Adventures for the Average Woman by Laurie Notch

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Adventures for the Average Woman

IDEAGEMS ®

June 2006

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

Volume 1, Issue 8 Inside this issue:

Ah, To Swoon in June! ‘Tis the month for sweet romance and courtly dance, for lovers’ verse, for better or worse. And are we ever going to lay it on thick! Our poetry and painting page will sweep you off your feet (even if you’re sitting down) with loving homage to a mother and a wife by Michael Patterson. He is joined by Gemma Forest with her dreamy visions of summer rapture. Of course, our serial stories continue in their pursuit of love, truth, beauty, and wild adventure. Will Arna fall into the arms of the swarthy prestidigitator, Marque in Mystery of the Majestic? How about that Gina and her Vampire paramour, Clive? Will they run off together to the throbbing Heartland in Neomodern Nosferatu or succumb to the numbing bite of industrialized vampirism? Let’s not forget our lovelorn lone special ops ranger looking for his long lost love of yore deep in the Micronesian archipelago

in Cutlass Moon. Can he pull off the survival movie caper and complete his mission? Then there’s Katie being swept off her feet and falling face-first into the slime in a murky, mystical swamp with her errant knight in muddy armor by her side. And what of poor Marsha, held captive by her own fictional eighteenth-century highwayman? Will she figure out how she has come to live out the historical romance, The Spoiler, penned then abandoned years ago? We also have some nonschmaltzy fare with the fastjabbing jive of the worst detective story ever written, replete with stereotypical characters spouting off bad puns in The Cardiff Grandma. The Elusive Force continues with its TRUE account of metaphysical mayhem when a young girl in Poland experiences terrifying supernatural forces — just to keep you on your reading toes. From Eastern Europe we fly off to the Far East with a short stop in Singapore. Read the

A Word With You 3 Contests to Keep in Mind

Poetry & Painting 4

Synergetic Couple (1996)

by Dave Digre Poet Exposéd: 5 Michael Patterson

impressions of Korean correspondent, Jung Min Shon, as she explores the issue of colonial legacies in Asia. Our two contests are still open and running. Let’s see who among you can come up with the cleverest caption for our giraffe photo or the most eloquent and effective ending for our damsel and dragon tale, Natalie and the Blue Dragon. We welcome the visual artwork of Im Sook Kim, Jamie Studebaker, Dave Digre, and LEN. May their rich talent spiral you into a swirling state of ecstasy. — Cytheria Howell, Principal Author. Editor-in-chief, and Incurable Romantic

AFTAW WELCOMES THESE PORTLAND BUSINESSES ON BOARD! Buy the complete versions of all our issues at this fine

Ah, To Swoon in June!

The Elusive Force 7 Katie and the Errant Knight

Singing English Praises in Singapore

The Cardiff Grandma

The Spoiler

Cutlass Moon

Mystery of the Majestic

Neomodern Nosferatu

How Do You 23 Take Your Music?

207-228-2048

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Adventures for the Average Woman

A Word With You The feedback is finally filtering in. Irene in Philadelphia , Pennsylvania says, “You’re magazine is so unique,” while Stewart in Portland, Maine asks, “Do you ever include complete stories? Reading short segments of sequels makes me go ‘Aaaarg!’ I want to feel there’s some sort of closure!” Well, Stewart, how do you think our characters feel? They are screaming for closure. “Will this story ever end?” Yes, eventually. But it’s the strategy that keeps our readers hooked. Others have expressed the same sentiment. They are chafing at the bit to arrive at the conclusion of our serialized stories. Keep in mind that Dickens didn’t write “The Old Curiosity Shop” in a single sitting. In fact, he wrote this tome in the same manner as our stories in AFTAW — chapter by chapter on a monthly basis. I say, let’s hie back to the classic formula. Here’s a comment from Cookie down in Richmond, Virginia. “You know what would be a good idea? More true life stories

Contests to Keep in Mind

“You know what would be a good idea? More true life stories of everyday people. People just love reading about other people!”

of everyday people. People just love reading about other people!” Cookie, you are so right, and we are finally incorporating the real spiel with strange-but-true stories like The Elusive Force, and this month’s interviews with Michael Patterson about the poetic process. Then there’s our woman-inthe-world article singing praises (in English) about Singapore. We had hoped for another photo- essay page but no one came forth with any pics. (Frowning emoticon here.) Future issues will feature bold women entrepreneurs, like Jessica Moore, owner of the Portland Spice Company, and more photo essays on from around the country and the world, including India and New Zealand. We hope this encourages readers to submit their own life stories and articles to let the world know their lives are real adventures. We all have them, so let’s tell them. But let’s not forget the wonderful world of vivid imagination. Bottom line, fiction is

— Cytheria Howell, Beggar of Funds

First prize — fistful of $ in he form of a nifty check. Second prize — a free subscription to AFTAW. Third prize — your name and entry published with an honorable mention.

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

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

The fantasy story was written for a woman who loves dragons and angels and whose loved ones suffered the painful destruction of Hurricane Katrina that devastated that grand old city, New Orleans. But after six chapters, the author has run out of steam. So, the call for submissions is out. Write an award-wining ending containing up to 2,000 words by July 1 and the glorious prize could be yours! Send your submissions by e-mail to ideagems@aol.com. Your electronic document can be in TXT (text file) DOC (MS Word), or PDF format. Hard copies go to: IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS BLUE DRAGON CONTEST 1110 BONIFANT STREET, SUITE 600 SILVER SPRING, MD 20910

The photo on the right is aching for a caption. Send in your caption by July 1 by email (ideagems@aol.com) or snail mail to: IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS PHOTO CAPTION CONTEST 1110 BONIFANT STREET, SUITE 600 SILVER SPRING, MD 20910 AFTAW will announce the winners by August 31, 2006. The winning texts will appear in the October issue. Be sure to include your name and contact information on your submitted material. If you prefer to use a pen name, let us know. As you will note, I am not going to annoy you with rules and regulations in legalistic fine print. Let’s just say, I encourage all who love to write to try their hand.

Volume 1, Issue 8

fun, and this magazine is not so much about the issues but rather about escapist entertainment. Don’t you endure enough of the “issues” in your day? I thought so. So keep true to our heroines and their sidekick heroes. Follow their fictional trails into realms of mystery and suspense with female butt-kicking force. But once again, in order for them to continue their harrowing escapades, they need your support. (Begging begins here.) AFTAW needs subscribers, advertisers, and investors. This poor, humble author and editor is putting this publication together on a wing and a prayer. It’s been a miracle that AFTAW has stayed in production — thanks to all those angels out there. (You know who you are.) But we need more. So spread the gospel. Shout it to your friends’ rooftops (just not in the middle of the night): “Support Adventures for the Average Woman! Subscribe today!”

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Poetry & Painting

Are you a poet and know it — or not? Send us your work:

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Poetry & Painting My Mother’s Love Father, he was a Boxer; Mother, she loved him Thought love would rule the day. Father became his true self— Game over and Daddy decided not to stay. Love can be a happy thing, Beautiful garden all year round; Love can be a hurtful thing, Like a ball & chain that weighs100 lbs. Mother’s love can be hard to find Like a beautiful garden all year round; Mother’s love did the best that she could. Evil men will always do no good! All my innocence burnt up like a pile of firewood Love can be a happy thing, Like a beautiful garden all year round; Love can be a hurtful thing, Ball and chain that weighs 100 lbs. Life is short in the scheme of things. Mother I see us turning old and gray. Now our lives have just begun; Mother you did the best you could. This is all I wanted to say.

Love Is Like Love is like the stars, The sky, A warm wind brushing softly against my soul May I stop to ask why? How can one reach something so high? I don’t know! I don’t know! Oh, I don’t know how love was born. But I’m wishing it shall never die. The Miracle of my precious Rose Something so simple, so good toward my soul touching my heart. Warm wind brushing softly against my soul. It’s unfortunate that one day all shall grow old. Warm wind brushing softly against my heart, always touching my soul. It’s you, yes you, who made this man whole. Michael Patterson (For My Wife, Karen)

Michael Patterson (For My Mother, Gloria)

NEW & True

Poet Exposéd: Michael Patterson

First-born son of a famous prize fighter, Michael Patterson talks about his poetry and how he faces the emotionally-charged challenge of writing a poem to his estranged father who passed away in May. When did you start writing poetry? Actually I started writing seriously December of 2005. I have always been interested in expressing my feelings on paper. I’ve just never applied myself to the task. For instance I used to play the bass guitar in a duo with a piano player when I was in my 20’s. One day at a rehearsal, when we decided to take a break, I started writing some lyrics that just popped into my

head, before we knew it we had produced a love song. The two poems – the one to your wife, Karen and the one to your mother, Gloria -- Can you tell me a little bit about how you wrote them? The one for your mother related how she was married to your father. He was a boxer, is that correct? That one particularly struck me. Yes my father was a boxer that is correct. Unfortunately he and I never had the chance to develop a relationship. But as for those two poems My Mother’s Love and

Love is Like, I just sit down and try to listen to my heart and than write it down and develop it. As a writer I’m pretty much at the tip of the iceberg. The poem Love is Like was a gift to my wife Karen on her birthday. The poem My Mother’s Love comes from this lyric I’ve been carrying in my head for many years----My father was a boxer My mother an Indian squaw And I was born in the backseat Of a Chevy in 1954 Was you mother a victim of domestic abuse or abandonment? First of all, Laurie, I do not want to belittle (continued on page 6)

Volume 1, Issue 8

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Poet Exposéd: Michael Patterson (continued from page 5)

the man’s name. We all do things that we regret later on in our lives. Let’s just say that my father was not very kind to my mother. I’ve heard wonderful stories about Karen and about how you and Karen met. How long have you been married? Karen and I got married in July of 1996 after living together for 6 years. I met Karen in a restaurant where we were both employed. Karen has been a real anchor in my life What was it both of you found in each other? Love, warmth, passion, respect and friendship What do you think your success is? Open communication? Open communication yes we have that. Laurie, you know in any relationship it is give and take, and Karen happens to be the one with the better communication skills. In some ways I think I’m a lot like my father. Was she afraid of that? No I don’t think so. You’d have to ask her. Do you think you put her through the paces in away? Not as much as I use to. I feel going through difficult times can strengthen two people Do you feel Karen is a spiritual person? Is she oriented that way? Yes, her spirituality is openness and understanding Does she do anything creative? Yes Karen is an artist. She attended and

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“I’ll look at her and I’ll say I know there’s more going on, but you know, it’s up to her just like it’s up to me.”

graduated from Art school. Doe she show her work? She has shown her work in the past but not recently. Anyone who visits our home will have the pleasure of viewing Karen’s work. Have you ever worked to get your poems together, put it into a collection to get them published? Have you pursued that? It’s been a personal journey, but that is something I would consider in the near future. So why poetry and not prose? I haven’t opened that door yet. . They don’t have to, but it is an interesting art, the way you put your thoughts together and the way you write each line. It’s more tailored. Yes I agree. Do you try to make them rhyme? Do you like it when they rhyme? Is there a musicality for you? There is definitely a musicality for me. I have been a musician since I was fourteen years old. I started with the electric bass guitar, but I’m now concentrating on singing. When you finish a poem, how does it feel when it’s done? Relief! Because it’s born. What do you think will happen when you finish this poem to your father? Will there be other poems about him? Will you put them in a drawer and never look at them again? I can’t answer that. He’s always been a minor part of my life, a shadow and sometimes shadows are best left to fade. You made them? Thank you so much! Needless to say, Michael’s pineapple muffins were delicious and greatly appreciated on the long drive back to Boston from Manhattan. I remarked on how soft spoken he was. I was moved by how he fought back the tears when we spoke about his late father. I could see the turmoil churning within his peaceful demeanor and knew only poetry would bring him the closure he was seeking.

Spanish Eyes Who of us can understand the workings of the heart? In this lingering of darkness before the sun, I looked for words but none would come. Spanish eyes, Guide me to the heavens upon a star? Spanish eyes, I would swim oceans both near and far And Climb the highest mountains too. I like those Spanish eyes, I do. Spanish eyes, Beautiful Butterfly this is you. Little Sparrows in the sky at playYou are splendor and a rainbow. Your smile is pure sunshine on a rainy dayA beautiful Butterfly waiting to be free. Dark eyed woman, You have inspired this poem in me. Michael Patterson

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Adventures for the Average Woman

The Elusive Force, Pt. II by Ana Ostrzycka and Marek Rymuszko Translation by Joel Stern If you happened to miss out on earlier chapters of this or any of our other stories, order the back issues for $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!

An inspection of the building, which was some thirty to forty years old, failed to reveal any defects in its construction. Nor could any trace of cracks be found in the walls. At the same time, the officials present in the apartment witnessed phenomena they had known about from hearsay. Fulbiszewski and his companions observed a bottle and a jar of mustard fly from the kitchen to the parlor, where they smashed into the wall. They also saw various objects jump several feet around the apartment, as well as fragments of glass flying to the girl’s hands from a considerable distance. In view of this situation, the architect advised the municipal authorities that the Gajewskis would have to be provided with other lodgings at once. This decision was made personally by the deputy mayor of Sosnowiec, Josef Stankiewicz, who subsequently gave his reasons for it in a press interview: “Of course we didn’t take such an incredible story at face value. A police officer and municipal government employees were posted at the Gajewskis’ apartment around the clock. We saw with our own eyes that the reports had been true. Objects, particularly ones made of glass, really did move in the child’s direction. If only out of concern for her health and safety, we felt obliged to do everything in our power to help those people.” This solicitude was in marked contrast to the often indiscreet media coverage of the happenings at the Gajewskis’ apartment, particularly a television report that unconscionably divulged their exact

Volume 1, Issue 8

At the family’s request he offered up invocations to the “haunted” home, which failed, however, to alleviate the situation.

address. The results were not long in coming. The building at 5 Plonow Street began to attract large crowds of sensation seekers who rang the doorbell and pounded on the windows, demanding to be let in . Exorcists, members of dubious sects, and esoterics striving to establish contact with the spirit world also began flocking to Sosnowiec from every part of the country. The Gajewskis, who are Catholic but who have never ostentatiously professed their faith (neither their former or present apartment had any devotional objects indicative of religious mystics), decided to receive only the local parish priest, Father Jan Smok. At the family’s request he offered up invocations to the “haunted” home, which failed, however, to alleviate the situation. This did not keep a journalist from reporting (and this story was repeated persistently by gossipmongers) that a mysterious force had knocked the aspergillum out of the priest’s hand during his visit to the Gajewskis. Like many of the other sensationalistic reports, this was sheer nonsense. Official confirmation by the municipal authorities that the strange physical phenomena occurring at 5 Plonow Street were real triggered a search for their mechanism and causes. After the hypothesis on the settlement of the building’s walls was ruled out, radiesthesists were consulted. A representative of the Radiesthesis Association of Gliwice, Jadwiga Zborowski, stated that the observed effects were probably connected… “with heavy irradiation of the apartment by a watercourse running (…) along the wall that is the primary target of the flying objects.” She also conjectured that Joasia Gajewski might be a kind of generator magnifying the intensity of the radiation. The radiesthesists’ verdict, for lack of another explanation, was accepted with a feeling of relief. But the relief was shortlived: when the Gajewskis moved into the new apartment allocated to them in Czeladz outside of Sosnowiec, the phenomena followed them. What had been just a suspicion thus became a certainty. It turned out that water- courses had nothing to do

with the kinetic effect occurring around the girl. This conclusion was confirmed by the cessation of such phenomena in the Plonow Street apartment once the Gajewski family had left (the place remained empty for a long time , and is now occupied by other tenants). After only a few days in the new apartment, however, the pandemonium started up again — broken dishes, hundreds of glass fragments imbedded in the walls, shaking furniture, and spontaneous unscrewing of faucets. We set ourselves the goal of recording the odd physical effects as fully and systematically as we could, in the belief his would give us a chance to discover the general laws behind them. Our task proved to be formidable if not impossible. First of all, we were unable to ascertain any correlations between the time of day and the spontaneous movement of objects. It happened both in the daytime and at night, whether the girl was asleep or engaged in her normal pursuits. Nor were the kinetic effects ever preceded (at least in the initial phase) by a distinct sound. Sometimes, but only sometimes, we could hear clicks resembling fingersnapping. It was also certain that Joasia had no conscious control over what took place around her. We also failed to discover any relationship between an object’s material composition and its potential for spontaneous movement, According to eyewitness accounts, all manner of things would fly around the apartment — from dishes and flatware to screws, shoes, and a hairbrush. Incidentally, there is an amusing story involving the hairbrush that may indicate a connection between the girl’s mental processes and the kinetic effects. Once when Joasia was sleeping, a brush on her nightstand zipped into the hallway, where it hit the wall and fell to the floor. Questioned later by a psychologist, the (continued on page 8)

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The Elusive Force (continued from page 7)

As if this were not enough, some accounts contain details that defy analysis, e. g., the spontaneous unscrewing of faucets, the overturning and rotation of a heavy sewing machine, and the winding of the cord of an unoperated vacuum cleaner across the floor.

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youngster said she had dreamt that night of going to the hairdresser, who gave her a lousy hairdo that really upset her. Analysis of the flights themselves did not lead to any general conclusions. They usually occurred very quickly, so much so that nobody could see an object either when it took off or while it was flying (the most that people perceived was a blurred shape, practically a streak, for a mere split second). Moreover, the concomitant acoustical effects were disproportionately loud relative to the mass, weight, and composition of the moving objects. The nature of these effects can best be illustrated by a comparison used by one of the witnesses. According to his account, a tumbler that smashed against a wall (and that must have flown in from the kitchen, since there were no glass objects in the room where he was sitting with the Gajewskis at the time) shattered with such a deafening bang that he thought the TV picture tube had exploded. Some objects, however, did fly slowly and were perfectly visible, such as a cup of unfinished tea left in the kitchen. First, it glided into Joasia’s bedroom, leaving behind a trail of spilled liquid, then veered into the parlor. As if this were not enough, some accounts contain details that defy analysis,

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e. g., the spontaneous unscrewing of faucets, the overturning and rotation of a heavy sewing machine, and the winding of the cord of an unoperated vacuum cleaner across the floor. The routine medical examinations Joasia underwent in late May and early June 1983 proved inconclusive. Although the girl complained of health problems, particularly headaches, no tangible reason for them could be found. The mysterious temperature fluctuations also continued (in the course of one measurement, for example, it was necessary to use a bath thermometer because the scale on a common medical thermometer did not go high enough). During an EKG examination, the glass pane on the control panel of the apparatus suddenly cracked. Unfortunately, most of the doctors who saw Joasia during this period treated her like a mentally unbalanced person or a fraud. This happened at a pediatric hospital, where upon completion of the tests, the patient and her parents were labeled delusional. The case, it seemed had reached an impasse.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

The Adventures of Katie Madigan: Katie and the Errant Knight

Fed up with work and a lackluster life, Katie longs to escape. In a series of graphic stories, she descends into one grueling adventure after another. Katie, be careful what you wish for

THIS CONTEMPORARY GRAPHIC THRILLER CONTINUES IN OUR UPCOMING ISSUES. SUBSCRIBE TODAY! Volume 1, Issue 8

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New & True

Singing English Praises in Singapore

Portrait of Thomas Raffles An Englishman Respected in Singapore Once you arrive in Singapore, you can’t miss hearing or reading about Stamford Raffles, the well-known 19th century figure. His name is everywhere ranging from street name to that of private institute: Stamford Street, Raffles Place subway station, Raffles Hotel, Stamford House, Raffles Design Institute. If you go to Victoria Theatre downtown, you can also see a black statute of the famous figure and another in white in Boat Quay. A question naturally arises: how come a foreign ruler is respected so much in the small Asian country? It turns out that Thomas Stamford Raffles is regarded as the founder of modern Singapore. Though he lived when Britain was at the peak of colonizing weak foreign countries, he seemed to have made efforts to improve the well-being of the native people under his rule. He was born on July 6, 1781 at sea on the ship “Ann,” whose master commander was his father Benjamin Raffles. At the age of 14, young Thomas Raffles worked in London as a clerk of the British East India Company, the quasi-government trading company that shaped many of Britain's overseas conquests. The reason: his father’s

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However, he didn’t stop studying. He taught himself at night and later learnt Malay even though he was a high ranking official who could hire an interpreter in Malaysia. Surprisingly, Thomas Raffles even published a book of poetry in Malay.

heavy debts prevented him from continuing his studies at school. However, he didn’t stop studying. He taught himself at night and later learnt Malay even though he was a high ranking official who could hire an interpreter in Malaysia. Surprisingly, Thomas Raffles even published a book of poetry in Malay. In 1807, he became Chief Secretary to the Governor in Penang, an Island of Malaysia, and was designated as Secretary to the Governor-General in Malaysia in 1810. While working as governorship in Sumatra, Thomas Raffles decided to go to the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula, what is now Singapore, to find a possible British base. Soon, Singapore fell under his rule. He, on behalf of East India Company, also donated money to build a mosque on Arab Street, a culturally sensitive gesture to Muslim residents . He died of apoplexy at the age of 44 in London on July 5, 1826, . He was refused burial inside his local parish church (St. Mary's, Hendon) for his abolitionist views. Singapore’s respect for Stamford Raffles is in sharp contrast to many formerly colonized nations. Take for instant, Korea’s sentiment on Japanese rule for 35 years, from 1910 to 1945. During that period, many Koreans were tortured and oppressed by the Japanese so that after independence, all buildings and objects related to Japan were demolished. In fact, the Japanese built buildings and changed the use of original buildings and their sites to kill Korean spirits. (Korean people are very spiritual and have strong beliefs in energies associated with places that lend to national identity and pride). For example, Japan changed Changgyeonggung Palace, one of five palaces in Seoul, to a resort site with a zoo and botanical gardens. The zoo was removed in 1983 and the palace was restored completely. The foreign rulers also built an imposing Victorian command center on the site of Gyeongbokgung Palace, the home to the last denizens of the Chosun Dynasty (13921910), which is totally destroyed now.

Needless to say, there is not a single statute in memory of any Japanese ruler in Korea. As Singapore did not suffer a painful experience under British rule, it does not rue its British governors. As a Korean who has been taught the evils of colonialism, I find it curious to see a nation respect and honor a foreign colonial ruler. Maybe they do this because Thomas Raffles had a loving nature and showed respect for the culture, religion, and above all, the people. — Jung Min Shon is a Korean journalist who has lived in the United Kingdom and now resides in Singapore.

Statue of Raffles at Boat Quay

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Adventures for the Average Woman

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

End of chapter 8 “Sunny Quito. Do you know he’s in Luxembourg now?” Dddwwchllyff posed rhetorically. “Now I do, yes. It’s where the postcard’s from. About that microchip technology you were using to conceal your embarrassment – may I borrow it for a minute?” “Yes, yes of course. And look out that Revolving window© while you’re at‚ it. It may have cleared up.” He strode into the library shutting the door behind him, as was his wont. He always did these things in the exact same order. He was, in some ways, very predictable, even too predictable.. making him ironically easy to pose as. She skipped over to the Revolving window©, another of Dddwwchllyf’s inventions. It was cleverly designed to let a constant flow of light and air into a room. The really clever bit was that it also worked at night too…and in fog! Chapter 9 “I’ll see if I can find that for you – you put it on reserve, correct? And what’s your name again?” “Sunny Quito” “Alright. Here it is. ‘How to sue yourself for plagiarism – a macrophilological approach to lepus-cerebral ideations’ Kent, 2004. This is in big demand, there’s a waiting list.” The librarian was rarely surprised anymore by the drivel she catalogued at the University library, but this one was particularly pompous sounding – as if everyone didn’t know how to sue themselves, but ooh no, it had to be some complicated ass-backward thing only academics and trick dogs could perform. “Our professor assigned it, but there’s only the one copy,” the student was saying. “We all have to read it.” Where had she heard this before? From the previous student to borrow it? She had a jarring sense of déjà vu all over again as she ran the book under the scanner and the student watched with anxious eyes. So anxious these students, every last bloody one them. Why?

Volume 1, Issue 8

He strode into the library shutting the door behind him, as was his wont. He always did these things in the exact same order. He was, in some ways, very predictable, even too predictable.. making him ironically easy to pose as.

She sighed for effect and handed the student the book. “Please be sure to return it on time. Your professor assigned it, but there’s only the one copy. You all have to read it.” Her own words sounded strangely familiar to her like some sort of ricochet or other lacemaking craft… When Constable Painting had awakened from his nap in the disabled toilets at Cardiff International last year or week, he had no idea what had taken place in the “bar”. He merely went looking for his dog sniffer dog. All perfectly normal. A flash lawyer suit was still encasing a body at one of the tables, a pair of capital Red leather shoes still shod the appertaining feet. His dog sniffer dog was out and about doing a bit of the old wag and wangle on the lady sitting in for the fair Elspeth at the Bureau de Change. He called the mutt over to him in case the dog had scored and was tempted to cheat on their deal. But as the dog approached, it stopped at the barlike affair where earlier an old geezer’d actually tried to order a Beer„ -- and then the dog barked. The constable cast his eyes spryly down at the item causing all the bow-wow then sprightly away, feigning indifference to mask his apathy. His dogger sniffer dog began to show romantic interest in the item, the battered suitcase the geezer had apparently forgotten when he went to catch his flight or whatever it was people did on airport stairwells.. Constable Painting didn’t know, didn’t want to. And he as sure as hell didn’t want his dog sniffer dog sniffing dogs. The law was clear – discovery and reporting of dog smuggling carried a heavy fine, a stiff sentence, a few firm paragraphs and a long disapprobation period. No. Not for him. It was the dogs who were penalized, the poor brutes. He prized his beloved cur on the moldy old valise, so he prized his beloved cur off it and headed toward the disabled loo. It was time for a break anyway. As Painting and his canine charge reached the toilet he found one of the ever present

Icelandic maintenance staff hanging a sign on the door handle. ‘This convenience is out of order,’ it read, ‘sorry for any inconvenience caused’ it concluded. The disabled toilets had been disabled? ‘Typical’ thought Constable Painting. Just then a smartly dressed young lady, a man struggling to rest a large video camera on his shoulder as he moved and another man weighed down with a rectangular shoulder bag and what initially looked like a grey, limbless ferret on the end of a metal pole, all rushed past the officer and his dog, trailing a tangle of assorted cables behind them. Something, it seemed, was going on. Chapter 10 It all made perfect sense. Wales had a long and noble mining tradition. While building up the economy they would be cementing national pride at the same time. Just below all the grass and trees that still covered large parts of the countryside – especially the rural areas where the countryside was particularly prevalent – was a vast, and so far untapped resource: Soil. Once the scheme was under way, Land was being mined in vast quantities. And so it was that in a few short months, Wales went from having a struggling economic base to being the world’s second largest exporter of soil and becoming a significant European nation. The fiscal wonder that was Land mining shot Wales to international fame. It made the covers of NewsWeak, The Economissed and Soil! magazines in successive weeks. The rich and stupid (both together and separately) were queuing up for a piece of the sod action. Dia Llaffaen, the newly appointed minister at the newly created Department of Land Reassignment (humorously dubbed the ‘ministry of mud’ by the tabloid wags on the Llanharri Sun), became an overnight celebrity. He made regular TV and radio (continued on page 12)

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The Cardiff Grandma (continued from page 11)

appearances to update the public, and the shareholders, on the current state of soil exports. And the exports? The docks in Swansea, Cardiff and Bridgend had never been so busy. (Traditionally Bridgend had been several miles from the coasts but before long so much soil had been exported that turning the town into a saltwater port was merely a formality. The significance of this point went largely unnoticed, such was he nationwide enthrallment with the incredible state of the economy.). With the rise in global sea levels and increasing coastal erosion there was a good supply of demand for premium Welsh soil. Land was being reassigned at a incredible rate. The knock on effects of the soil trade were huge. Those not directly employed as miners, shovellers or packers tended to have jobs making mining equipment, shovels or packaging, or they found work driving for haulage firms, building ships or working as cartographers. The most obvious place to begin land mining was the old English border. The political and nationalist significance was not lost on anyone. What better way to mark the country’s break from England than by literally separating the two? Before long their English neighbors were left to stare through the razor wire fence and contemplate a vast, cavernous trench and watch as lorry after lorry headed off over the horizon with yet another 40 tonnes of mud. In no time at all Land mines were springing down all over the place. The whole nation benefited, many people became personally very wealthy and the few (mostly) men who had come up with the original idea had become obscenely rich. Rich beyond their wildest nightmares. Things were going well – all, it seemed, was good in Wales. There were always a few who’d pop up from time to time and claim “it’ll never last”, but on the whole they were not a big problem. They were either ignored or shot (or, in a few exceptional cases, both) and so nobody had to deal with the particularly crazy version of

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The job had been as a consultant for the Anglo-Russian-Chinese Oil Rice and Gas International corporation, ARCORGI working up in the Causasus mountains in a place called Ordzhonikidzevskaya. Tiny little town, huge name.

the truth that such realistic persons were pedaling like so many bikes, and everybody was free to continue basking in the reborn national pride. First part of Chapter 11 Wolfcastle drove back into the city. Once more on familiar ground after his excursion out to his old friend’s country house. There was something therapeutic about driving in the city late at night. It wasn’t yet late enough for the streets to be empty, the last dregs of drunken revelers were still staggering around looking for a fight, a place to be sick, a fast food joint or a taxi (or a combination of those things). A few late night studiers were also out making use of the 24 hour university library facility. There was some traffic too. As ever, there were waves of taxi’s rushing back into the centre to make one more pick up before calling it a night. The taxis were not alone, ambulances and police cars were dashing to or from the latest ‘incident’ and the ever present soil trucks were also present. Still, Wolfcastle enjoyed the sense of freedom He was getting used to the hire car now, quite attached in fact. As much as it saddened him it was true to say that people did tend to judge a persons character by outward appearance: the clothes you wore, car your drove, house to lived in (and where it was). Coming back to his old stomping ground again, Wolfcastle had decided that he should try and give a good account of himself. He wasn’t a Lada owner, and he only wore suits for weddings and funerals. He’d been pondering that fact recently: funny how there were less of the former and more of the latter these days. Working as a freelance geological analyst wasn’t so much a way of life as a living. It meant he got to travel and it came with an reasonable income. It wasn’t his first choice of career, more like something that had been thrust upon him. But when circumstances brought him back to Wales, to Cardiff, to Cymru, to Caerdydd… he had decided to return in style. Arriving in Swansea International Ferry terminal he had made for the nearest car hire desk. (Wolfcastle

decided it best not to hang around too long, the pilot of the light aircraft he’d arrived on didn’t have permission to land on the car park of the ferry terminal and would surely attract the attention of the local Heddlu before long). Wolfcastle had fully intended to be sensible and hire a nice family saloon, something Japanese maybe, but Lying Dave’s Auto Hire had a very good deal on European cars that week and something got the better of his better judgment. From there he’d headed into central Swansea, found the nearest branch of McNeegies, ‘The Store for Gentlemen’ TM and splashed out on three new suits and half a dozen shirts and ties. Having done that he was of course obliged to pay for them. The last job had been in a one of those central Asian, former Soviet republics that seemed to be springing up all over the place these days. The job had been as a consultant for the Anglo-Russian-Chinese Oil Rice and Gas International corporation, ARCORGI working up in the Causasus mountains in a place called Ordzhonikidzevskaya. Tiny little town, huge name. The work hadn’t paid so well but then again he didn’t have to pay any income tax either. Besides, in the three months he spent there, there really hadn’t been much to spend his pay on as few shops accepted the local currency. His contract had ended and circumstances, two airplanes, a bus and a taxi, (not necessarily in that order) had taken him back to Cymru. In the Lada Wolfcastle decided it was time he got something to eat. Turning left at the Castle in the centre of town, he headed through the centre of the city. He deftly steered the Lada around the various groups of drunken pedestrians as they stumbled around in the middle of the road, desperately trying to locate the pavement. Do we dare print more? Tell us at ideagems@aol.com or find out in our next issue.

Adventures for the Average Woman

The Spoiler, Part VIII

He left her side and set his rump upon the marble top. He reached down and took up a tortoiseshell comb to work back the fine strands from his forehead. “Don’t tell me,” she addressed the mirror. “The very words you had me recite time and again: ‘I can no more remove this mask than a cobra can remove the false eyespots from its hood; for by doing so, neither cobra nor I would possess the menacing visage we were each destined by nature to display.’” He turned his head to eyeball her through the mask. She glowered back and asked, “Did you make it your life mission to memorize the whole book?” “I only truly know what was written of my part. Now, may I continue?” She looked away. “Who’s stopping you? Certainly not I.” He eased off her to carry on with his grooming and storytelling. “Through Milo’s interrogations, Abigail revealed her plans and expressed her worries. That is when I noticed her necklace -- a small gold cross glinting in the lamp light. It was an item I had acquired as part of our prize booty when we sailed aboard the Lexington. We had engaged the Edward in battle and fought until the captain struck her colors. One of the surrendering officers possessed a small box containing jewels he’d pilfered from a Spanish vessel their crew had engaged and defeated. I surreptitiously acquired the necklace and sent it to Abigail

Volume 1, Issue 8

She glowered back and asked, “Did you make it your life mission to memorize the whole book?”

with one of my letters. Now, in my robber’s den, I beheld it gleaming against her neck, gold on alabaster. I reached over with my gloved hand to finger the piece. Abigail immediately fell into a fit of apoplexy. She raised her hands and begged me to take her life if I were to remove the chain, for she would have no more reason to live. Milo remembered the jewelry I had looted from the British officer and knew how to probe for the information I desperately wanted to know. Specifically, from whom did she receive it? “I braced myself for her confession that Parfey had presented her with the gift, figuring him low enough to remove the property before destroying the letter. To my amazement and through her tears, Abigail confessed that this cross had been given to her by her one true love, a man who had perished in battle.” Marsha watched the reflection of the tall bronze-skinned Milo helping the master of the house put on a shiny black waistcoat. Raeph flexed his shoulders and tugged the sleeves of the tight-fitting garment and continued. “It took all I could to contain my excitement at the news. I bit my tongue behind the black silk veiling my face as Milo delved further. He asked how she came by the magnificent gold necklace if her love had perished. She informed that she had received the one letter and that it had contained the beautiful gold cross and chain. “How could this miracle have happened? How could one of my letters have survived the sabotage of a man out to destroy all I held dear? Later I would learn that the letter had fallen from Parfrey’s pocket as he debarked. A slave porter found it caught between the planks of the dock. Seeing the name, he passed it along the slave channels until it arrived to Carmelia. She saw that Abigail got my word. “Milo then asked her for the name of her lost love. When her voice spake my name, I nearly succumbed. Then Milo, in all his shrewdness, mentioned that he knew of a noble man by that very name and that he was very much alive. Overwrought, Abigail swooned.” Raeph spread his fingers and waved his hands before Marsha’s face in a dramatic gesture. He then turned to the mirror and fastened his hair in the back with

a black satin ribbon. “I had a difficult decision to make, madam. Should I reveal myself to her and beg her return to my arms? Would that have been fair to her? For being a spoiler and outlaw, what sort of life could I offer her? Could I ask her to give up her comfortable life to live in hardship with me? Could I be a good provider for her in finding a worthy vocation or would my rascally nature win out? What heartbreak would that cause her? Would she be willing to leave her family and go far away with me to a fresh location where my infamy would be unknown? Could I dare ask such sacrifice of her? I needed time to ponder these matters. Despite my desire to set her free that very night, I decided to hold her until the morrow. “I took her into a side chamber and warned her upon pain of death not to attempt escape. I asked Milo to fetch little Micah who had been tending to our horses. Oh, let us not forget little Micah. He also has a tale of his own and how he came to be my ward, but I needn’t digress on that here. “Thank God for one less digression,” Marsha invoked. “The boy brought fresh straw to make a bed on the cold stone floor of the grotto. Abigail cried most of the night at my cruelty.” “And that got your rocks off, di-,” Marsha was interrupted by a knock at the door. Carmelia entered carrying a silver tea set with two porcelain cups and a crystal dish of pralines and peppermints. Raeph acknowledged, “Thank you Carmelia. Now, go along with Milo and help prepare our supper.” Carmelia curtsied then followed Milo out the door. Marsha had no idea what time it was other than it was daylight. She hadn’t slept all night. Time had become a disorienting prop in this absurdist stage play. Where, oh, where is that blasted bald soprano? She’s late! Her thoughts vetted in the endorphin-rich fields of sleep-deprivation and low electrolytes. “Chicory and coffee. I think you’ll find it refreshing.” (continued on page 14)

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The Spoiler (continued from page 13)

The warm brew drenched her parched throat. He let her finish her cup then noticed how a thin dribble ran down her chin and dropped onto her breast. Raeph set down the cup, pulled out a clean handkerchief from his sleeve cuff and daubed away the errant trill.

“Got a long straw?” Marsha supplicated from her restraints. “Oh, thou jaded rose that sprouts such thorns of sarcasm!” “Did I write that for you too? I didn’t realize I could be so clever.” Raeph pulled out a meerschaum pipe from a side pocket and clenched it in his teeth. “I realize that you are strapped at the moment and unable to partake of your own accord, but I shan’t risk you dousing me with scalding coffee, now shall I?” He pulled open a top drawer to find a flint and tin box containing dried wood shavings. He coaxed a spark on the third strike of flint on steel and let it fall into the wadding of tinder. He then inserted the sulphur-coated end of the spunk into the flames until it flared. He applied the spunk to the tobacco inside the pipe bowl and breathed it to life then extinguished the burning tinder by placing the lid back on the box. Smoke laced the air. Raeph set the pipe down on the tea tray and took up the cup he had poured. He blew on the hot black beverage. “Yuck. I don’t want to drink that now that you’ve spit tobacco product all over it,” Marsha griped. The cup hovered in his hand. “Madam, can I count on you not to spew it out on my clean vestments?” “Can I count on you to stop tying me up like a common cur?” “Would you prefer I whip you like one instead?” Marsha clenched her jaw. “That would be your next plan of action.” “Don’t worry, madam, I have never stooped so low as to strike anyone of the fairer sex, nor I doubt I shall ever do.” “No, you just snatch them up and hold them against their will, like a period piece Freddie Clegg.” “Clegg? Never heard of the gent. He wouldn’t by chance be related to this Rolfe you’ve spoken of?” “Actually, form your warped time perspective, that fictional character won’t exist for another hundred and...,” she fished for a detail that could be used to foil him later. “What year did you say this was?”

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“You should know, madam, it is the year seventeen ninety-one Anno Domini.” Marsha squinted to calculate. “A hundred and seventy-two years.” “Very clever of you, madam. Are you now a sibyl?” “More like a haruspex,” she quibbled. “Spill your guts and I’ll predict your future.” She cast him a wide-eyed Svengali stare. Raeph smirked. “Precisely why you are here.” He took up a peppermint and leaned close. “Now, open up for a dose of sweets.” “More like a dose of dope.” Marsha huffed and turned her head away. “Madam, I prithee, don’t try me.” His fingers brushed the confection against her lips and coaxed them apart. The candy tingled her reviling tongue. “God, you are a sick beast! Why are you doing this to me?” She strained in her seat. Raeph sucked on his own piece of candy. “You do realize I can keep you like this for as long as it takes.” “Pray tell, milord,” she mocked. “Wouldst thou set me to the rack? Shall I save you the trouble by confessing my witchery and servitude to the devil? Why not throw me in the pond to see if I sink or float? Or just pump my veins full of heroine and render me a hopeless addict, which would perfectly suit the evil machinations of Master Rolfe and surely prove just how mad thou verily art?” “Once again, madam you are quite mistaken. I do not desire to torture or drug you; for I need you sharp of mind to carry out our task at hand.” He tipped the cup so that she could sip. In spite of her grievance, she longed for a drink. The warm brew drenched her parched throat. He let her finish her cup then noticed how a thin dribble ran down her chin and dropped onto her breast. Raeph set down the cup, pulled out a clean handkerchief from his sleeve cuff and daubed away the errant trill. Marsha breathed heavy beneath his hovering. “This is why I need a fichu.” He took a drag from his pipe. “Fichu? Why, madam? You have a most magnificent bosom that boasts your beauty, but there

could yet be some adornment. Let me see.” He opened a paneled door and took out a black lacquered box inlayed with mother of pearl. He lifted back the lid to reveal a red felt lining covered in jewelry. He fished out a gold chain studded with emeralds and hooked it around her neck. Then he reached up and fingered her hair. “Let us unknot these gorgonian tresses, shall we?” Marsha had no choice. She was forced to sit and endure his feeding, stroking and teasing. She yielded helplessly to every praline stuffed in her mouth, painful tug of the brush to her hair and boorish confabulation from his lips into her ears. Waves of torment and humiliation overflowed the banks of her reserve. Marsha’s eyes burned with teary brine. “How it moves my heart to see that I can still bring tears to your eyes, madam.” Marsha sniveled, “Is that supposed to be a witty calembour?” He teased the knots from her hair as tediously as he spun his yarn. “The next day I sloughed the black raiment of a ruffian and donned the guise of a courier. I rode to Baltimore where I delivered the satchel to a military attaché to Mr. Washington. They rewarded me with gold pieces with which I purchased a fresh horse to make the ride swiftly back to the Patuxent. In the lair, I found Abigail tied to the chair. Milo apologized profusely for the treatment but was obliged to apply it for her having grabbed up a stone to strike him upon the head.” He stopped brushing to observe. “She had demonstrated an impudent nature equal to your own, madam.” “Oo, I wonder why? Could it be I wrote her that way? Or maybe, like most women held hostage, she didn’t mind bashing the brains in of the kidnapping bastard who threatened her.” “Settle down, madam. I was only drawing a comparison.” He resumed fretting over her gnarled hair. Marsha twisted her head away from his hold and railed. “Not until you explain why you are acting out the scenes from that one stupid book!” What’s in store for our captive writer? The story continues.

Adventures for the Average Woman

Cutlass Moon, Part VI READY, SET, ACTION! Shooting had begun before first light. The scene: exterior, at dawn, in the rough surf of a tropical shore. Seven survivors, three women and four men, were swimming in from a plane wreck (an old burned out DC-3 that had been dragged onto the reef during the night and rigged for an impressive display of predawn pyrotechnics). The carcass of the plane burst into dazzling flames. Everything had gone according to schedule except for the surf. It was flat as a sheet of glass. The director, Lionel Milovisc, the stickler for detail and perfection from hell, was foaming at the mouth. How dare that diva bitch Mother Nature douse his high drama with a mediocre performance! The rough seas footage was either going to have to wait until weather conditions cranked up the desired effect or be created in postproduction, which meant taking the metaphorical scalpel to their limited budget. Then the shrieking shaman had shown up to break all hell loose. Hedge’s voice brought Peter back to the here-and-now aboard the chartered cruise ship. “You guys are all a real mess, ya know?” She eyed the freshly scabbed-over scrape on his left forearm. “I’ll have you know,” he commented with a twinge of pride, “these bloody scratches on my legs, arms, and face are not fake. That coral is sharp and the sand is like, well, sand paper.” “How apropos. Here, lay face down.” Hedge gestured toward the portable masseur’s table she had set up next to him. He complied and continued, “I don’t know how many retakes were called, but we had to drag our banged-up bodies out of the surf over and over again.” A vibrato rippled his words as Hedge chop-sooeyed his back with the edges of her massive hands. She informed, “Well, thank God it’s only bumps and bruise and not fire coral burns or jellyfish stings.” “Or a shark bites,” added Brett. “Yeah, well, all this physical abuse seems to be the least of our problems at the moment.”

Volume 1, Issue 8

The director, Lionel Milovisc, the stickler for detail and perfection from hell, was foaming at the mouth. How dare that diva bitch Mother Nature douse his high drama with a mediocre performance!

Hedge’s voice rose a couple of decibels. Her lime green eyes expounded her excitement. “Yeah, like, what is with that? I couldn’t believe it when that crazy woman came outta nowhere, then tromped down the beach, right through the shoot.” She grunted as she kneaded triceps. “Demented-like.” Prone face down on the table, Peter mentally projected the disruptive event on the polished deck below him. He could hear the director bellowing. “CUUUUUUUUT!” The leviathan crane slowly lowered to discharge its human rider. Several of the crew that had been loitering on terra firma hopped to and kicked up sand as they dashed to fend off the two interlopers. “Goddammitsonuvbitchshitto (bleep-ing)hell!” shrieked Milovisc as he planted both feet on the sand and hauled his massive frame over to the source of his trouble. “How dare you ruin this take! It was a one shot deal with the plane exploding. Christ!” The bedraggled actors coming up from the surf ceased their strenuous play-acting and tried to catch their breath as they lamented the interruption. “What the frig now?” moaned Wayne, the fair-haired actor with boyish features. “I don’t know,” commented Fred with features chiseled a la Michelangelo. “Looks like this island isn’t as abandoned as we were told. Wha… what’s so funny?” He turned to the lanky mocha-toned Jan who was sitting in the sand next to him. She was giggling uncontrollably. “Look at Milovisc! He looks like a spud on toothpicks walking out of a deep fryer! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Her well-toned abdomen contracted with each guffaw. The riled director reddened from rage and sunburn was facing off with a bizarrely garbed woman who had been quickly surrounded by four burly crewmen with com sets running out of their ears and around their heads. They held their clipboards out and up like shields against the parries and thrusts of the long black staff she was carrying. Murph, one of the cameramen, came running up with a heavy Canon XL 1 on his right shoulder while holding out an ENG shotgun mike with his left hand. She took a swing at his apparatus.

“Hey! Watch the equipment, bitch!” The director’s boxy girth was draped in a floralpatterned Tahitian shirt; his spindly legs sprouted from garish Bermudas. The ponytail of his long gray hair bounced with every hard step he took. He stood but a foot from the rattle end of her staff and studied her for a moment. A brief look of surprise perked up his steely gray eyes. “You’re a white woman.” When she didn’t respond he launched into derision. “What the hell is this?” He sneered and raised his hand at her in a mocking gesture. “You think it’s Halloween or something?” he harangued. “Who the (bleep) are you, and what the (bleep) are you doing (bleeping) up my (bleeping) shoot?” His face took on the contortions of a snarling old dog with crinkled snout and bared yellow teeth. The short muscular woman decked in her boar’s-head cowl with its tusks curving from her temples and coarse nape hanging over the back of her head shouted back at the man in a strange language. This drew the attention of the two Royal Guardsmen who had come aboard in the port city of Calabishi. Their presence was a pro forma courtesy stemming out of the embarrassment that the proper security for the film crew was not readily available. They bee- lined for the dark-skinned man who had been running after her. A minor scrap ensued before the two soldiers took him firmly by the arms and walked him over to the others. “Doolie. Doolie! Where are those goddam permits?” Milovisc looked among his crew for his well-heeled lackey. “DOOLIE!” “Y..y..es sir,” squeaked a voice that seemed to be permanently pitted between adolescence and manhood. “Here… here…” The scrawny young man with round glasses and receding hairline handed over a clipboard full of papers. The burly director brusquely snatched the board with the documents that fluttered with the desire to escape into the calm tropical breeze. He walked over to the poor excuse for a security team and showed them the documents. With his meaty index finger, he tapped insistently on the lines of tiny print. His voice was low and collected at first, “We have permits. We were told (continued on page 16)

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Cutlass Moon (Continued from page 15)

there would be no interference. We were told there were no inhabitants on the islands on this side of the archipelago. We were told we’d be provided security from the Guard for our shoot,” then it rose into a loud roar. “So what the frick-frack is this?” The actors and crew looked on like witnesses to a bad accident. The two Royal Guardsmen began taking their frustrations out on the native escort of the crazy woman in the boar’s head. They engaged in a verbal assault occasionally punctuated with a poke to the ribs or a slap to the back of the head. The woman turned to face them and planted the bottom end of the staff she had been swinging at everyone firmly in the sand. She stood like a bulldog and barked at the tall authoritative men in khaki uniforms. They immediately stopped their harassment. Their tough-guy demeanor did a one-eighty. One began to tremble while the other looked aghast. The short, stocky woman clad in a dingy gray t-shirt and a brown and gold wraparound cloth wound around her waist shook her black wooden staff. On the top was a wad of leaves and loose shells strung together. It made a sharp swooshing sound that sent shivers up the spine much as hearing a rattlesnake would. Fine blond hair poked out from under the desiccated upper cranium of the boar. Her crystalline eyes reflected the changing colors of the morning sky. What made her stand out all the more were the dark spirals and swirling patterns etched along her arms, legs, neck, and face. In a booming voice ushering the lilting phonemes of island dialect, she castigated the guardsmen. Whatever she said made them release her escort and back off sheepishly. Milovisc couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He hurled the clipboard and documents down into the sand. “What the —? What the hell is this shit? Who is this bitch? Do your goddam job and arrest these people! Draw and quarter them! Just get them off my beach so that I can shoot my (bleeping) movie!” His apoplexy worsened the moment the boar’s-headwearing woman turned to face him. “Uh-oh,” Wayne muttered, “this is going to get gnarly.”

For a freeze-frame moment, they stood there and stared at each other, nostrils flaring from heavy adrenaline-induced breathing. The woman’s booming jackhammer voice shattered the frozen tension.

She chided the monster of a director, who of course yelled back. Their mutually unintelligible languages led to hopeless cacophony. Then the woman resorted to body language by thrusting her stubby fingers into Milovisc’s protruding gut. “Don’t you (bleeping) touch me,” he blustered, but before he could lay a hand on her, she yelled something in island language and blocked the bulky man by holding her staff sideways. “Get the (bleep) out of my way, bitch!” A froth of spittle slithered down his quivering jowls. It was alarming to see the petite white woman face off with a man multiple times her mass. Suddenly, the dark-skinned man, who had arrived with her, pushed toward them and blurted out, “Sir, calm down. I will explain the situation. Sir, please! Let me explain the situation.” The sound of his American accent caught Milovisc, the crew and actors off guard. For a freeze-frame moment, they stood there and stared at each other, nostrils flaring from heavy adrenaline-induced breathing. The woman’s booming jackhammer voice shattered the frozen tension. The man translated, “The Pitautau wants to know what you uninvited foreign people are doing here.” He paused a moment to catch up with her next barrage of words. “She asks,” his face contorted slightly as he struggled to translate, ‘Don’t you know your square shape tastes like the black meat from Death’s butchery?” Milovisc’s own face skewed up in perplexity. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The translator followed up her next utterance with, “‘The bruised sky is screaming with pain. The sand is sick with anemia. The coral is bleeding pale streams along the currents of the weeping sea.’ ” She paused and so did he. Milovisc’s look of impatient bewilderment pressed for logical associations. She spoke in terms he could understand which he assistant translated: “’Why do you pollute our fishing area and destroy the reef with your foul smoke and oil? Why do you disrespect our island gods? Why are you violating sacred lands? You must leave this place or pay the consequences.’ ” Milovisc was unaffected. “Who gives a fish crap about your stinking sacred land and

who the hell are you to tell me what to do?” he blew. The man enlightened him. “This is the Pitautau, Divine Vessel of ancestral spirits and keeper of the sacred lands.” “The Pee-taw what?” Milovisc’s disregard for her title and rank bordered on insolence. “Look, buddy, none of this has anything to do with my film which is on a very tight schedule.” He beat time for every word with a fat cluster of fingers on his right hand into the meaty palm of his left. “We have a signed and royally sealed contract to have total dibs to this beach during the period of filming.” He thrust his left hand out toward where the clipboard stuck with one corner in the sand. I will not abide by… by raggedy pig witches walking into my shots to tell me what to do.” The “divine vessel” spoke and the man interpreted, “The Pitautau says that you have no right to be on this island.” Milovisc directed his rebuke toward the woman. “You! You have no right to be on MY beach, bitch! Now clear off!” He swiveled around as if searching for something. “Who told me this island was uninhabited, HUH? WHO? And where are those goddamn soldiers we were promised for security? Doolie, get me a sat phone. We’ll see who’s got the right to be here. Christ almighty!” Realizing he could not win this altercation, he would use the weapon of modern technology to win his war. Before he tromped off, he signaled the rest of his crew to follow. His expensive orthopedic sandals spit insults of sand at those lapping at his heels. Strengthening daylight revealed the exasperation of all the players on the shore. All of them were clad in skimpy wear: tank tops, halters, and short shorts. The more skin stretched over sculpted muscle showing, the better. One of the actors, Marshall Whitespear, a stately NativeAmerican, was on all fours in the sandy muck of the surf line. Like seaweed, the ends of his long black hair dragged back and forth with each gentle lap of a wave as he hung his head and moaned. Fair-haired man-boy Wayne Zbinsky was next to him. He flopped over on his shirtless back and gave the finger to the heavens. Tall and (continued on page 17)

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Cutlass Moon (Continued from page 16)

stately Marjorie Gyldwyn, with her shortcropped red hair, hoisted her magnificent frame up on its two feet and stood, chest heaving from the strain of swimming to shore. She wrung seawater from her saturated yellow tank top. The gymsculpted abs gave contour to her smooth tanned skin. Fine water droplets bejeweled her bronzed skin; white grains of sand coated her legs and arms like sugar sprinkles on a deep fried pastry. Gloria Pakhana’s noble features of Rapa Nui ancestry, bore little brunt from the strain and fatigue. Her muscular legs curled beneath her, she wrung out the spongy auburn mass of hair that hung down to her shoulder blades. In a bright orange halter top and stonewashed denim cutoffs, majestic Jan Murcheson shook salt water off of hundreds of intricate tightly woven braids. She was kneeling in the wet sand next to handsome, bedraggled Peter Brett. His left hand revealed scraped knuckles as it wiped salt water from his face. He squinted in the intense mid-morning reflection as he pushed himself out of the brine. The sun was already at twenty degrees and rising fast. The actors, who’d been wallowing wearily in the surf, got up and went to drier ground. Dripping wet with blood oozing from minor abrasions, they stopped to take in the bizarre visual of the woman with the staff and the boar’s head. In a flicker of sunlight on water, Peter’s hazel-green eyes locked with the woman’s. It was like two space aliens probing each other with thought waves. He shot a beam of intensity right at her, mentally begging the questions: “Kal? Is that you? What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that? Why won’t you speak English? Do you still hear colors, smell sounds, and believe different shapes have different flavors as you did as a child? Don’t you recognize me?” He sensed her psychic shields were on high alert. “Pack it up, people!” Milovisc barked. “We’re delaying the shoot until I figure how the hell to handle this matter.” The grips began packing up their gear while the others walked up beach. Peter lingered to ponder the Circian figure bedecked in the scalp of a boar and standing like a guard beast in the sand.

Volume 1, Issue 8

Suddenly, dozens of short naked men surrounded the crew in a show of strength in numbers and arms.

from a football field’s length away, he watched her take up her staff and stride down to the shore into the hiss of surf. She raised her tall staff and let out a piercing howl. The black man who had accompanied her rushed down to the water. The two men in island military uniforms did nothing to stop him. Instead, they stood post halfway between the intruders and the film crew. When the woman turned her back to the sea and shouted to the forest, Peter redirected his gaze toward the rise of jungle that served as the exotic backdrop for the Crash Land set. He wondered what mysteries there made this land so sacred that Kalinda would have to behave like a mad woman. The actors and cameramen gathered at the far leeward end of the crescent shaped beach as they awaited word from the director. Milovisc and his assistants had taken the dinghies back to the cruise ship anchored off shore. They would try to contact archipelago authorities to find out how to resolve this situation. Mostly, Milovisc wanted to know who the crazy white woman was and how to remove her. Was she a deranged fan, renegade Peace Corps crank, or maybe an escapee from an insane asylum? What was her nationality? He fretted that there might be other whackos lurking on this island and fumed over the breach in security. Most of all, he hated the thought of having to scout out another deserted island. It would mean more costly delays. Since the actors and remaining crew had nothing to do but wait, they spread out under the glorious sun. Murph, the cameraman, passed out some smokes. Peter passed up the offer and headed back down the beach. He wanted a closer look at the wild woman’s corybantics, but the two Royal Guards blocked his passage. Murph traipsed after Peter to film the show. One of the guardsmen rudely covered the lens with one hand and ordered him in piss-poor English to turn off the camera. Cigarette dangling from pink rubbery lips, the Liverpudlian cussed. “Gah! Fook ‘at shit!” Marshall saw a fight brewing and jogged over to get Murph to back down. A descendent in a long line of Shoshone and Arapaho, he understood the importance of respecting sacred people and their ways. Peter stood at the designated perimeter and watched the Pitautau jump and gyrate. She

twisted, fell to her knees, and rolled in the surf now blackening with grime from the burned fuselage. If only he could get the chance to talk to her, find out if this truly was Kalinda Thorpe, the target of his information gathering mission. But how could he do this without raising her suspicions as to who he was and why he was here? It dawned on him: try going though the interpreter. Peter’s brow knotted into an expression of perplexity. Odd how he hadn’t bothered to interpret Milovisc’s English back into her language. That implied the woman understood English. Or maybe she just didn’t care what the bullying director had to say. In Peter’s estimation, the tall black man was a much needed contact and negotiator in this wild and wooly place. Peter saw the man sitting patiently on the sand as the divine vessel carried on with what appeared to be an exorcism. She chanted and cast shells she’d gathered from the beach into the sea. She undulated her arms and torso in tantric fashion. As if picking up on a signal, the man’s head turned away from her toward the two guardsmen. Peter shot the man a direct glance and a timid wave to indicate his thanks and desire for future contact. The striking dark-skinned man in faded denim cutoffs flashed a shy smile back – an encouraging sign. It wasn’t long before the Evanrudes of the dinghies were humming shoreward. Milovisc didn’t look any happier than when he left. It seemed he didn’t know anymore, either. Most followed as he tromped over to the sands to face his anonymous adversary. He went over to the interpreter and demanded, “I need to know who you are and where the hell you came from.” As the interpreter stood to his feet to address the man, the woman ceased her dancing and set upon Milovisc. He rattled his verbal saber all the more. “Are their others? UH-THURZ?” The hulk of a man apparently figured raising his voice a few decibels would make her understand better. Suddenly, dozens of short naked men surrounded the crew in a show of strength in numbers and arms. Will the cast survive? Find out in our next issue.

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Mystery of the Majestic, Part VIII SLIGHT OF HAND AND WORD “I hope you take it black,” Lily insisted. Her large almond eyes glanced over to Marque with a look of watch-me-now. Arna lifted her swollen red face and took the mug. Cut and bleeding knuckles brought the drink to her parched lips. Gulps interspersed with sobs. Lily set her lithe frame on an unopened box of sex toys and slid an arm around Arna which provoked a flinch. “It’s OK, dear. It’s gonna be all right. Hey, I’m here to help you.” She pushed back the strings of Arna’s fight-wild hair. Marque leaned across the desk and assured, “Arna, I’m here. Lily’s here. Talk to us so that we can find a way to help you.” Arna straightened up, grabbed a fistful of Kleenex and cleared the phlegm from her face. She took a sip of coffee when a gasping sob caused her to cough. Lily had to grab the mug before it spilled onto Arna’s lap. “Thank you, Arna,” squeaked. “Anytime,” Lily reciprocated and set the mug on the glass countertop. “I’m sorry for wreckin’ your shop and all. That was uncalled fer and I promise to pay for the damages just as soon as… just as soon as…,” the words elided into keens. “Don’t worry about that junk,” Lily consoled. “Let’s try to get you in order, OK?” Arna regained composure. “I thaink you’d find it easier to clean up this mess than deal with me. I’m just a lost cause.” Lily hated it when people felt sorry for themselves. Life beat a body down enough, especially a woman’s body. She didn’t need to beat up on herself on top of it. She knew the pattern: mama was treated like a piece of shit and believed that’s all she was good for, therefore so should her daughter, and her daughter’s daughter, and her daughter’s daughter’s daughter. Lily had seen it happen in her family for four generations. She was determined to break the link in the chain of punishment. That is why she became an escapologist. How she wanted to reach over and grab this pathetic woman by the hair,

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A single dimple punctuated Lily’s smirk. Her eyes peered past long lashes to study the woman with the naive and romantic notions. She looked at her pale moist lips and lusted.

pull her head back and give her a good crack. Lily closed her great brown eyes and chased the violent vision from her mind. This is how her father and brothers would deal with such a case, not her. She had learned to control her urges by being disciplined and patient. Marque’s voice triggered her eyes to reopen. “No, why would you say that?” Lily watched him stroke Arna’s hair, a gesture that she had decided never to accept from a man ever again. She took Arna’s hand and spoke gently. “Arna, what happened? Why are you so upset?” “My… my job… my home… my life….” A torrent of fresh tears drowned out her words. Lily hazarded, “Look, uh, Marque, not that your company’s not appreciated, but I think it’s time for Arna and me to have a little one-on-one girl talk, you know what I mean.” She wrinkled her slender nose. “As long as it’s only talk,” he enjoined. “I’ll be up in the office.” “More coffee, dear?” Arna’s head bobbed up and down; her shoulders jerked from anguished sobbing. Lily’s long fingers traipsed over Arna’s back on their way to brew another cup. The microwave dinged, and Lily cast a line of hope into Arna’s troubled waters. “Don’t worry, hon, Marque’ll figure this out. He’s gotten out of a lot tighter spots.” Her colla-

gen-pumped lips took a sip from one of the cups. Between the sobs and slurps of coffee, Arna squeezed out, “How? We need fifteen thou by Friday and….” She sank back into the waters of her despair. “Hell, that should be the least o’ my worries. Where am I gonna live? What am I gonna do? Everything I own is gone.” Lily sidled up against her and placed a wiry arm around her shoulders. Her lips hovered like a hummingbird above Arna’s cheek. “I’m sorry for your grief, really. I know I shouldn’t have treated you so rudely. None of us should. You really are a sweet woman.” She kissed Arna in the way a woman could to a woman without raising suspicion about its true intent. Arna’s sniffles began to abate. Holding the cup in both hands, she drank more coffee and sighed. “I guess I’m just as guilty for bearing a lack of understanding. It’s just that all this is so sudden and strange fer me.” She turned her teary eyes toward Lily. “Why do you do it?” Lily paused to wonder if Arna was referring to her lesbianism but didn’t let on. “Do what?” “All this with the chains and ropes n’ all. It don’t seem fittin’ for a woman of your fine stature and breedin’.” A single dimple punctuated Lily’s smirk. Her eyes peered past long lashes to study the woman with the naive and romantic notions. She looked at her pale moist lips and lusted. Arna construed the look to mean something completely different. “Look, uh, if you thaink me and Marque got somethin’ goin’ on, well, you needn’t worry.” Lily tossed out a delicate laugh. “Now, why would I worry about that? We’re not fastened at the hip.” “But from seein’ how you two kiss n’ cuddle, I thought….” A spray of coffee flew from Lily’s lips. (continued on page 19)

Adventures for the Average Woman

Mystery of the Majestic (Continued from page 18)

“Kiss n’ cuddle? I don’t think so.” She saw Arna rouge and corrected, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be derisive. It’s just that…” She finished the dregs from the cup. “Just what?” “Hon, you don’t know much about theater folk, do you?” “Not really my territory, no.” Arna slurped down the last drop. “Well, when you see us and how we dress, how we act, what do you think?” Arna squinted into Lily’s probing eyes. Realization crossed her puffy face. “You don’t mean y’all are…?” She didn’t mention the term. Lily nodded. “Thanks fer the coffee and the comfort,” Arna said abruptly and stood up, “but it’s getting’ late and I gotta… See ya.” She picked her hat up off the floor and headed upstairs. Lily pulled a knee up to her chin and grinned like the wily cat in Wonderland. How she enjoyed toying with the simple. * * * At exactly 3:30, the evil hours released the demons of hell to torture her yet again. “Clayton, no, don’t go. Please, don’t take him from me.” “Arna, wake up.” Arna sat up with a start to see Marque leaning over her. “What’s wrong?” “You were having some sort of nightmare.” It was Lily. Both had stayed with Arna that night. Lily had curled up in the leather desk chair while Marque propped himself up with his dark shaggy head on his right hand in the armchair across from where Arna slept on the sofa. “Sorry to have disturbed y’all.” She sat up and ran fingers through her tousle of hair. “You were calling out to Clayton,” Lily observed. Arna cast a wan smile. “Say, pass me my pack of cigs? I am in dire need. “Where are they?” Marque asked. “In my handbag.”

Volume 1, Issue 8

Faint rays of light filtered through the window. Dawn ran its rosy fingers over Marque’s sculpted features. He blinked from a sudden poke of a beam to his eye.

Marque passed it to her and sat down to watch her light up. “Want one?” “No thanks,” both chimed. They felt it impertinent to bring up the no smoking rules of the building as sanctioned by state law. Arna puffed in silence down to the filter then snubbed out the butt in an ashtray on the coffee table. “I know, nasty habit. Oughtta give it up.” Lily stretched and flexed her limber body. “Well, I think I ‘oughtta’ go home do some yoga then head over to the gym. Gotta keep fit and trim. Ciao bello.” Lily slunk over and took Marque’s head in her hands, pressed his face to her small breasts and gave him a kiss on the top of his head. He reciprocated by running his hand along her spine to the small of her back. She picked up her bag and tiptoed out the door. “She okay goin’ out at this hour?” Arna worried. “Believe me. She can take care of herself.” “Marque?” “Yeah?” “Are we just blowin’ smoke up our own asses in believin’ we can keep this place? I mean, we only got ‘til Friday to dig up a shitload of money, and I certainly don’t got no map to any buried treasure. Maybe I should call that Mendelssohn guy and—” Marque sat beside her on the sofa and put his fingers to her lips. “Don’t.” He turned to straighten up a pile of receipts on the table. “There’s still time to raise the money. I’ll make some phone calls to people I know and beg, but until then, don’t you even consider selling this place to Bryce and his group of corporate mobsters.” Faint rays of light filtered through the window. Dawn ran its rosy fingers over Marque’s sculpted features. He blinked from a sudden poke of a beam to his eye. The one thing women, including Lily, went gaga for was his thick dark eyelashes. He stood up and stretched. His jacket and trousers displayed uncomely wrinkles. He took a whiff of his left armpit and turned

his face away in a grimace Arna lifted herself up and stiffly walked to the door. “Where are you going?” “I have an appointment with Willy.” She shuffled out into the hall. “Wait up.” He decided to follow in the event the revenant Willy made another gruesome appearance. * * * “So, Ms. Yutter, have you considered our offer then?” Mendelssohn’s words echoed in the empty chamber of her despair. She replayed the meeting in his office where Arna did not fold or reveal her hand. She had decided to hold her cards until she could raise the stakes -- not a sound strategy against a master player like Bryce. He called her bluff and shut the papers up in his expensive brown leather briefcase, flashed a toothy grin, and guided her away from the stakes table. Now she rued her bad call for the mounting debt she faced. For the rest of the day, while Marque sat in the office and plied the phones with calls for help, she got better acquainted with her inheritance and agonized over her decision. She could not quite feel the oats from the bottom of the overwhelming feedbag placed on her head. She was a down-to-earth woman who believed in doing honest practical work like slinging up hash to appease the rumbling gullets of weary truckers in a roadside diner or mending fences on a run-down ranch or even assembling components for big machines that could help little people carry out backbreaking tasks they would not be normally capable of doing. She had always tried her hand at nearly every job that required a blue color. She had worked summers as a farmhand, a waitress, an orchard picker, until she finished high school. She went to the local vo-tech with the high hopes of becoming a paramedic but had issues with the demands of (continued on page 20)

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Mystery of the Majestic (Continued from page 19)

juggling life and death. She apprenticed as a carpenter but never completed her training. Instead, she got knocked up by her classmate, Ed Blemmings, at age eighteen. They had a son named Clayton and hoped he would be the next Randy Travis or Mark McGuire. Her hopes and dreams were swallowed up by ravaging tragedy of one cruel car crash. Ever since then she had been waking up in cold sweats during the evil hours of two to four a.m. She now found herself in a totally different dimension in life – one in which she had no inkling. She wandered about the old theater and pondered its mysteries. She stepped outside for a smoke and surveyed the trashed-up streets lined with run-down buildings with shattered windows. The smell of urine and the shock of vagrants sleeping in the Majestic’s doorways dared her senses to recognize any hope. At night, she could hear the howling of drunks and the cursing of prostitutes in a vulgar chorus with police and ambulance sirens as accompaniment, especially during those evil hours. She explored the attic where many of the old musty costumes and faded props created a maze through which to navigate. The dust and mold irritated the hell out of her sinuses but nothing so serious a little O.T.C. antihistamine couldn’t fix, if she could afford it. She beat the dust out of an old velvet sofa and sat between its round curling arms like a Roman matron. She toyed with an old jack-in-the box that sat atop a side table. Her hand slowly worked the stiff crank to hear the first tinny notes of “Pop Goes the Weasel.” She stopped just before Jack was about to jump out of the box and set it back on the stand. She felt her bowels grinding their own urgent tune. She had to go downstairs to use the restroom. It was uneasy for her to time her usage around that of the performers and patrons. In the manner of a plebe at the feet of deities, she did her best not to interfere with them or their top-secret equipment. Making her way past ripped curtains and cracked plaster, Arna felt a need to patch up the wounds of the battered Majestic. She had building sense and her hands didn’t mind rough work. She thought she might chat up some of her uncle’s old friends or even her old grade-school chums to come

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Arna felt like she was suspended on stage with strings pulling on all parts of her body. She was in a difficult bind with no freedom of movement. She found herself being jerked one way by Sade’s seduction and then tugged another way by Mendelssohn’s money.

by and lend a hand. There was George Clovell over at the hardware store. He never minded at all helping her fix her broken bike chain when they were kids in school. Mick O’Hallen, Sam Winford, even Bell Lancy (now Bell Hughler) would all donate their time, materials, and energies to lending her their assistance. Finally, there was that Indian fellow who worked for her uncle. He used to dazzle her with magic tricks. She only knew him as John-John and wondered what had become of him. Her vision of how the old gal should look contorted through the lens of Marque D. Sade and his troupe’s dark décor. It disturbed her to see the stagehands set up ghastly displays of raw wiring hanging from Orwellian video monitors, mannequins decked out in leather harnesses and masks suspended in tortured poses from the ceiling. Arna felt like she was suspended on stage with strings pulling on all parts of her body. She was in a difficult bind with no freedom of movement. She found herself being jerked one way by Sade’s seduction and then tugged another way by Mendelssohn’s money. While she struggled to define her dangling part in the act, Marque pulled strings to save it. He had the skills. Once, Armand had approached the local historical society for help. They withdrew an offer to finance restoration efforts because of the sordid spectacle. Marque attended town hall meetings to wrangle with community moralist, Vanessa Simmons, the head of the Blue Earth Historical Society. He argued for his work as art, not smut then sued the Society for First Amendment rights violations. He won the case but collected nothing due to a begrudging judge who decided remuneration should not taint the high Constitutional ideals Marque had laid on the altar of the court. To raise the fifteen grand, he got online and sent an S.O.S. to alternative lifestyle groups on the Internet; he made calls to investors from one of Armand’s lists. He was determined to win the latest in a long line of financial battles. But would the aid be timely and sufficient? He sweated beneath the Damoclesian sword looming above about to drop. He rifled Arna’s bag to retrieve the checkbook, letter, and legal documents. He called the bank to find out how much was in

the account but was denied information for lack of proper authorization. He would have to go to Helena with the proper documents. “First thing in the morning,” he told himself and slipped the bankbook into the pocket in the jacket lining. Up in the attic, Arna glanced at tattered photos in a peeling vinyl-bound album and reminisced. What had taken her from this place then shot her back like a boomerang with a long wide arc? She closed the book of pictures and stared at the dust dancing in sunbeams. She pondered how small her life had been due to brutality and poverty. She recalled how she and Ed never had a penny between them but never sweated for the small stuff that met their simple needs. She owned nothing of consequence save the worn clothes on her back and a dilapidated Jeep Wrangler that she would have to pay for someone to take off her tired hands. So, how was she ever going to handle payments on the gargantuan Majestic? She knew Blue Earth Developers could smell her sweet sweat like a pack of wolves on the hunt. Mendelssohn was circling his prey while local scavengers, bankers and lawyers, salivated in anticipation of their pickings off the carcass. She paced the attic and aped their bureaucratic litany: “‘Ms. Yutter, given the outstanding debts your uncle accumulated, we can’t see how we can give you any extension on these terms. We advise that you accept Bee-Ee-Dee’s generous offer. New growth is happening all over Blue Earth. Now, why would you want to keep this old eyesore of a building to uglify what’s fast becoming one of Montana’s model cities and further encourage the degradation of Blue Earth’s family values by tolerating the decadent immoral activities as conducted on the Majestic’s stage? No offense, ma’am, but your family has a long history of plying this town with raunchy entertainment suitable for derelicts and degenerates.’” In the end, it wasn’t Marque D. Sade, the illusionist, and his slight-of-word tricks that convinced Arna to hold on to the Majestic. Find out what happens in our next issue.

Adventures for the Average Woman

Neomodern Nosferatu, Part VIII

Metro Man by Jamie Studebaker “He tries to move freely and at ease, but is too bound up by structure to do so.” www.jamiestudebaker.com

“We lost them,” said the pale sour-faced woman with the short slicked-down hair. She looked ultra-male in her black sharkskin suit that covered any and all feminine qualities. Jake Harwick stood tall and straight with his hands clasped behind his back. He peered down at the Potomac River from his penthouse suite of offices in Rosslyn, Virginia. His eyes reflected the color of the sky and water as they traced the Georgetown skyline. “I thought the girl had been effectively detained by our brave boys in blue,” he said calmly, quietly through his square, clenched jaw. “They did have her,” flatly explained the woman, “but it seems a female vampire overpowered the SWAT team and flew off with the girl.” “Any witnesses to where they might have flown?” The stern woman stared at Harwick’s expensively and professionally styled blonde locks cascading down the back of his head. “Not that we can locate.” Harwick turned toward her. He towered lean and powerful in his thousand-dollar navy Italian designer suit and red silk tie. “I suggest you stop standing here and telling me what I don’t want to hear and go out and locate them.” His Public School dialect

“Look, Jake, as you know, the anti-vampire lobby is picking up steam. There are several bills before the floor to divest vampires of privately owned property and holdings through eminent domain.”

belied his high-class British breeding and status. The masculine woman bowed then clicked the heels of her boots as she turned and walked out of the plush office. Harwick pressed the intercom button. “Miss Sheldon?” “Yes, Mr. Harwick,” pealed a melodic voice through the speaker. “Is Senator Brewer still there?” “Yes, he is. He’s sit—” “Send him in, please.” “Yes, Mr. Harwick.” The slate-colored doors with the silver handles opened to admit a dapper middleaged man with distinguishing gray at the temples, a bleached smile, and an everextended glad hand. His black suit wasn’t as expensive and chic as Harwick’s, but it made him look crisp with a bright white shirt and yellow tie. “Jake,” he cooed. Jake Harwick shook his hand tersely then motioned for him to take a seat on the black leather divan in front of the onyx coffee table. “Coffee?” he offered. “Nothing stronger on hand?” “What would be your pleasure?” “A nice scotch on the rocks would be refreshing.” Crystal clear ice jingled coolly inside a tall smoky glass tumbler. The centuries’ old distillation splashed lavishly over the cubes. Harwick handed the senator his libation. “Not joining me?” “You know it doesn’t comply with my strict dietary regimen.” Harwick smiled to remind the ordinary senator of his extraordinary fangs. “Ah, yes, regulated blood.” He took a sip to calm his nerves and hide his revulsion. Harwick sat down on a mirror-image divan across from the senator. He crossed his legs and clasped his hands together. “Yes, regulated,” he assured. “Ah, that’s great scotch. So silky smooth. Where can I get a bottle?” “Old family private stock, I’m afraid.” The senator gulped it down and sighed with satisfaction. “Well, if you can ever spare a bottle, I would certainly be obliged.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Senator Brewer adopted a serious tone. “Look, Jake, as you know, the antivampire lobby is picking up steam. There are several bills before the floor to divest vampires of privately owned property and holdings through eminent domain. There are also noises being made to require all vampires to undergo mandatory random blood testing and submit to monthly inspections of their dwellings. There’s even talk of forcing vampires to have tracking chips inserted subcutaneously so that they can be monitored 24/7. I’m concerned as a supporter of vampire rights that if we don’t garner enough support for our education and public relations campaign, the GOP won’t be able to defeat the proposed laws that could put you and your kind in jeopardy.” “How much do you need?” Harwick drove in the proverbial nail. “We’re looking at fifty mil at least for my committee to do the research, produce and distribute the media materials, not to mention handle the payoffs to influential pundits.” “Just tell me where to wire the money.” Harwick leaned forward. “But I will need a favor from you, my dear old friend.” “As long as it’s not using me as your private blood bank, I’m game.” He chuckled with the uncertainty that he might not be so very far off the mark. “Regulation blood, only, remember?” Harwick flashed his fangs. “No. I need you to use your clout to guarantee DataTrak the federal employees’ records management contract.” “Not sure I can guarantee your bid, but I can certainly advocate DataTrak’s competency and reliability,” the senator snaked. “I need to be assured DataTrak will land the contract for all databanks management.” Harwick stared unblinking like a panther fixing on prey. “Jake, you know how it is. Given the fact you’re a vampire, I doubt the agencies (continued on page 22)

Volume 1, Issue 8

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Neomodern Nosferatu (Continued from page 21)

will feel comfortable, and security clearance ill be an issue.” “I trust you will find the means to brush all their apprehensions aside.” Harwick’s eyes grew wide and fixed. Senator Brewer intoned robotically, “Yes, I will find the means. DataTrak will get all agency contracts.” Harwick withdrew his hypnotic hold. “Good. I’ll have proposals drawn up and on your desk by tomorrow morning. Once the contracts are allocated to DataTrak then the fifty million will be deposited in your account of preference.” The senator nodded, stood up, and walked numbly out of the office. Harwick’s thoughts transited from winning control of government databanks to hunting down his former lover and convert to the ranks of the undead, Clive Dreyfus. He had learned Clive was alive when the latter’s name showed up on the federal vampire registry. Clive had shown up at a local clinic to obtain a supply of synthetic blood, made from centrifuged human hemoglobin mixed with pig’s blood. Not the tastiest of fare but substantive. Harwick’s company, DataTrak, managed all vampire registries for the Mid-Atlantic region. Now, he was eager to control human registries through Social Security, the DMV, and Medicare. DataTrak had proved a convincing corporate front for Harwick and vampire company’s real scheme — to breed and cull the human herd of ordinaries for vintage sanguinity. Since all employees of Harwick’s many enterprises had to undergo drug testing, genetic material was kept on file and analyzed. This way, Harwick and his high-ranking cohorts could control peak quality populous through hypnotic suggestion to mate and breed, while the inferior ordinaries would be designated as open season for any vampire willing to brave the harpoon-wielding vigilante groups. In Harwick’s mind, these banshee vamps were equally expendable, leaving the elite class of Vampires — old

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Harwick’s company, DataTrak, managed all vampire registries for the Mid-Atlantic region. Now, he was eager to control human registries through Social Security, the DMV, and Medicare.

worlders, most of them — to partake of the cultivated blood breed, like picking out a fine bottle of wine from a renown vintner’s cellar. Harwick sat in his great leather chair behind his desk. His long-nailed fingers stroked the black keys of his typing pad with the elegant dexterity of Chopin. He called up the police reports on Gina Caravelli and Clive Dreyfus. Gina was wanted for harboring a night feeder and Clive was wanted for feeding on humans and dealing a Schedule 1 substance, vampire saliva, a known narcotic. Harwick leaned back and smiled. He addressed the photos of his old friend dressed as a man and a woman on the computer screen. “My dear, Clive. So nice to see you getting in touch with your feminine side. But as usual, you simply could not swing clear of the ladies. No matter how hard I tried, you still pursued your heterosexual interests.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head to chide the image. The intercom buzzed. Harwick pressed the button. “Yes?” “Sorry to bother you, sir, but Morgan Jameson is on line two. She says it’s urgent.” “Thank you.” He clicked off the intercom and pushed the flashing red button on his phone. “What can I do for you, Morgan?” “You can tell me why that little snip of an O got away for starters,” she harped in a n angry, throaty voice. “You are referring to our night bait, Gina Caravelli?” “The fact she has a name is moot. The fact she has not been turned into food is pertinent.” “She is only a little scrap — hardly enough to feed one petite-sized vampiress.” “You fail to grasp the significance of meeting the quotas. What if she were to breed?”

Harwick scrolled down Gina’s bio-info generated by the search engine. “I would hardly get my fangs in a twist over that prospect. She’s not exactly the pick of the litter by her male peers.” “She could pull a desperate drunken back-alley tryst or get raped. In any event, her disappearance throws off our projections.” “Now, now. I can assure you. She will not encounter any risk of pregnancy.” “How do you know?” “Because, my dear blood-feasting lamb, she is in the clutches of a vampire, an old friend of mine, actually.” There was a worrisome pause on the other end then, “You don’t think he’ll convert her, do you? That would be a worse-case scenario.” “Knowing Clive, no. He doesn’t have the tooth for it.” A relieved sigh blew through the receiver. “Thank God. How soon can you contact this friend of yours to have her processed?” Harwick hemmed a bit. “I didn’t say I knew where they were. I said I only know that he has her in his possession.” The voice grew huskier and testier. “I hope you don’t mean that your old friend is a sympathizer with ordinaries.” Harwick remained calm. “I’m afraid so.” “That would mean they’re with the underground movement. It could take weeks or months to locate then un-nest them.” Her breathing grew labored. “Easy, my dear, or you’ll pop a vessel and that could lead to nasty hemorrhaging. I assure you I have my people scouring the city and the suburban areas. It’s only a mater of ti—” Harwick stopped and stared at the screen. “What is it?” she intoned with a tinge of hope.” “I think I know where they are.” Continued in our next issue.

Adventures for the Average Woman

How Do You Take Your Music? CRI DE COEUR: Sonja Kristina by Daniel “Dandrum” Mesnik "Always, it seems, the sad songs are best sung by a woman. The truest image of sorrow, the bitterest taste of loneliness, the deepest shades of blue ---- such things are apt to be most haunting and most moving when a woman gives them voice." These are the opening words to the liner notes of the great jazz singer Abbey Lincoln's wonderful 1959 album, "Abbey Is Blue." These words also aptly apply to former progressive rock band Curved Air vocalist Sonja Kristina's collection of melancholic jazz ballads on an album of longing she calls "Cri de Coeur." Curved Air is the British band she fronted in the 1970s and is most known for. An "impassioned outcry" of the heart is what “Cri de Coeur” is. Through these classic jazz standards, the singer releases her feelings of loneliness, yearning and longing for both romantic and deeper closeness to someone, maybe someone she has lost and wants back, despite the bitterness that break-ups often bring; she might risk forgiveness to get back that feeling of closeness and lovingness. She might also risk change in herself in order, as the lovely song "Patterns" (which, by the way, I've listened to four times tonight----To me, this song is the centerpiece of the album, I love it so.) seems to say. The singer is aware of her own patterns causing her to run away from certain realities, afraid her "life stripping from its frame," and she no longer wants certain patterns to keep her from the love and life she most yearns to have. She yearns for one, maybe one she has known and lost, that truly understands her deepest spirit, as intimated in her rendering of Linda Thompson's "I Have Nothing." No song was composed by Sonja, yet they are sung as if she "owns" every one of them, the mark of a fine, attuned singer. I suppose it is dangerously overly presumptuous to try to do "armchair psychoanalysis" or a kind of psychoanalytic interpretation of a singer based on a few songs, as I have bordered on doing here in this review. However, one is tempted to do so when one wonders why certain songs are chosen and delivered with such depth of expression and emotion as Sonja does on this album. And, of course, she tempts it by writing in her:

Volume 1, Issue 8

Through these classic jazz standards, the singer releases her feelings of loneliness, yearning and longing for both romantic and deeper closeness to someone, maybe someone she has lost and wants back, despite the bitterness that break-ups often bring; she might risk forgiveness to get back that feeling of closeness and lovingness.

liner notes that “For seven years an overwhelming sadness, made it hard to face each new day. It blocked my spirit and buried self expression, I was drawn to try these songs on myself, while helping others find their voice, these songs gave me words I lacked, to purge myself of the pain of lost love, these old tunes felt right for this time, shades of love and motherhood and longing for romance.” Although such themes were not as transparent back in the Curved Air days, I often thought loneliness and longingness were running themes of sorts in her work back then, especially in songs like, "Melinda More or Less." And while that song can have multiple interpretations not appropriate for this review, it does seem, in part, to reflect the loneliness inherent in being stuck inside one's own mind and condition, but crying out for release and the ability to express oneself to another — and to be understood and accepted. "Cri de Coeur" is, in one sense, a more mature expression, a more direct expression. I am often disappointed when folk and rock singers attempt jazz, because sometimes I think they just don't have the emotional depth nor proper phrasing. Initially, I must admit, I nearly wrote off Sonja in this regard. But I have listened to this album a dozen or so times since I bought it earlier this year, and I must say, this album has grown on me deeply. She can effectively sing this material with the right phrasing and depth of feeling and conviction. I don't know how well she'd do singing faster, more "boppish" material, but ballads like these suit her endearing voice very well. And since her album "Harmonics of Love," I have detected tonal qualities in her voice and approach similar to the wonderful British jazz and pop vocalist Cleo Lane, which is high compli "Cri de Coeur" is, in one sense, a more mature expression, a more direct expression. I am often disappointed when folk and rock singers attempt jazz, because sometimes I think they just don't have the emotional depth nor proper phrasing. Initially, I must admit, I nearly wrote off Sonja in this regard. But I have listened to this album a dozen or so times since I bought it earlier this year, and I must say, this album has grown on me deeply. She can effectively sing this material with the right phrasing and depth of feeling and

conviction. I don't know how well she'd do singing faster, more "boppish" material, but ballads like these suit her endearing voice very well. And since her album "Harmonics of Love," I have detected tonal qualities in her voice and approach similar to the wonderful British jazz and pop vocalist Cleo Lane, which is high compliment indeed. Maybe they should do a duet album together, eh? The sparse instrumental arrangements are most effective, laying back behind but punctuating the vocals. The Ellington song "Solitude" uses only upright double-bass and voice to portray the feelings in the title. The use of upright bass with vocals is reminiscent of another great jazz vocalist Sheila Jordan's pioneering use of bass and vocals in her 1970s albums with bassists Harvey Schwartz and Aril Andersen. And the ambient feel is reminiscent of some of Alice Bab's work. Sonja gives these songs a melancholy smoky, ambient mood, with shades of love and motherhood and a yearning for romance and deeper human connections. Spacious, haunting music evocative of Satie or Badelamenti. Jazz Review Magazine got it right when it observed that “All too often these songs are sung just because they have endured, but Ms. Kristina seems to give them lyrical weight and meaning often forgotten, or ignored.” The supporting musicians on Cri De Coeur, Brian Edwards (alto sax, flute), Ben Haselton (upright double bass), Tsvivi Sharett (piano), and Marvin Ayres (strings arrangement, producer) must be among the finest jazz musicians in Britain; they are first rate To me, Ben Haselton is the standout musician on this album in how he weaves the bass around Sonja's vocals. But all the musicians deserve equal kudos for their performances. But I admire Sonja most for daring to do something different. I dare all Curved Air fans and fans of good, creative music, to try something different too, which is why I urge you all need to get this album. Do not expect old Curve Air stuff; this is not a rock album. I don't know whether she will continue in the jazz ballad or torch song tradition or whether she will return to it, but she will get my full support if she does choose to do so. To order the CD and to learn more about Sonja Kristina, see her website at http://www.sonjakristina.com. To learn about her band from the 1970s, Curved Air, see http://www.curvedair.com. — Dan Mesnik © November 8, 2003

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