 1, Issue 7

Joasia at a door destroyed by her telekinesis.

Gajewski picked it up and put it on the desk, but a moment later, it flew under the buffet again. Nobody could have thrown it as we were all sitting about ten feet away then. Q. What else do you remember? A. The girl looked ill and complained of a headache. Her mother said she probably had a fever. Her temperature was measured, and the thermometer showed 40.5 degrees [105 degrees Fahrenheit]. Then the girl fell asleep and everything quieted down. (End of recording) Alarmed by his wife’s telephone call, Andrzej Gajewski arrived home around four in the morning. He left work with great reluctance, because it was difficult to break away from his shift at the plant, and besides, he thought his wife must be imagining things. Once he reached the threshold of the apartment, however, he realized her story was true. When he returned with his family from the Jachs and opened the door, he immediately saw a stoneware pot fly from the kitchen to the parlor. It shattered the glass pane of the buffet and then itself broke to pieces on the floor. The next few days not only did not bring a respite but witnessed an intensification of the phenomenon. Glass shards — the remnants of flying jars, tumblers, plates, mugs, bottles, etc. — had to be removed from the floor almost constantly. When the Gajewskis implored the local authorities for help, they were treated like lunatics or hoaxsters. A physician from the emergency medical ser-

The turning point came when Andrzej Gajewski, after much effort, finally persuaded officers from a nearby police station to inspect the apartment. (They would later say they had also thought some sort of hoax was being perpetrated.) The first evening went by uneventfully. The Gajewskis were dejected. Fortunately, they managed to persuade Sgt. Tadeusz Slowik, the district constable, to come the next day. This time the effects (which were also witnessed by one of the neighbors) occurred fairly soon. A few minutes after Joasia retuned from the doctor, all hell broke loose. Glasses, screws, and other items started flying about in trajectories contrary to the fundamental laws of physics. For example, objects would zoom out of the kitchen, execute a sharp turn in the air, and land in the parlor or slam into the opposite wall. Some of the time, in contrast to previous experience, were clearly visible in flight. The police report, which stated unequivocally that inexplicable phenomena involving the spontaneous movement of objects were occurring in an apartment at 5 Plonow Street, convinced the municipal authorities to take the whole matter seriously. The Gajewskis were visited by the chief architect of Sosnowiec, Lech Fulbiszewski, accompanied by personnel from the Department of Urban Planning. As he rode down Plonow Street, engineer Fulbiszewski concluded that the kinetic effects in the apartment were being caused by settlement of the building’s walls. ... This meant the people living there were in danger Want more? Subscribe today!

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My Story, Part II A Sci-fi Tale of Apocalyptic Woe by MSM

Time Passes By (Not Long After The Strikes): I see myself with someone who is not clear to me — just a presence in shadows. Yet this presence is good and comforting. We are together high above in one of the wrecked skyscrapers that tower above the ruined cityscape. It isn’t long after the strikes, just as the last fires of the Burn lost their fury with little left to consume. We look out toward the city below and afar. Mercurial hues of orange and red announce the gradual return of the twin suns of Sol thru slowly dissipating clouds of smoke and debris. As the twinkling lights of rescue craft begin to descend upon the broken city I am held near. What’s there to rescue I wonder. A sense of warmth and love envelopes me. “How did this happen?” I quietly ask. No reply. There is only silence as we look out at the city. The Long Night has come. More Time Has Passed By: The Survivor Domes are nearly complete. One day new cities will rise as the ruins outside remain as testimony to what once was. Climate planet wide is shifting and erratic. Areas that were once warm and tropical are now in winter. Storms lash coastlines and deserts form where deserts once never were. Everything is in flux and volatile. Of the other worlds: Sarasin is lifeless. The other central worlds are devastated. The terra-formed outer worlds can no longer support life. The inner worlds are stricken. The asteroid zone with its mining and habitation facilities are largely wiped out. The sentient web that bound Home System together and connected it to Talosia is fragmented. Much of the support and relief effort is coming from there and elsewhere. The reconstruction effort is being focused on Home World and the surviving worlds. Home World, the oldest, the birthplace of this star faring civilization is priority. Here I Am: I have a story to tell. It isn’t a story of life during and right after The Devastation.

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Here I Am: I have a story to tell. It isn’t a story of life during and right after The Devastation. It is a continuation. It is a story of Now and what may come to be.

It is a continuation. It is a story of Now and what may come to be. A story of hope and rebirth, of renewal and healing. The coming of an age, a spiritual age unlike any that preceded. Could it be The End brings about The Beginning? It is the dawn of the Fifth Age. The 41st is just on the horizon. The time of The Devastation has passed. Much of Home System lies in ruins, but slowly the reconstruction begins. Help has arrived from distant worlds-from Talosia System itself and those who have long and ancient ties. Fast Forward: Sometime in the distant or perhaps not so distant future. I walk fearlessly with a friend in the new capital of Terr’ Sa. We talk of things that were, of things that are, of things that are to come. I look around. Spires of amorphic organic design and luminescent material touch the sky around us. A myriad of colours, shifting emotiglyphs crawl, pulse and shimmer-the structures/buildings are alive-are sentient. This city like all cities on this world and the worlds of Home System and Talosia are joined-part of this vast living and vibrant sentience that now encompasses and links both star systems and their respective worlds and peoples. What was only in thought and idea before The Devastation is now reality-here in this placein this future time. We are now standing on some high central point in the city — a temple of sorts. What towers before us is a structure of incredibly beautiful spiral like design reaching toward the domed sky. It is central to this city. It seems that all other structures are in tune with this one-what it shows the others show with some variation. There is a certain harmony here — a harmony I only glimpsed in the city of Remembrance on Talosia sometime before and during The Devastation. It is here now-here on Terr’ Sa-in Home System! My friend stands with me watching me, reading my thoughts, my expressions as I take all this in: the wonder, the surprise and the sense of well being. The air around vibrates in soothing tones-from the

structures-speaking not just in colours and glyphic language, but also in the anguage of music. How far in the future am I? There is no response. Present Time: Aboard the Soulship Taren Far Seekerone of the few surviving Soulships now stationed in a partially reconstructed section of Helvathia Spacedock. I stand with the others. We are now one with Far Seeker as we begin disembarkation procedure and system exit. The wall in front of us seems to dissolve-revealing space and the moon Helvathia below, the seat of System Government before The Devastation. Colours, glyphs and graphics seem to float in space before us as the ship departs the space dock on its way to a safe transit point just outside the system. With the old transit points no longer useable Far Seeker must make the transit herself-a capability all soulships have, even before the End came. Exiting system, transit point just ahead. Instinctively we wait for Home System’s sentience to clear us and transmit a departing message of good will and safe transit. None comes. Instead the EBN message appears on display — a warning to all those who wish to do harm. A request to those who wish to help. The wall solidifies and closes out visible space before us leaving only glyphs and ship status graphs. We can feel the familiar feeling of the ship engaging her transit drive — a unique sensation let me say. Fifty light years of space transited in mere seconds. We translate just outside Talosian System space. Display once again reveals space and stars. Far Seeker waits for recognition and acceptance from Talosia’s sentience. It comes. Colours and glyphs shimmer on Far Seekers outer hull. Do you like this story? Would you like to see it continued? Send us your feedback at ideagems@aol.com

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 7

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The Spoiler, Part VII

“Yeah? I read the book. Hell, I wrote it! Now, would you mind making your point before the motion picture release in 2008 of the Common Era?” Marsha huffed like an antsy child who’s been made to sit quiet in church.

“As I was saying, it was the year of our Lord, 1782, when I had caught Parfrey with the coded documents. To prevent him from making a rash move, I seized Abigail and held my revolver to her head. Milo ordered Parfrey and the coachman to throw down any concealed arms they might possess, a request to which they readily complied. You see, madam, Milo still had his tongue in those days and used it on my behalf for reasons of concealing my identity. As you know, I hailed from that area and was all too familiar, not to mention, wanted by the constabulary. But I do digress. “At the brunt of Milo’s blunderbuss, the coachman unhitched the horses and shooed them off. I proceeded to lash the two men to the wagon wheels using the reins that I had cut from the harness. I then turned my attention to the women who stood petrified from utter fear and dismay. “It had been seven heart-rending years since I beheld Abigail’s loveliness. We were both fourteen at the time and in attendance at a cotillion where her radiant beauty outshone the very sun. By evening’s end, I stole a kiss and ran off to join the crew of the Lexington to fight the British fleet. But that, alas, is another story.” Marsha rejoined, “Yeah? I read the book. Hell, I wrote it! Now, would you mind making your point before the motion picture release in 2008 of the Common Era?” “Patience whilst I arrive at it, madam.” The pouring of water filled his pause. “I trussed the hands of the women.” “But of course! Can’t kidnap women without trussing them up now can we?” Marsha wrenched her bonds holding her fast to the needlework upholstered shepherd’s crook armchair. “Madam, I would thank you not to interrupt,” he admonished.

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“Milo bore Mrs. Fletcher on his steed while I rode with Abigail. The women were in a frightful state, crying out their terror. As we sped off, I could hear Parfrey cursing. He has no idea it was I who had divested him of his gold, his secrets, and his beloved protégée. “About a mile down the road, Milo set down Mrs. Fletcher and gave her stern instructions to count to one hundred before running back to the coach and release the men. He finally informed her of the future receipt of a demand for ransom for the safe return of her daughter. We left her in the dusk and dust of hooves then carried the comely Abigail to the cave above the Patuxent River that we utilized for our hideaway after plundering and absconding. “There I held her in rather deplorable conditions. We took her within the dark damp recesses of the grotto. Like you, madam, she pleaded for her freedom and asked what ransom we would ask of her family. She insisted her father’s modest assets would not suffice to sate our avarice. “I allowed her to believe a ransom would be sought, but in truth, I merely wanted to prolong her stay in my company so that I could descry her true heart regarding her love for me.” “How about I descry my boredom with this agonizingly tedious prattle.” Marsha groaned. “Patience, madam, and hear me out. Milo and I sat her on a rough-hewn chair at a coarse wooden plank set across two rocks that served as a table. We lit a lamp to illuminate the room. The tears streamed down her cheeks as Milo and I stepped away to seek some refreshment as well as to discuss my strategy for dealing with her. Milo knew my intention nearly better than I. While serving aboard the Lexington we developed a deep bond whereby I entrusted him with every detail of my passion. “During our days at sea, I also learned of his life. Milo was the son of a Scottish sea captain and a Chaptico squaw who had been seized by British sailors while she was out gathering oysters along the Chesapeake shore. They smuggled her

aboard their ves sel to commit felonious acts on her person then sell her to any merchant who would pay a sound price. Milo’s father discovered the rueful girl in the hold and rescued her from his crewmen’s malefaction. He protected her on their passage to England then saw to it she was safely returned to her village in Maryland. The young Indian girl fell in love with the genteel captain, and he did likewise with her. After seeking permission from the girl’s father, they wed. They established their home in St. Mary’s County where Milo was born in 1757, a good years before my own birth.” “Liar! Fictional characters are made, not born.” Raeph ignored her remark. “When Milo was able-bodied, he served with his father on many a sea-faring mission then joined the fight for freedom from tyranny. We stood at each other’s backs, madam.” “Bully, for you. Look, would you mind finishing up before I grow cobwebs?” Marsha sarcastically implored. The tub squeaked as Raeph pushed himself out. “We returned to the chamber where Abigail sat. I set a jug and three cups on the board. It pained me deeply not to reveal my face beneath my fearsome mask, but I needed to see the candor that lay within the crystal azure pools of her eyes.” Marsha hung her head. “Did I actually write this crap? Where was my head?” “I poured up a cup of mead and placed it in her bound hands. She nervously sipped while Milo conducted the interrogation. He asked her name and the location of her home, what her father did and what his revenue might be. He asked about the gentleman in the carriage with her. That is where I heard, to my shock and chagrin, her employ the word ‘fiancé’ in regard to that trifling traitorous fop, Parfrey Von Huys.” The scraping of razor on skin whisked reticently. He spoke between the strokes applied by Milo’s skilled hand. “My heart rent in two for two reasons: the loss of my love and betrayal by my friend. Let me remind you of how Parfrey and I grew up together.” “Oh, God! Not another digression!” (continued on page 13)

The Spoiler (continued from page 12)

“Beside myself with anger and frustration over how my trusted friend was setting me to ruin in life and love no matter how hard I had tried to make good of myself, I turned to a life of larceny and took on the guise of a spoiler.”

“This is worse than sitting in rush-hour traffic on the Baltimore beltway.” She sighed impetuously. Raeph carried on, “When the war began in 1775, Parfrey and I joined the Continental Fleet. All the time we were together I had always confided my affections for Abigail. We began to experience our differences when Parfrey began moving up the ranks while I lagged behind. Through his father’s influence, combined with his sycophantic nature, he was commissioned as Master of Navigations. I served as a gunner with little chance or ambition for promotion. “Parfrey became a warrant officer for the Navy Board in Annapolis where he gathered intelligence on enemy ships and directed the course of our fleet. He’d occasionally return to the Lexington, especially after we’d just fought in battle and taken a prize. Whenever he disembarked, he would promise to carry with him the letters I had soulfully penned but had no means of delivering to dearest Abigail. Sad to my heart, he never delivered to me any of her correspondence in reply. “I began to question my old friend on two accounts: his explanation for Abigail’s refusing to respond to my letters, which he claimed was due to her disinterest in me as a suitor, and his questionable strategic sense as pertained to the Lexington. After seeing the charts one September morn, I dared ague his plots. Parfrey, a respected naval officer, saw to it that I, an insubordinate tar, tasted the lash and languished in the brig. It was a necessary and understandable discipline, albeit galling. How my rage served me in combat against the enemy into whose waters we had sailed some days after. Alas, we were captured by the British cutter, the Alert, on September 19, 1776. “After suffering maltreatment at the hands of the scurvy British sea dogs for nigh on two years, Milo and I managed to steal a life boat and escape. We were picked up by an American schooner returning to Virginia. From there we traveled by sloop up the Chesapeake and back to Maryland. Milo and I caught up with Parfrey at his father’s bureau in Annapolis where he worked some illVolume 1, Issue 7

defined pointless paper shuffling job. Basically, madam, he did nothing but brag about his exploits at sea and the women he conquered, none of which had any basis in fact. Still, he greeted us with open arms and a hardy clap on each our backs. He composed letters of reference on our behalf for courier jobs in Londontown, which we later obtained. “He took us to dinner where we regaled him with the story of our capture and escape. Our revelry subsided with the late hour and many mugs of ale. In a maudlin mood, I begged to know the news of Abigail. How Parfrey assured me he had always delivered my letters, but that Abigail was unwilling to write or ever see me again. He further informed that the Prince George’s County sheriff had a warrant for my arrest for molestation and assault from the night at the cotillion. If I were to venture to the Fletcher estate in Montpelier, I would surely be arrested. His confident manner combined with the evening’s imbibing over our long-term allegiance as friends and fighters of the foe persuaded me to accept his logic. “Fortunately for me, Milo – who possessed an uncanny intuition about people – didn’t trust Parfrey. He took it upon himself to souse out the truth through a network of informants among the indentured servants and slave folk. Word got to Carmelia about Parfrey’s account of her mistress’s heart. The young domestic had informed the Fletcher’s wagoner that Parfrey had reported my being killed in battle. Through other channels, Milo further learned how our ship’s capture had been, let’s use the term, ‘arranged.’ The name being passed around the scuttlebutt was that of Warrant Officer Parfrey Von Huys. When I dared broach Parfrey as to the truth of these matters, he took umbrage to the point of seeing that Milo and I be unduly released from our gainful employ.” Raeph paused to wipe his face and put on his shirt. “Beside myself with anger and frustration over how my trusted friend was setting me to ruin in life and love no matter how hard I had tried to make good of myself, I turned to a life of larceny and took on the guise of a spoiler. At first, I did not wish Milo to be involved for the risks of arrest and, nay, execution. In fact, I urged

him to go back to sea where he could best apply his skills. But Milo being a faithful friend and in no particular mood to return to the maritime world decided to remain alongside. Thus we partnered in perpetrating malfeasance. “Having worked as couriers, we’d garnered the knowledge of client delivery, travel schedules and routes. We studied the best locations to strike then hooded our faces and lay in wait. We especially enjoyed tormenting the big wigs who thought they were immune to the insult of banal robbery and relished stripping them of their purses and fineries. We soon became masterful and nefarious spoilers known throughout the free and independent state of Maryland. “Our career path took an unexpected turn during one particular robbery that produced a satchel full of secret documents being smuggled to Tory agents and sympathizers. Thereafter, I made it my mission to intercept all whom I could, divest them of their reports and enrich myself in the process. Thus began our careers as patriotic interceptors.” A wormy remark slid onto Marsha’s tongue but never slithered out from her lips. It was all she could do to keep her head above the surface of consciousness. Exhaustion sank her like a lead weight on a baited fishhook. Marsha plummeted into the waters of her past. She foundered on the red and yellow mosaic-tiled floor of an office building on the upper west side of New York and found herself in the midst of storm of her own brewing. “You sneaking conniving bastard! I want my computer and my papers!” Hurricane Marsha was hitting Rolfe Lafferty’s plush office with its category five force. Rolfe’s cold hollow voice intoned, “Look, Marsha. I sent all your stuff to your place by UPS. I have nothing more to give or say.” He couldn’t raise his steely blue eyes into her violent gusting. He seemed to strain against the winds of her ferocity to reach over and press the intercom button on his sleek black phone. “Gloria, get security up here, will you?” His voice could barely be heard through her howling. (continued on page 14)

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The Spoiler (continued from page 13)

Marsha gathered up the leftovers of her life and put them deep into the icebox of depression.

“I hope your Viagra-swollen penileimplanted dick explodes like a hotdog in a microwave!” Those were her last lame words to her former mentor and lover, Rolfe Lafferty, CEO of TruHeart Publishers, Ltd., before being dragged off by two burly men in uniforms. Hurricane Marsha had fizzled out as a tropical depression, weak and weepy. She found herself stalled out, her feet fixed among the cracks in the battered sidewalk – a stanchion rushed by the fastflowing slurry of passing traffic. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. She could only rue the loss of her love, her life, her career. Everything she’d achieved in the past seven years: her job with a highend publishing house, the promised publication of her first and only novel, her love and devotion to the man who had backed her through it all. Her emotional and professional nest eggs had both been laid in one trendy basket. Now that basket had been dropped from the roof of the twenty-story building that loomed over her. In 1997, thirty-year-old Marsha Tucker was riding high and fast on the flume of love and success. She was the lover of a well-respected author, writer, and lead publisher of romance novels. Never mind that Rolfe Lafferty was forty-nine, married with three teenage children. Their forbidden love served as an impetus for writing a series of romance novels set in Revolutionary War America about a Maryland socialite’s scandalous love for a notorious highwayman. Titled, “The Spoiler,” a period term for a man who robbed and ruined, the first book was projected to sell half a million copies in the first quarter. To add romance and mystery to the work, the publisher came up with the singular nom de plume with the unorthodox orthography, Gwynyvere. Ever since she was a fifteen, Marsha’s cute little pug nose had been buried in books of history and romance. As a college student, Marsha was determined to combine her double major in English and American History into one concerted effort to write a historical romantic saga. A bright smartalecky twenty-four year-old grad student, Marsha had garnered the admiration and

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support of her professor, Dr. Rolfe Lafferty. He mentored her. He proctored her. He seduced her. He protected her. He never let her leave his side – when he wasn’t with his wife and kids in Connecticut. Rolfe was the closest actualization of her fantasy lover she could find in a world filled with mediocre men in tedious suits and ties. He was a charismatic prestidigitator who had presto-change-o transformed her morass of historical detail and complicated plotlines into riveting storytelling. With his steely pen, he stetted her longwinded paragraphs and tautological refrains. He razzle-dazzled her with slight-of-hand contract arrangements, cooed sweet marketing strategies in her ear, and gently guided her hand across the signature lines of legal releases. It was a magic show, and she was the sex object whose youthful visage would be displayed on dust jackets and advertisements. But before she would ever get her chance to debut in public with “The Spoiler,” the curtain would come crashing down. During dress rehearsal, Marsha arrived on stage to find the role she played stricken from the Rolfe’s script for fame and fortune. Once Rolfe had retrieved all the golden eggs from his demiurgic goose, he had waved his wand and turned her into a white elephant. Once an item of beauty, intelligence, and intrigue, she had become no more than a piece of souvenir kitsch left on the shelf to collect house dust. As with any hobbyist, he took up untried material – a grad student named Rebecca. Worse than being replaced was being divested. Rolfe had stolen the legal rights to her story, its characters, and her penname for his own gain. Marsha litigated, but fighting for the custody of her creation proved to be a costly tug of war. Marsha had of her own free will signed everything over to him. As a small consolation, she would be entitled to a pittance in royalties but legalities would hold up her receipt of that due for years. In the meantime, voracious lawyers’ fees and time spent in court would consume all she had. Marsha gathered up the leftovers of her life and put them deep into the icebox of depression. She moved back to her childhood home, Baltimore, where she worked everything from mailroom to clerical to editing jobs with publishers up and down the

I-95 corridor. She struggled to stay ingratiated to the industry and draw from the dregs of her talent. For all her efforts, she found publishers unwilling to put any of her creative works into print for public perusal. They would only consume her time and energy and limited financial resources. Meanwhile, her writing projects remained at the curbside. She had lost control in directing the vehicle of her talent that was carrying her through life. She had finally sailed over the brink of reason to plunge hard and deep into the mad waters of outrage. With a gentle shaking of her shoulders, Raeph’s firm hands reeled her back in from her troubled slumber. Marsha gasped and sputtered onto the deck of wakefulness. “Easy, madam, I only meant to rouse you from your drowse.” His tall lean figure towered over her. He looked at himself in the mirror and adjusted the floral cuffs of his fine ruffled shirt. He then tucked the hem into the waist of his black kneebreeches. He strapped on a belt with a buckle that matched the ones on his black leather shoes. These stood in contrast to his white knee-high stockings. Sandy hair hung in wet strings down his neck and over the mask strapped over his face. “Don’t you ever remove that thing?” Marsha sniped like a cranky child interrupted from her nap. “What thing?” “That stupid thing on your face. Hell, I don’t know why you bother to wear it anymore. If you are the truly Raeph Leicester I imagined, I have a pretty good idea what you look like,” she goaded. She flinched when he placed his warm hands on her shoulders. He set his face next to hers, his damp hair crushed between their cheeks, and looked at their reflections in the mirror. “Madam, I don’t wear it to hide who I am but rather to define who I am.”

What’s in store for our captive writer? The story continues in our next issue.

Cutlass Moon, Part V*

Susan Marie Guzman-Levin, a poster-child for anorexia, tapped a few loud strokes on her ultra-thin LeNovo notebook’s keyboard.

confirmed that American tourist, Robert Duran of Alameda, California, has been killed by hill-tribe extremists who claim they beheaded the U.S. hostage “as a gift to the people to symbolize the fight against oppression. President Arroyo has placed a milliondollar bounty on members of the radical anti-government group of indigenous people known as the Ilongot. On May 27, a dozen TO THE JAGGED EDGE members of the group raided a popular beach resort on the island of Luzon where Weather Sky on Earth the eights for June 11,of2001. Water photo courtesy Ron Cameron © 2005 they abducted 17 US nationals. Summer appears to be in full steam with temps in the low to mid nineties and high Threats to begin execution of the humidity. Forecast for today: high of 98 American hostages began last Sunday, when with 80 percent humidity, partly cloudy with a band of half a dozen armed men possible t-storms by late afternoon. Winds conducted an early morning raid on the blowing south by southeast at 5 to 10 miles resort, and continued through Monday an hour. Expect gusting winds with speeds unless the Philippine government agreed to up to 30 to 40 miles per hour later this the group’s demands. The group’s evening as a cold front from the west moves spokesperson stated they want all across the Shenandoah… development, construction, and military Sky Earth Water photo courtesy of Ron Cameron © 2005

Brrrrr-BIP, Brrrrr-BIP. The Blue Tooth ear-phone trills in a call as the rented black BMW convertible, top down, winds its way along the tree-lined oxbows of old Rock Creek, heading south on Beach Drive towards Massachusetts Avenue. “Ray here...Yeah? … Hey, Lionel! What’s the word? And don’t give me noooooooo bad news! … Uh-huh… You sure it’s a go? …. Permits in order? … Good…What about the liner? … Uh-huh…. Uh-huh… E-D-D? …. What? I ca… I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. … Shit!” Ray’s voice commands, “Star six nine. … Lionel? Sorry, dude, I lost the signal going into a tunnel. OK, departure date – when do we leave? … November. Uh-huh…That’s quite doable, quite doable. ... Will Milovisc be available by then? … Well, get that fat pig in the poke, will ya? … Look… Look, I… I don’t care what project he’s on, he’s committed himself, signed and sealed to our project. … Well, you tell him to get his porky ass out of the editing room and… OK. … What? … Yeah, I’m on my way to the embassy now to grease some Calibishian bigwig egos, not to forget the palms. You know, a little sycophantic K-Y flavored with simolean to screw ‘em easy and pleasurable. … O… OK, Lionel. … Later dude.” … Mark Simonson, W-P-O-P news. From our international desk: Officials have

activity to cease in the regions surrounding Tamsi, along the Kasiknan River, where the rebel stronghold is presumed to be located and where the hostages are being held in the jungle-covered mountains. The terrorist group says it is fighting for the return of ancestral lands where their headhunting predecessors once prevailed. In reaction to the news of Mr. Duran’s death, a spokesperson for the U.S. embassy in Manila stated: “The murder of innocents is truly an act of cowards and not freedom fighters”. The voice on the radio dopplers off as the black convertible rounds another bend as Ray’s voice carried over a conference phone in a plush office in Burbank. “Didjya here that? Headhunters in the Philippines, dude.” A tall thin man’s hand clicks an impressive megafunctional remote to a 10 by 25-foot wall covered in AV equipment. A UPI newscast is searched for and found then muted. Pictures of guerrilla fighters moving trancelike through a jungle appear on one of the numerous wall screens. “Lord, I hope this isn’t going be a big fat fly in the ointment. Well?” Nick sought favorable opinions with that pleading puppy dog look in his big chestnut eyes that was always hard to refuse. He leaned forward on his

ergonomic stool on the vidwall side of the rectangular smoked-glass table about which sat members of the production’s Red Team. “State Department advisories say ixnay on the aveltray,” piped in lanky spikehaired Karo Walsh, the assistant producer. With false eyelashes plastered on his heterochromatic eyes and a more uneven, quirkier haircut, he’d be the spitting image of Marilyn Manson, the older, grizzlier producer, Lionel Milovicz, visualized. Lionel’s broad balding pate rose in wavy folds above bushy blonde eyebrows as his baby blues rolled high and back in their sockets. “Christ, who uses Pig Latin anymore?” In lieu of that comment, he snapped, “Who’s got the geospecs on this place?” Susana Marie Guzman-Levin, a posterchild for anorexia, tapped a few loud strokes on her ultra-thin LeNovo notebook’s keyboard. The words leapt from the LCD to ride the high-pitch sound waves of her voice: “Pe’i Pi’i lies in the middle of the South Pacific, in a vast area between Papua New Guinea, Melanesia and Micronesia. The main coastal village….” She adjusted her heavy black rimmed spectacles as her tongue attempted to wrangle the unfamiliar phonemes, “Hue’ili Pe’i Pi’i, lies 30 mapu’u (about 1000 feet) from the western shore and is peopled by the Bunuau’u tribe whose main commerce is subsistence fishing and farming. Up on higher ground, protected from storm surges by a frontline of coconut palms and other thick vegetation, the forested hillsides are speckled with thatch huts mounted on reed frames on stilts, which make for great flexibility when the hamauta’an winds blow during hurricane season. Each compound of tan-colored huts is surrounded by kor’ha, territory hedges or reed fences. “When flying over Pe’i Pi’I, the tan speckles appear connected by the giant coils of a ruddy python. Pathways worn deep into the clay soil wind through the emerald green jungle floor sloping sharply upward onto a high ridge of mist-filled mountains. Paleolithic lava tubes interlaced with manmade shafts proved access to one of the island kingdom’s main products for (continued on page 16) * Part V was mistakenly listed in the last issue, which should have read Part IV. Man, do I ever need a proofreader!

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Cutlass Moon (Continued from page 15)

export: guano. The mineral-rich fecal matter so highly sought by gardeners all over the world is collected, boxed, and carried on the treacherous paths downward by the Wotomu’ilu tribe, the island’s other main ethnic collective. “On the concave side of the meniscus, the jungle-draped hills roll down to a tangle of crocodile-infested mangroves that weave their way through a network of islets. The name of this area is Miengu kui kana’u’u or Land of Hungry Water Spirits. These treacherous watery paths run westto-east paralleling the long rim of the ancient volcanic ridge that forms the south side -- a sheer jagged cliff dropping several hundred feet into a maelstrom of waves clashing with rocks. To the east, the shifting streams flow deep into jungle wetlands then to the river town of Fua’apu’oni where the forests are so dense it’s always twilight. This is Tangihanoe’ile kana’u’u, the sacrosanct Land of the Dead. Few dare venture there for fear of never finding their way back out. “Pe’i Pi’i is but a tiny island member of a much more expansive archipelago. The name comes from the crescent shape of the volcanic spine. Depending on the hardness or softness of the initial voiceless bilabial in combination with the stress and intonation applied, Pe’i Pi’i could be interpreted to mean, ‘crescent blade,’ ‘sharpened curve,’ or ‘jagged edge.’” A stifled cough signaled Susana Marie to look up and take notice of the supercilious smile of an evil-tempered director with a very short attention span. She quickly skipped to the credit, "From an article by Jason Smythe for ‘Island Hoppers E-zine,’ June 4, 1995.” Without acknowledging the overly thin, eager production assistant’s resourcefulness, Lionel conjectured, “Look people, that incident occurred in the Philippines, thousands of miles from our location. To worry about it happening to our production crew is like being afraid to drive on the L.A. Freeway because of a road rage shooting in… in… St. Louis.” His blotchy pink skin rouged with rising blood pressure. “Or vice versa,” he added with a prescribed pill toying about his tongue. His meaty paw of a hand ran along the silver-gray ponytail strapped behind his oversized round head. He wore a western Page 16

She knew she would have to take on these monsters, but first she needed to send her traveling companions off to safety.

shirt with bolo tie. In total mismatch to his stocky midriff, long spindly legs clad in faded jeans stretched out and crossed at the ankles of intricately crafted pointy-toe boots atop the table. He knew Nick hated people putting their feet up on his table; he further knew Nick wouldn’t dare criticize his main man on the production. “L.A.’s nowhere near St. Louis, and Pe’i Pi’i is nowhere near the P. I. So what’s the concern here?” Sycophantic acquiescence stroked his overblown ego and assured him there would be no problem or issue. Even Nick played party to this strategy of keeping the tough-n-gruff producer’s feathers unruffled, speaking for all concerned. “No fears, here, mate. Schedule’s a go.” His Kiwi accent dripped heavy off his glib tongue. “Travel papers, filming permits, in the satchel. Our caring staff here just want us to maintain a world’s eye view on things.” Lionel lowered his hackles and stared coolly at the curled up knuckles on his left hand. “So when do we boogaloo?” OPERATION CRASH LAND A flash in the predawn sky. KABWAM! The explosion seemed to be coming from off shore, about five hundred yards from their encampment in the underbrush. The woman crept off her netwé mat. She found the other members of her traveling party scrambling from their makeshift huts made from upturned canoes propped on poles and covered over with thatch. They had put these up after canoeing from a nearby island the previous evening. All ten campers were up and anxious to see what the great din was about. She wrapped a suru’u cloth over her t-shirt and around her waist and fastened it with a tight knot. She grabbed up her staff and headdress. Cautiously they let bare feet lead them blindly down the dark jungle trail to the edge of the forest. Leary of danger, they kept to the cover of the brush. Through the lacy palmetto fronds they scanned the narrow beach that curved before them in a sweeping arc. The pale sand glowed the inside color of a conch shell with the first rays of sunlight. The faces of the runners flashed in a radical contrast of shadows and highlights as a huge flume of flame burst forth from a large object sitting off shore. “E’yro,

E’yro!” whispered one of the onlookers, a short naked man save for the cache-sexe strapped around his waist and the quiver, bow, and short-bladed machete strapped to his back. His flat facial features and straight shiny black hair told of an aborigine not of this part of the world. He extended a muscular arm through the prickly palmetto fronds out toward the violet sea. The waxing ember of dawn’s light revealed what looked to be the destroyed fuselage of a plane. Small flames spurted and sputtered along the aluminum carcass that sat half a click out on the shallow reef. Another flash followed by air percussion caused the group to flinch. “Maka!” alerted one of the other men of similar physique. “Qoc’tlaq’ta.” He pointed to the dark forms crowding the shore while others bobbed in the fluorescent white caps rolling across the reef. People weren’t the only presence on the beach. Large mechanical beasts with long girders for necks whose boxy heads sported one large glass eye had men straddled atop. At the rolling feet of these leviathans stood half a dozen men and one or two women. In the strengthening daylight, the woman could make out two of the men as natives to the archipelago – not so much by their dark skin and frizzy hair but more by the wrinkled short-sleeved khaki Royal Guard uniforms that they were wearing. One of them had taken his last puff from a cigarette. He flicked it onto the sand then crushed it with the toe of his brown leather short-top boot. Her eye traveled from the men and out to sea at the charred remains of the plane. Black smoke clouded the pink pastel skies; black sludge coated the outer edge of the reef. The ire of WaKwpauelelu’ilu, the Boar God was taking possession. “Wei wei putu!” the woman spat the invective and made a sour face as if tasting something rancid. She couldn’t tell if her eyes were watering from the acrid black smoke being blown their way or from the rage over this horrid violation that was building inside her. She knew she would have to take on these monsters, but first, she needed to send her traveling companions off to safety. She had the eight short bare-skinned men with the shoulder(continued on page 17)

In her right hand, she carried her long staff like a spear. Her left hand raised the carved-out boar’s head to her head.

Cutlass Moon (Continued from page 16)

length straight black hair cropped short over the brow follow her back to their camp. The ninth man, a tall slender Melanesian dressed in denim cutoffs followed behind and kept watch. He listened as her tongue clicked and clacked in the strange language of these short alien men who squatted in a huddle with her. After a few minutes of prattle and gestures, she and the men got up off their muscular haunches. The men silently single-filed along the narrow trail that led to the steep forested rise of the dormant volcano. When the last one disappeared behind giant banana leaves, the Melanesian man asked in his tongue, “You’re sending them off alone?” “They’ll be all right. We got them this far. Right now, we have other business to tend to.” Without waiting for the expected admonition from her comrade, she cast caution to the wind and tore down the path back toward the shore. In her right hand, she carried her long staff like a spear. Her left hand raised the carved-out boar’s head to her head. The spirit of Wa-Kwpau-elelu’ilu filled every sinew with the strength she’d need for the charge. She broke through the brush and out onto the beach. The soles of her feet tingled from the night chill trapped in the sand. The thuds of footfall and the rush of blood pounded in her ears. Her mind and body raced liked a demon boar hell-bent on smashing up any human foe in its path. Her companion’s ebon-toned face, already showing the fatigue from several days of paddling canoe island-to-island, sought the reserve needed to keep up with her. He skidded on the whitening sands at the sound of a voice as loud as Tahenui, the horrible troll-like volcano god. *

A splash screen erupts in cyberflames. The words “Crash Land” rise from the fiery images. “Where Celebrities Vie to Survive!” ripple like a heat wave across the bottom of the screen. “Download plug-n-play now to see the latest on this top secret film project” commands the popup. The splash fades out. Open webpage: “Coming in Spring 2000 – ‘Crash Land’ – a reality adventure film starring Peter Brett, Marjorie Llewellyn, Jan Murcheson, Fred Debarrio, Wayne Zbinski, Gloria Pakhana, and Marshall Whitespear – survivors of a plane crash off a remote

Volume 1, Issue 7

desert island. Witness their battle to survive the elements, the unknowns, and one another. Who will endure to the teeth-gritting end?” Synthesized tympani thrum to a frenzied pitch then climax with one final beat. “There is no voting anyone off this island. “Be sure to bookmark this website for details on upcoming interviews, live-action clips, and the Crash Land Contest where you can enter to win your own Lear jet and be whisked away to the paradise of your choice.” The streaming video stopped flowing; the fading in-and-out images of the actors’ faces superimposed on changing transparencies of the palms and surf of a tropical isle froze and then blacked out. Ray leaned back in his black leather office chair and sighed. “The effects could be better. OK, what’s our status? Any word on the dailies? Have they arrived?” The geeky assistant’s gray suit and tie stood in defiance to his stringy shoulderlength brown hair, dour day-old beard stubble, and droopy eyelids of a stoner. He was fidgeting with the UBS cable running to his laptop. He shrugged. “No clue, dude.” Ray fit the mold as a Hollywood wheelerdealer. Eighty-dollar trim jobs for his short black slicked down hair. Fastidiously manicured hands. Gold Rolex. Thousanddollar suits. A big-ticket-item bachelor at the age of thirty-three. He couldn’t complain, except for today at this moment. “Frick it,” he grumbled. He reached over the polished mahogany of his desk and pressed a single button on a phone that resembled a control panel NASA would design. The signal traveled up-line to a sat link. A ring blrrrd on the speaker phone. It blrrrd again. And again. “C’mon, Mike or Lionel, pick up the damn phone!” Nine thousand miles away, the melodious whir of a sat phone ringing wafted on the breeze. Peter Brett stepped out of his cabin on board The Royal Wellington. He stood at the rail and cursorily scanned the location for the day’s principal photography: a beautiful tropical white sand beach paralleling a clear blue-violet sky and aquamarine waters — perfect conditions for a shoot. Too bad the schedule had gotten scrubbed. Now the

brilliant day was ceding to the encroachment of evening. Ever since the crew had set out on this job, problems had plagued them. This is not so atypical for most on-location shoots. Unexpected weather conditions, equipment failure, a Teamsters strike, and no-show divas. But for some reason, the glitches that plagued this production seemed more ominous. Peter had a bad feeling about being on this idyllic tropical isle. Given the real reason he was here, he had reason to be leery. According to the dope sheet, they were to have at least a dozen scenes in the can by day’s end but instead they got completely hung up. “It’s a bummer, ain’t it?” a woman’s voice chimed with the resonance of a fancy alarm clock causing Peter to flinch. “Time for a massage,” she announced. She was a heavy weight – not from fat but from solid muscle. The short neon-pink spikes poking out of her head earned her the nickname of “Hedge,” the crew’s masseuse and physical therapist. “Sure, I am a bit sore all over,” Peter conceded. It was no wonder. They had arrived on this speck of an island somewhere in the middle of thousands of square miles in the South Pacific the previous day at around four p.m. local time. They were actually two weeks ahead of schedule. Unheard of! The chartered New Zealand cruise ship carrying the film crew had anchored about a half mile from shore. Anxious to get the ball rolling and not have to pay people for sitting on their asses, the crew had worked through the night schlepping heavy equipment piece by piece to shore by dinghy. To hell with the fact that the prearranged security had not yet arrived to secure the site. The archipelago nation’s bureaucracy was not designed to accommodate pre-schedule arrivals, much less those that did happen according to schedule. Caution was tossed on the wind and waves in favor of budgetary concerns and pressure to satisfy studio execs. What does a survivor-style movie have to do with a wild woman shaman? Find out in our next issue.

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How Do You Take Your Music? SCOTT ALARIK --- Folk On! Folk You! The Boston area is considered a focal and vibrant center of folk music, and Scott Alarik is a man with his pulse on that vital scene. Since the mid-80s, he has been the premier folk music critic of the Boston Globe and has written for Sing Out!, NPR, and numerous other publications. His folk forefathers and mothers include the likes of Pete Seeger, the Weavers, Joan Baez, Woody Guthrie, Burl Ives, and Bob Dylan. In 2003, he published a collection of his writings, "Deep Community: Adventures in the Modern Folk Underground,” that looks to folk music’s present and future, rather than its past. It profiles such hot rising luminaries as Ani Difranco, Dar Williams, Ellis Paul, Vance Gilbert, John Gorka, Guy Davis, and hundreds more, many from the Boston area, but the artists he writes of spans the nation and the globe. Alarik documents how folk music is thriving more strongly today than at any time in history, perhaps even more so now than in the so-called “folk scare revival” of the 1960s. He says that folk is a deep community in the sense that it’s a very deeply planted music that is run first and foremost run by its fans. Folk may have experienced earlier than other genres what happens when the very fickle attention of the music industry turns elsewhere. When the major labels said that folk music was dead, fans and musicians disagreed and started their own independent labels, venues, and public radio shows. He says that people have maintained modest but permanent careers in folk music. They’re not trendy one minute and then off for five years waiting to have a comeback. There’s a strong independent streak among musicians and fans. Alarik’s book not only documents the folksters thriving today, but he profiles

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Alarik loves telling stories, literate stories, as he’s done so well through song and in his weekly writings in the Globe. He seeks out the connections that bind folk’s past to its present and future, those stories that continue to speak contemporaneously to generation after generation.

such venues as the Club Passim and the Mosaic Room Coffeehouse as well as WUMB-FM “All Folk, All the Time” radio station. Scott Alarik himself is one of those folks who have been able to sustain himself in this music, since the ‘70s. His Boston Globe readers may be surprised to learn that he is also a wonderful singer of both traditional songs and his own rich compositions in that big, warm, booming baritone voice of his, somewhat reminiscent of the great Canadian Stan Rogers. He originally hails from Minneapolis, MN, from the same Dinkeytown and the West Bank stages where Bob Dylan’s career began. He was a favorite at the Coffeehouse Apocalypse, which I ran at my college in central Minnesota during the mid-70s. Alarik has two albums, “Stories” (1979) and “-30Folk Songs Old and New”. The latter was recorded live in 1999 at the legendary Club Passim in Cambridge, MA and shows how warm and engaging an entertainer Alarik is the songs are gorgeously delivered in his smooth baritone voice and his between-song patter and drolleries will leave you chuckling. The name Alarik, he explains to his audience, is an old Swedish name that traces further back to the Vikings. It loosely translates from the ancient Norse as “Even by our standards, he sleeps a lot.” Or he tells a joke about the difference between a folk singer and a municipal bond. “After 25 years a bond will begin to mature and make money.” Yet the funnier answer, he says, came when a Club Passim audience member shouted out at another concert that the difference between a folk singer and a municipal bond is that “a bond generates interest.” But there are also serious concerns conveyed in many of his songs, ranging from love songs to traditional Irish tunes to Alarik’s own “What Numb Hell Is This” a deeply poignant song about growing up with parents who were loving but distant and cold, and swearing that he’d never grow to wear

his father’s tired eyes and his mother’s distant eyes full of regrets. He sings “They both loved me, this I know/Each other once but long ago/Winter came and never left/Filled our house with its heartless breath.” Alarik loves telling stories, literate stories as he’s done so well through song and in his weekly writings in the Globe. He seeks out the connections that bind folk's past to its present and future, those stories that continue to speak contemporaneously to generation after generation. This has always been a focus of his performances, he says, making it an easy leap for him to tell the music's story in his book and Boston Globe columns. For lovers of traditional folk music as well as contemporary singer-songwriters, Scott Alarik's "-30-" is a wonderful addition to any music collection. This recording marks Alarik’s 30th year in folk music, the first 15 years as a traveling musician, the second 15 chronicling the music in his columns for the Boston Globe. The term -30- is an old newspaper symbol meaning “end of story” which marks the closing of those chapters and the opening of new ones, in his case, in which singer and chronicler share co-billing. Garrison Keillor writes about Scott Alarik, “I have rarely seen an audience in such a good mood as when he’s just been there.” Listen to Alarik’s music and read his book while sitting in front of a cozy winter fireplace or while out camping in the woods and you’ll feel as relaxed and warm and fuzzy as do his Club Passim audiences after a gig. — Dandrum Mesnik is a freelance writer, researcher, music fanatic, and percussionist residing in the DC area. He will periodically write music reviews and articles on various genres and personalities in this little rag you’re now beholding, usually of obscure, lesserknown talents deserving wider recognition.

Neomodern Nosferatu, Part VII

Moon-sun

photo courtesy of KS Kim©3005

“Can’t you at least let me get dressed?” Gina had nothing on beneath her robe. The officers rudely dragged Gina down the stairs and out to the squad car. Gina resisted. “You can’t do this. You haven’t even Mirandized me.” “Don’t you read the papers? Miranda rights don’t apply when it comes to vampire crimes.” “Says who?” “Says the BHS. Now get in.” He shoved her head down. She resisted. “What the hell is the BHS?” “The Bureau of Human Security.” A piercing shriek interrupted Gina’s arrest. Out of the pre-dawn darkness darted a tall woman running in a panic. “Officers!” Thank God you’re here! I saw him in the alleyway. He tried to grab my throat and… oh, it was dreadful!” “Calm down, ma’am. Guys, go check it out.” The two SWAT members threw the evidence bags in the trunk of the cruiser, drew their harpoon guns with the silvertitanium exploding tips, and ran to where the frantic woman was pointing. Gina looked up to see the woman wink through long strands of blonde hair. With the force of a feisty mule, Gina kicked the cop who held her. The woman lunged on him from behind and sunk her fangs into his neck. The policeman shuddered then collapsed to the ground. Clive freed Gina’s hands. The other officers returned to the scene to find Gina gone and their partner bleeding on the ground. “Call for a medical bus!” one shouted to the other and fell to his knees to check for a pulse. In the flit of night bird’s

Volume 1, Issue 7

“What was I thinking taking in a vampire for a roommate when it’s considered more illegal than illegal drugs?”

wing, Clive was on him, sucking him into oblivion. A harpoon whizzed past, stirring the hairs of his wig. Before the second SWAT officer could reload, Clive pounced and sank his fangs into his throat. He then grabbed Gina who was hiding behind the patrol car. “Come on,” he gurgled through a mouth filled with blood.

place? I’ve been keeping a very low human profile.”

Gina looked back at the bodies of the downed law enforcers. “Are… are they dead?”

“If they wanted you so bad, why didn’t they wait until after sunrise when you’d be in a loagy state?”

“No, just a little blood deprived. They’ll come out of it in an hour or so. Then they’ll have to answer for those puncture marks on their necks. Give them a dose of their own paranoia and intolerance.” He took her down the alley to the fire escape of a neighboring building and made her climb. “Hurry. To the rooftop.”

“That’s a good question. Maybe they planned on getting you out and pounce on me as soon as I returned. Or maybe they’re simply stupid and incompetent. My guess would be the latter. The problem is they have called attention to this area and will be fine-tooth combing it. We’ll have to stay put until dark, I’m afraid.”

The first solar rays of the day tickled the horizon as Gina and Clive surfaced onto the roof. “Over here.” Dragging Gina in tow, Clive tottered on his stilettos to a utility shed. He yanked the padlock from the door, pushed her in then slammed it tight behind him. “That was close.” He slid a heavy object that Gina couldn’t see for the dark interior against the door. “What if I have to go to the bathroom?” Gina whined in the dark. Clive took her by the shoulders. “Don’t worry about that now. Are you all right?” Gina’s fists flew into his breast. “You, bastard! You left me all alone with those jackbooted thugs and their crossbows pointed everywhere! What was I thinking taking in a vampire for a roommate when it’s considered more illegal than illegal drugs?” He pushed her face to his chest to console her and muffle her cries. “Shhh, settle down, sweet Gina, please! I had no intention of abandoning you. If I hadn’t’ve gotten out, they would have had me as well, and then where would we be? See? I rescued you, didn’t I? You’re safe now.”

She came up for air and composure. “They claim you’ve been feeding on tenants in the building.” She hesitated. “You haven’t, have you?” “Heathens forbid!”

“That’s easy for you, but what about me? It’s hot as hell in here and it’s only six in the morning. What’s this place going to feel like by six this evening?” She wiped the ensuing sweat from her brow and peeled off her bathrobe. Clive’s extraordinary vision ogled her in the darkness, “Now I can feel the heat.” “Knock it off. This isn’t funny or comfortable.” She blinked at the flare of a bare light bulb at the top of a string and saw Clive in his garish wig and makeup. “Look deep into my eyes,” he said. “Why?” “So, I can put you under and make this easier for you.” “But you said your hypnosis doesn’t work on me.” “It did once,” “Yeah, when I was cathartic.” “You’re not cathartic now?” “No. I’m riled.” “Just try and be receptive, will you?”

Gina bawled into the silky fabric of his dress. “They wanted you. I told them I didn’t follow then they ransacked the place until they found your blood supply in my fridge.”

She fixed on his gaze for agonizingly slow minutes counted by each drop of her sweat splattering on the concrete floor. Her face took on a blank mask then curled up into a giggling grin. She brought her hands to her mouth to stifle her laughter.

He stroked her hair and pondered aloud, “But why would they come in the first

(continued on page 20)

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Neomodern Nosferatu (Continued from page 19)

“Here comes Fatula,” ripped the Tina vamp upon seeing the bulk of a vampire in an Eddie Munster haircut, tux, and cape lined with red satin..

“Heathens, Gina. I almost had you. What’s so funny?” Clive asked.

up like Marilyn Monroe in “The Seven Year Itch.”

“Your Rocky Horror look. Christ, what a Hollywood cliché! How can I honestly stare into those eyes in all seriousness?” Her laughter broke up into titters which she swallowed down. “Look, let’s sit down at least. Is there any way I can stretch out in here and try to sleep?”

The fourth appeared as a man with a shaved head, gold-studded eyebrow and leather vest. “Here drink this,” he offered.

Clive cleared an area cluttered with roofing materials and spread Gina’s bathrobe on the floor as a mat. He turned out the light, sat down, set her head in his lap, and stroked her hair. Gina dozed on and off throughout the morning, but by midday, she was suffering severe dehydration in the hundred-plus degree heat of the enclosure. “Clive, I need water,” she said dryly. “You know I can’t go out until sundown. Try to sleep.” Torn over his fear of the sun and her need for hydration, he fretted. He felt the fever of heat exhaustion fill her brow. He could come up with only one solution. “Gina, I’m going to cut myself and you’re going to drink, all right?” Gina opened her glazed eyes. “But that will turn me into a vampire, won’t it?” “Even though I have not partaken of your blood, there’s a chance, yes.” “No, I can’t. I won’t. I’d rather die.” She slipped into unconsciousness. She awoke to the refreshing breeze from an electric fan and the smiling fangs of four vampires looming over her. Her eyes bulged with fear and her mouth widened in a terrified keen. She reached up to feel for holes in her throat. She checked her arms for punctures.

Marilyn receded. “If anyone wants to be nice to me, I’ll be in my dressing room.” She sauntered sexily out of the room.

“What?” asked the man, “It’s a V-8, full of health-restoring vitamins and minerals. Clive sad you were a vegetarian. I thought you’d like it.” He looked as though he were about to cry if she rejected it.

“That goes for the rest of you. Gina’s off limits.”

“Oh, a V-8,” Gina repeated with relief. “My favorite. How did you know?” Gina took it in her trembling hands and sipped greedily.

“Don’t look at me. I’m on a strict government-regulated diet,” announced the brow-studded Vampire.

“Here comes Fatula,” ripped the Tina vamp upon seeing the bulk of a vampire in an Eddie Munster haircut, tux and cape lined with red satin. The hefty vamp puffed over to Gina’s bedside. “I brought you something to eat.” His pudgy bling-covered fingers unwrapped a steaming cheeseburger with all the fixings. Gina eyed it and forced a smile. Tina smacked the portly Dracula on the back of the head. “Ow! What did you do that for?” “She’s a vegetarian, you gluttonous dolt!” yelled the shaved head. Fatula began to cry. “No, no, it’s okay. I can… I can make an exception for this. Besides, in my weakened state, I could use the, uh, protein.” Fatula perked up and licked his fangs. “I hope you like it rare.” Gina closed her eyes and bit into the bun. “Mmmm,” she feigned through a cheekful. She chewed quickly and swallowed hard so as not to savor any part of it.

“Where am I?” whistled through her parched windpipe.

Clive’s face appeared in the circle. He was still in costume and makeup with wilted wig and smudged mascara around his eyes.

She coughed to clear the cracks from her throat. “Where’s Clive?” “He’s coming, dearie,” said a third dressed Page 20

“Back off, Norma Jean.” Clive bared his fangs and hissed.

Gina’s eyes slid down the bendy straw and fell onto a tall glass of bright red liquid. She bolted up and pushed back. “God, no!”

“Easy, girly. You haven’t been violated. Now, don’t strain yourself,” lisped the sultry voice of a caramel-skinned vamp dressed à la Tina Turner.

“You’re in a safe house, hon, where we all come to hide,” explained a taller paler Morticia Adams look-alike.

Gins looked bemused over where the garment had come from and how it found itself upon her tiny sweaty body.

“Don’t you look a fright,” Marilyn muttered. “She’s dreadful, isn’t she, sweet thing? My, what an adorable pink teddy.” she leaned over and ran a long-nailed finger under the thin strap over Gina’s right shoulder.

“Well, why would we anyway? She’s a double-X. Not exactly suited to our particular tastes,” huffed Tina.

“I know how some of you deviate from your diet.” Clive glowered at the rotund one who’d brought the juicy burger. “It’s a glandular condition. I can’t help it,” Fatula blubbered and flew off with a flurry of his cape. “At any rate, welcome to our humblycrumbly home,” Tina intoned before turning on her heels and strutting out the door. Gina sat alone with Clive and swallowed the last bite of the burger she would take out of politeness. She folded up the remains in the original wrapper and set it on the ornate round table next to the grand four-poster bed. “Here,” Clive pulled a large bottle of water from a paper bag. He watched Gina suck it down. “What time is it?” “I don’t know. Past eleven I imagine.” “At night?” The heat, dehydration, and mystery teddy had left her disoriented. “When else would I be running down to the Six-to-Twelve convenience store for you?” He spread his fingers to review his nails. “Ghastly.” “So, now what?” He dropped his hand and looked at her. “Now what what?” “Am to stay here or…?” He pulled the wig off and fluffed his (continued on page 21)

Neomodern Nosferatu (Continued from page 20)

hair. He draped the faux hair over an empty stand in a line of wig stands setting upon an antique vanity with a large mirror. He pulled up the padded stool to sit then peeled the eyelashes from his lids. Rubbing cold cream on his face to remove the smeared and runny makeup, he said, “I think we both need to stay here for a few days until the heat’s off.” He wiped his face clean with tissues then tossed the wads into a red enameled waste bin with oriental nacre inlay. “Will we be safe?” Gina questioned worriedly. Clive stepped out of his evening gown and pulled on a black silk robe which he tied at the waist. He moved onto the bed and stretched out on his side next to her. “As long as I’m near you.” “That’s the best assurance you can give?”

“What about my long-since expired Maryland ID mugshot being shown on America’s Most Hunted? I’m certain your parents will notice the resemblance.”

Gina started up. “I’ve been thinking,” “You should be sleeping.” He brushed back her damp hair. “Maybe you should come to Iowa with me.” “Iowa?”

“Where are you going?” She feared the worst of his vampire nature.

“I don’t think your mother and father would approve of your dragging home a drag-queen vampire.”

“Down to the kitchen. There are blood packets in the fridge — not the tastiest hemoglobin on the planet but survivable.”

“Well, maybe we can hide that fact for a day or two.” “Which fact? That I dress in women’s clothes or that I’m a creature of the night?” “Of course you won’t dress like a woman when we go there.”

He ran his hand along the contours of her face. A tear fell from his eye. “You’re crying?” Gina gasped. “Why?”

Gins scowled with incomprehension.

“Looks a lot more like you saved me.” Clive wiped the tear from his face with his knuckle. “No. you were a fragile rose that needed water. I was too afraid to brave the sun and get you some.” “You offered me your blood. That was pretty noble.” “It was childish and selfish, and I can’t stand myself for it.” Gina smoothed out his ruffled hair. “I’m alive. You’re alive -- well, sort of -- and that’s all that matters.” She kissed him gently on the cheek. His eyes reminded her of their serious situation. “Gina, I saw wanted posters with a composite of me as a man in the store tonight.” “What?” “I imagine your coworkers and neighbors gave them my description. But Gina,” he took her by the hands. “I swear, I touched no one in your neighborhood. Not even a family pet.” “I believe you.” They sat in silence as the fan hummed its cooling tune.

Volume 1, Issue 7

He saw the ire in her eyes and kissed her. “I suppose we can come up with something. Now, you need your rest and I need to quench my thirst.” He rose from the bed.

“Remember? My parents, my family home, a refuge in a storm.”

“Then how do you explain that I won’t join them for their morning fare of bangers and mash?”

“I nearly killed you today.”

think of a disguise that’s not too outlandish.” She punched the pillow.

“That’s what they eat in England. Get your breakfast references straight, old vamp,” he chided himself. “I mean, sausage and eggs. Or are they vegetarians like you?” “Don’t be sarcastic. I can say you just flew in from England and sleep all day due to jet lag.” “And how many days, pray tell, will they buy that explanation for my nocturnal behavior and the fact I won’t eat regular food or my ghastly complexion?” “We could say you have a medical condition?” “I do have a medical condition. It’s called vampirism.” “That’s not what I mean.” Gina curled up around a sweat-stained pillow and sulked. Clive persisted. “What about my longsince expired Maryland ID mugshot being shown on America’s Most Hunted? I’m certain your parents will notice the resemblance.” She turned and looked at him. “You can dye your hair. How quick can you grow a beard and a mustache?” “Not quick enough.” “You’re a theatrical type. Surely you can

“How much money do you have?” “Isn’t that a rather an irrelevant, not to mention, rude question?” “Do you have enough for me to buy a used car and pay for gas and meals?” “I don’t know. How much would that cost?” “Four or five grand, I expect. The price of gas for a drive to Iowa alone will run about the price of a junker. The question is, which will run out first — the gas or the jalopy?” Gina raised a finger to her lips to ponder the question in a pose too cute to ignore. He slipped back into bed and slid up over her like a silky sheet. “I suppose I can scrounge up the funds. When do you plan our escape to the vast vampire-free plains of Iowa?” His lips teased her finger. Gina pushed him back. “I thought you were thirsty.” “I am.” “Don’t drink me.” He smiled. “So, when do you need the money?” “Would tomorrow be too soon?” He kissed her softly. “I’ll see what the girls have stashed in their cache. Now, for that drink.” He got up and adjusted his robe. “Sure you don’t want to join me in a nightcap?” “Not if it’s got red corpuscles for a mixer.” Clive imbibed on stale blood while Gina dreamed of the sweet green grass of home. Find out what happens in our next issue.

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The Cardiff Grandma

The Spahndecks AirPlane agent prepared his boarding pass and handing it over

Or “How to Write a Hilariously Bad Detective Novel” by Lady Benjamin Desktile

surreptitious glance at the name on the ticket. “Erm…”

WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh, British spelling, American disorganization and bad puns. In the previous episode, the miserably mysterious Peppet discovers another piece of the puzzle when his mustache unfreezes. Chapter 5 Cardiff International has often been described as the most perfectly designed airport ever built. The ticket counter is conveniently placed directly in front of the door exactly on the ground floor. Broad shallow steps composed of an extremely hard, durable, very smooth material have been provided to allow travelers to ascend to the first floor, where the coffee shop is clearly visible. On the same level, just there, are the news agent's and the Bureau de Change and the eatery. Between the eatery and the news agent’s is the unmarked The whole area may easily be taken in by the bleary eyed traveler recently alighted from the bus after two hours of journeying away from the city through the night, having traversed an unseeable landscape of shadows transmogrified by the hypnotic nocturnal miasma into the phantasmagical shapes of biotal flora. Once at “the Inty”, the groggy passenger is gently embraced by a touchable intimate atmosphere rather than jolted into vast cathedralesque spaces booming with the echoes of voices, the clack of high heels, the announcements in six languages, none of them Welsh, voices, the clack of high heels, the announcements in six languages, none of them Welsh. Here, the gigantic departures and arrivals boards that dominate so many other international air terminals have been replaced by unobtrusive TV-like monitors a mere twelve inches square. The arrivals area, arrived at by the simplified route of merely turning right outside the ground floor door, is a short fifty-second walk away. There, chairs may be sat in and a capacious unobstructed area offers “the perfect place to stand.” Comfortable leaning can be done against a generous two out of three walls. A tradition has grown up almost Page 22

to him said with a generic smile, “Have a nice flight Mr… erm..” and cast a

organically from this design, whereby whenever a seat is vacated by a meeter whose peregrinator has been successfully met, it may be occupied by any stander curious to enjoy the interior from a fresh perspective. It was at this perfect airport that the professor, wizened, sere, wrinkled, withered, and desiccated, was deposited by a taxi. Paying the driver in British pounds, he watched as its two tail-lights were blurred and expunged by the fog before they had time to grow smaller and smaller, eventually becoming tiny red winking lights disappearing into the distance. The professor, later to be described as black and white by newspaper photographs, picked up his kitbag with the ease of a forty-year-old half his age and strode into Departures. The Spahndecks AirPlane agent prepared his boarding pass and handing it over to him said with a generic smile, “Have a nice flight Mr… erm..” and cast a surreptitious glance at the name on the ticket. “Erm…” The professor took the ticket, put it in his pocket, picked up his carpetbag with his accustomed ease again and proceeded to the first floor, casting piercing asides in all directions. And then he did a curious thing. Instead of heading to the coffee shop or the news agent’s or the eatery, he veered 80∞ to the right and within several long strides entered a recessed area, dim, with a long counter; Further within, tables were artlessly arranged at some little distance from each other. Each held an ashtray. To the casual observer it looked much like a bar, and indeed had such an observer observed what happened next, she or he (if male) would have been justified in that belief. Professor Erm approached the counter, placing his lower ribcage in actual contact with it, and when a fruit-faced young woman materialised on the opposite side, he said in a voice brooking no certainty, “I don’t suppose you serve Beer®?” A grey-haired woman in the Bureau de Change coughed into her nametag, extinguished her cigarette and instantly lit a fresh one. The nametag said Mrs. Ddwwchyllff. Hearing this, a dark look flitted across her

face, startled from it’s slumber by the outburst. The woman would deal with that breach of protocol later. And meantime, there was more immediate work to be done. Much much more done. Chapter 6 Following the separation of Wales from England it was soon realised that to make a success of independence the nation needed a new economic base. In the corridors of power, the stairwells of influence and the alcoves of legislation there were murmurings – something had to be done – and fast! Working parties were set up, committees commissioned, focus groups became a centre of attention. Those who felt they were in power, and those who actually were, got together to find a solution. Eventually a ‘think tank’ was initiated, drawing on the expertise, knowledge and experience of representatives from across the political field. After many long and difficult meetings and consultations in many long and difficult five star hotel suites a plan was hatched. Before long the plan had been fully coloured in and had its key words highlighted. To all involved it was sheer brilliance. It couldn’t fail to work, the nation would be a strong and free one and, most important of all, they would all become personally very rich…filthy rich, (through all the insider trading and secret, underhand deals they were just about to start doing – after one more round of tea and cakes). Like most uncomplicated schemes it was a simple plan. It could be nicely boiled down (chopped up, served on a bed of fresh Alevut leaves and sold at a huge profit) to just two words: Land mines. Chapter 7 At the far end of the bar that now contained Professor Erm, a heavily armed police officer was out patrolling with his sniffer dog. The police officer, Constable Painting, was attached to the (continued on page 23)

The Cardiff Grandma (continued from page 22) Dog Detection Department. The dog, Pancho, was attached to Constable Painting via a long lead. Dog smuggling wasn’t really a major problem in Wales anymore. It had been a major problem until recent times. Year on year the figures would rise, more and more dogs were being brought into the country illegally. The influx of cheap foreign dogs was threatening to flood the market and wash away all trace of the traditional Corgi and Pembrokeshire breeds long favoured by the farmers in Wales. Then, in an inspired stroke of inspiration, a junior official at the Department for Farmland Security realized that one way to address the problem was simply to ignore it. All records of dog smuggling activity were suddenly ceased. In an instant the issue disappeared and the statistics looked much better. Dog smuggling was no longer a problem. The reason the police maintained a large pool of Dog sniffer dogs was one of finance. To train a dog to detect explosives, weapons or narcotics could take years and cost tens of thousands. To get a dog to detect another dog didn’t cost a penny. To the traveling public a police dog at the airport was a police dog at the airport. Few would bother to consider what the canine may in fact be searching for. The constable and his dog made a good team. One would distract an unsuspecting passenger while the other would steal bits of food from their plate. They took it in turns. As Professor Erm waited for the fruitfaced lady to check whether the CIA did indeed serve Beer®, what it may look like, where she may find it and how much she ought to charge, the officer and hound worked their way around the room. Five minutes, half of two sandwiches, a bar of Belgian chocolate and half a plate of Ffreedom Ffryes later they both exited the bar and ambled on towards the disabled toilets. It wasn’t easy having heavy arms and the constable Painting fancied a bit of a sit down.

Volume 1, Issue 7

When Ddwwchllyff made his half-hearted attempt at small talk to cover his unease at becoming poorly drawn by asking if microchip technology was incredible, Miss Cassleberry wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at but decided it would be best to play dumb.

All of this had occurred in the presence of a single, solitary figure who sat placidly in the middle of the room. He wore a Armandi ™ designer three piece suit. The suit was black with red pinstripes and double breasted sleeves. The formal outfit was completed with a white silk shirt, a red silk tie, cufflinks and a pair of Red leather shoes (Italian, size 9). This was no casual observer. Across the back of his chair he had draped a black trench coat. Next to his right foot was a shiny black plastic briefcase containing a cheese and pickle sandwich, a loaded Colt .45 pistol and several pairs of shiny black plastic briefs. The figure’s outward appearance was that of a sharp dressed, high flying lawyer. This was no accident. A different fruit-faced young lady appeared at the counter. This fresh, fruitfaced girl stared at Professor Erm. “Beer®?” he prompted. Somewhere else, a dog barked. Chapter 8 and three quarters When Ddwwchllyff made his half-hearted attempt at small talk to cover his unease at becoming poorly drawn by asking if microchip technology was incredible, Miss Cassleberry wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at but decided it would be best to play dumb. She smiled broadly and sweetly. “Umm”. Though sketchy, he was still awfully close to the chest. She rose from the desk – the desk in the library not the desk in the room with the grand piano where the Hamilton’s ® gin and tonic was kept. “My, I think I’ll stroll into the next room and see if there’s still fog outside that window after all these days.” It was easy to lose track of time in the fog. But Ddwwchllyff had instructed her in the use of yet another invention. Taking advantage of the natural seven day characteristic of weeks, he’d created a twodimensional matrix of squares. Each square represented exactly one day and all identically named days were conveniently stacked vertically. Adding date numbers into the squares sequentially horizontally

produced a foolproof “map” of a month and those privy to the system could easily decode the date and day at a glance. Though it be dark as night for weeks on end, so long as Ddwwchllyff ticked off each passing day when the clock struck twelve he’d know what day it was. It was surprising how disoriented one could get – he himself found it surprising that four days had passed and it only ‘felt like’ two…He’d taught Miss Casselberry the system in a careless moment, and now he wished he hadn’t. He could have utilized that time more productively. He never practiced the piano anymore and his aper aping technique needed honing. To make up for lost time, he mimicked Miss Casselberry’s mincing stilettos into the other room. Swigging the gin and tonic from the top the grand piano, an awkward but sloppy habit, he became less drawn, more realistic. Miss Casselberry politely pretended sudden interest in his desk, the one Wolfcastle had earlier rifled, where unopened envelopes lay strewn across one corner of the desk and a postcard from “Sunny Quito” had been given pride of place in the middle. “Sunny Quito!” she exclaimed “Do you know him too?” “You know Sunny?! Where do you know Sunny from?” Dddwwchllyff asked, amazed. “Ecuador.” “Ecuador! Oh my god – me too. When were you there?” “’97. I’d been swept up in the white slave trade and was working in a brothel.” “Oh my god! Me too! Which one?” “That one in the capital, above the travel agency in la Avenida del Camino.” “I was right across from you – do you realize we might have met? This is incredible!” “Not as incredible as microchip technology,” Miss Casselberry smiled broadly, “Now that’s incredible!” The fog continues in our next issue.

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