Adventures for the Average Woman by Laurie Notch

Adventures for the Average Woman

Price: IDEAGEMS ® July 2006 Volume 1, Issue 9

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

Delusions and Illusions

Inside this issue:

Delusions and Illusions

A Word With You 3 Katie and the Errant Knight, Cutlass Moon. The Spoiler, Mystery of the Majestic, The Cardiff Grandma, Neomodern Nosferatu — illusionary and deluded tales all. In the first, Katie and her knight escape the boggy horrors of Rock Creek Park to arrive at a gleaming fairytale kingdom. In the second, shift your mind-state to enter the exotic tropical archipelago where Hollywood celebrities clash with angry natives on the brink of civil war. In the third, travel through space and time where savvy Detective Savage tracks down the missing historical romance writer who’s trapped in her own novel. In the fourth, follow the attention deficit stream-ofconsciousness to where our troupe of quirky magicians vie with shady land developers in convoluted webs of illusion and deception for the proprietary rights of a haunted burlesque house. If that’s not absurd enough, fly off to foggy Wales and become thoroughly confused by Detective Wolf-

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Wolfcastle’s nonsensical search in a senseless mystery. Finally, find out about the future world of government regulated, industrialized vampirism. Is there any escape from the madness? What’s even more maddening is that these stories never seem to end! Are you hopelessly hooked on our miasmic masterminding of serial stories more riveting than the daily soaps? Or are we deluding ourselves into believing that this magazine concept has a market and a chance? Our two contests are still open and running, but no one is competing. Are we deluding ourselves that contestants even exist? I know you are out there somewhere! The Elusive Force remains a true and disturbing tale but is definitely not delusional. Nor is the wonderful, alluring poetry of Michael Patterson, whose words sigh the sweet softness of love. We welcome the stunningly illusory but not delusory artwork of Maddy Rosenberg from Brooklyn, NY. Jamie Studebaker’s sculptures are always in

Come On In! The Contest’s Fine!

Poetry & Painting 4

question of what is illusion or delusion — but not the down-toearth photography of down-under tour guide, Seb Park. Again, we are happy for the powerful painting by Im Sook Kim whose featured canvas descries all our delusions based on romantic notions, hopes, and dreams. Yet, we cling to these as tenaciously as moss to cold, hard stone. It is how we thrive. We shall not despair or die, but rather remain ever so content in our delusions. — Cytheria Howell, Principal Author. Editor-in-chief, and Incurable Romantic

Photo Essay: Biking Exotic Auckland

Katie and the Errant Knight

Cutlass Moon

The Elusive Force 10 The Spoiler

Mystery of the Majestic

The Cardiff Grandma

Neomodern Nosferatu

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

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Adventures for the Average Woman

A Word With You The more feedback, the merrier — even if it ain’t so complimentary. Here’s what Casey had to say: “Thanks for sending along the Average Woman publication. I didn't read all of the stuff (drivel, dreck?) in it, but I do agree with Stewart, your letter writer, that the Dickensian presentation of a story is passé.” Hmmm. Not according to a recent article in “The Village Voice.” Guess this style of literary presentation isn’t for everyone. Then there was this comment from another reader: “Regarding the magazine, have you ever thought of publishing it in a paper form and free of charge? By doing so you can attract more readers and advertisers.” Gosh, I practically do that already, and it is wiping out all my checking and savings. I’ll be dipping into my paltry pension plan pretty soon just to see that this dream comes true! Talent is a demanding, high-maintenance mistress! How to feed, clothe, and placate her? It’s a fretful, painstaking, costly task.

Please, please, please, pass on our uniquely insane compendium of delusional tales combined with eye-catching artwork, photographic essays, and imagistic poetry.

This is where being driven by one’s own delusions comes in handy. I have to put the blinders on to all that’s negative and derogatory; yet I can’t ignore the glaring reality that to produce this publication requires funding. So, here I go again with the pleas… Please, please, please, pass on our uniquely insane compendium of delusional tales combined with eye-catching artwork, photographic essays, and imagistic poetry. Oh, and let’s not forget our informational articles on world travel, offbeat music, and true-life stories from our writers’ experiences to your eyes (or ears, if you prefer our audio version). Our subscription rates are more than reasonable — $18.50 (includes shipping and handling) for twelve months’ worth of fun fantasy to fritter your frets and fears away! And if you are a business owner, check with us for our advertising rates. Above all, if there are any generous patrons out there that would like to join the ranks with other mag-

Come On In! The Contest’s Fine!

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

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

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

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

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

Volume 1, Issue 9

nanimous contributors such as Futrek Corp., InkTune, Green Earth Realty, A. Seidelin, K.S. Kim, D. Herman, and E. Weatherwax (in whose honor we have named a character), we welcome any and all gifts of support. Hey, I don’t want to have to put this brainchild up for sale on E-bay! That would be tragic and would result in a cold factorymade product by some heartless, industrialstrength publishing house replete with ads selling junk food, crappy cosmetics, tacky fashions, and anything else of little or no value to your health or well-being. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Then again, let’s not delude ourselves that this periodical magically appears with the wave of a magic wand. (Wish that it were so, but oh, my aching imaginings!) So, let’s combine forces and help feed this brainchild and give it a good home on everyone’s coffee table! — Cytheria Howell, Beggar of Funds

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Poetry & Painting

All the way from NYC!

- Soft Kitten Love is like natureGiving us something good, Something bad. So many wonderful things, So many things so sadAnd this world goes round and roundKeeping me up, when I’m feeling down. Love is like a rainbow After a story has been toldBehold! My dear, Little raindrop’s sigh. So many beautiful colors, Making sweet love in the skyAnd our world goes round and roundKeeping me up, when I’m feeling down.

Our love is like a soft kitten That I would sit down to playLittle kitten be dancing around I be happy every damn day-

AFTAW would like to welcome this new d ti

Love is like the love we share, Just a touch of magic in the airSometimes happy, sometimes sad With these words, babe, be glad— Michael Patterson has become a regular contributor of poetry devoted to the women in his life. Keep the beauty flowing, Mike!

Are you a poet and know it — or not? Send us your work: Page 4

Adventures for the Average Woman

Delicate flora among harsh volcanic rock outcroppings Atop Mt. Mangere on the outskirts of Auckland

Mangere Lagoon and Puketutu Island Verdant park near Mt. Mangere and Mangere Lagoon

Are you a woman with a demanding and/or adventurous livelihood? Do you have pictures or an article about your job? Send them to us at ideagems@aol.com or any of our mailing addresses listed in this publication. Be sure to include your name with a short bio containing background information. Part of an active volcano system on which the city of Auckland sits, Mt. Mangere is one of the largest cones. Ancient Maori built up earthwork defenses known as “Pa” within and around the crater and its dome to fend off their enemy, the Pakia people. Volume 1, Issue 9

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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

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Cutlass Moon, Part VII 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 $18.50 (includes shipping and handling) 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!

Peter and the other members of the cast and crew eyed the short men wearing cache-sexes and bearing spears. “Who are they?” Marshall had asked and observed, “They don’t look like other natives on this island..” Peter noted the same differences. Most residents on Pe’i Pi’i were of Melanesian and Polynesian mix. These fellows bore the features natural to South American Indians. He hadn’t noticed them among the local population before. Where did they all come from? Had they been hiding in the surrounding bush all this time? A flash of movement lured his eye away from the mass of men. He saw the wild woman become more frenzied and yell to them in a language he couldn’t understand. The men didn’t reply. They stood poised for attack. “Uh…Mr. Milovisc,” the milksop personal assistant named Doolie (one of the producers’ lackluster nephews) bleated, “I… I think we’d better stop shooting and just chill until the authorities arrive.” “Yeah, Lionel, I think it’s wise to back off for now,” Mike, the Assistant Director, urged. Again Milovisc’s menacing tone was directed at the white woman donning the boar’s head and cowry-covered staff. “Look, you island witch, we are making a movie here, a very expensive movie. I do not have the time or patience to put up with your monkeyshine antics. We have paid good money to have exclusive rights to this beach. By exclusive, I mean no one but those affiliated with this movie project are allowed on site. Unfortunately, we are still waiting to see just who has the last say on

Volume 1, Issue 9

The woman’s clear blue stare bore deep into his wretched soul and sent a shiver up his spine. He realized she had the power to know all his trifling thoughts and shameful secrets.

the matter. In the meantime, I intend to shoot my film. If you interfere, I’ll have my crew remove and restrain you as in tied to a tree on the other side of the island as lunchmeat for the ‘skeeters and the ‘gators and all your primitive, cannibal friends !” His pupils shrank and eyes narrowed to better focus his threat. The woman’s clear blue stare bore deep into his wretched soul and sent a shiver up his spine. He realized she had the power to know all his trifling thoughts and shameful secrets. Suddenly, he turned and reamed the crew and actors, “Stop gawking like a bunch of numb nuts and get your asses back to ship. Murph! Turn off that goddamed camera! Whatever film or memory disk you’ve wasted is coming out of your paycheck.” The smarmy smirk on Murph’s face weathered by the elements and chain smoking once again dropped to a disappointed frown. He slapped on the lens cap and slung the camera down off his right shoulder. “Anyone fancy a fag? I know I do,” he said in gruff Scouse as he reached in his shorts’ pocket for his pack of cigs. “OK, we’re done.” Hedge’s signature slap on the back of his thighs snapped Peter out of the reverie of the day’s events. “Huh? Uh… thanks, Hedge. Must’ve dozed off for a minute,” he lied. Peter slid off the portable massage table and headed to the galley. The day had been long, the events exhausting. Now, the sun had set, and he was famished. * * * The ship and all its creature comforts, cast and crew were long since gone. Peter grappled with the joint-rotting damp from the relentless monsoons, the bloodsucking bugs, limited rations, questionable stores, the putrefying corpse of the guard beyond the gate to the shaman’s hut, and the teethclattering chills associated with fever. To make matters more disparaging, it was the Christmas season back home. He missed being back in the snow-covered hills of Blue Earth, Montana, sitting by the hearth with his mother, father and sister.

Repressing his depression only made the fuse of his temper grow shorter. He gleaned through the journals, recognizing scripts in Cyrillic, Hangul, Sanskrit, even Assiniboine – none of which he could read. Frustrated, he yanked notebook after notebook ripping them from the crude bamboo shelves. The desk was in upheaval, piled high in a disarray of drawings, scribblings, notebooks, CDs, and sundry items. In the back of the shelf, his eye caught a glimpse of a gray corner with red binding posed 40 degrees askew. The thick notebook had been wedged in behind the other books. He pried it out. On the cover familiar glyphs appeared: “To whoever finds this.” He drew the long wrap-around cloth tighter to fight off the chills. Having popped a bitter-tasting antimalarial, Peter settled in the hammock and intensely flipped through the pages. Unlike most journals, the most recent entry was at the front. This suggested that she had recreated a log of events from her other writing. But why? Peter read, “Entry date: December 28, 2001” The day before he came upon her hut. She had eluded him by a matter of hours. Peter’s heart began to race at the thought of having been so close. He imagined her voice as it once had sounded decades ago as he read. “If you are reading this, count yourself very fortunate. It means this journal survived even if I didn’t. It means those who believe in the importance of the message I bring to bear have succeeded against all odds. It’s the miracle that promises that the voices of the dead and silenced will rise and be heard. It’s a force that cannot be reckoned with by those who would try to corrupt it and make it an agent to serve their dastardly agendas hostile to this earth. In the end, it may prove to be the only legacy of the kamaina auei, Children of the Land. (continued on page 8)

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Cutlass Moon (continued from page 7)

“The crew scrambled to find certain kinds of trees for the shot. Some they dug up and drug out of our inland forest, beautiful living trees that would be used for one or two shots and then tossed as refuse. Christmas-tree mentality.”

“I don’t know where to begin. I have written so much over the years in many scripts and dialects, but now I am hard pressed to find the right words in my much despised native tongue, English, so that what is important for me to recount will be duly understood by the very people that need to understand the most. “Entry Date: November 5, 2001 “It was in the form of WaKwpauelelu'ilu, the Boar God, that I had challenged the behemoth white man on the beach on the dawn of their arrival.” “She must be referring to Lionel Milovisc, the director, on the first day of shooting ‘Crash Land’,” Peter mumbled. He read on. “It takes a wild hairy pig to lock tusks with another wild hairy pig. By the strength of the god was I able to cause this beast of a man to stand down. I could have easily socked it out with him to win territorial rights, but I knew such an altercation would only lead to legal repercussions — arrest and costly fines. Better I act as a verbal provoker and risk the wrath of the Royal Guard. As a shaman in possession by ancestral spirits, it would be foolhardy for the Guard to take issue with me or the Mbamu'ai, the island’s royal matriarch. Many among their ranks believe in the power of supernatural island forces and treat me with extreme deference. “This means I have won a minor battle but certainly not the war. The film crew decided on counsel of the Royal Guard and the authorities in Calabishi to relocate to the other side of the island, near Hue'ili Pe'i Pi'i, the village of the Bunuau'u people. I know they will be contacted to exact control over the next beach and limit the islanders’ access to their fishing grounds. I will go there this night and see to it the foreigners will have to move on again. We can’t afford to have them discover our secret colony in this sector.” “Secret colony? What’s this in reference to?” Peter wondered. “Who’s ‘we’?” Peter hoped to learn the answers before completing his mission. “Entry date: November 9, 2001 “It’s been two days since the film

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crew’s arrival at Hue'ili Pe'i Pi'i, the Anglos have managed to all but destroy the beautiful tree line of majestic araucarias, tropical pine, and coconut palms that protect the fishing village from storm winds and provide the net and mat makers their shade. “The fat-ass, loud-mouth director had the ludicrous notion of what an ideal landscape should look like. The crew scrambled to find certain kinds of trees for the shot. Some they dug up and drug out of our inland forest, beautiful living trees that would be used for one or two shots and then tossed as refuse. Christmas-tree mentality. They choppered in fake vegetation and species of flora that were not even native to this area of the world. They erected ugly, dirty mechanical cranes by boring deep into the fragile coral reef. Worst yet, they towed a burned-out, fuelleaking wrecked airplane and dumped it on the reef only ten feet from the beach. “This morning, the village awoke to the same loud blasts that had occurred on the other side of the island. Villagers watched as a huge ball of fire spit flames and black greasy smoke into the air. A couple of crewman whose walkie-talkies hissed out unintelligible commands strong-armed the onlookers to stay back behind the reconstructed tree line. “The plane burned for hours turning the waters off shore murky with oil and debris. The bright blue and green bodies of parrotfish mixed with the brilliant yellows and reds of pieces of wrasse, trigger, and butterfly fish floated belly-up on dingy sea foam. “More insult to injury — plastic bags, aluminum cans, chunks of Styrofoam, used condoms, bits of chewed up electrical wire, old batteries, even dirty underwear collected in the rocky crevasses that flanked along the south and north sides of the beach. Fishing was impossible not only because of the filth and obstacles in the water but also because the filmmakers didn't want the unaesthetic island pirogues mucking up their scene. But they made damn well sure every grain of sand was white and pristine within the framework of the shot. “Beyond the perimeter of the scene, the rest of the beachhead lay trashed. If village folk tried to go out and clean up what they could for proper disposal or recycling, they

got bullied back to their huts by the Guard. “I had enough of white people carrying on as they had for hundreds of years — lording it over the aboriginal population of the lands they’d invaded and conquered. “Stupid selfish Anglos who have no appreciation for the day-to-day struggle many people on this planet have to endure in order to guarantee enough food and shelter to survive. People in these parts of the world do not have convenience stores to pick up a quick snack when they want one. Food can be hard to come by, and preparation is time-consuming. Vegetables have to be cultivated and meat hunted or fished. A family’s private livestock of chickens, pigs or goats are considered ‘emergency funds.’ Anything that disrupts the daily or seasonal pattern of subsistence could lead to malnutrition, disease, starvation – the end of an existence. “I met with the village council to remind them of how serious the incursion of the Anglo film crew was. We opened it up to discussion as to how to deal with the matter. In order to fully appreciate the situation we gathered that evening by the communal fire to hear the retelling of the account of the first day the holue’ii (white people in Bunuau'u dialect) from Hollywood arrived. (continued on page 9)

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Cutlass Moon (continued from page 8)

“Three mornings ago, Salama'an nearly caught a small shark but the fish was too wily and thrashed the net to shreds. He knew he'd have to loose a day of fishing to mend the net. Lumumume'li'e offered to help him with the rationale that if they started early the next morning, they could finish the job earlier and still have time for fishing. Salama’an welcomed the offer to help but pessimistically added he might not have enough nylon cord. If not, interjected, Mamémé, he could use some old twine he had in his boat. It’d serve as a temporary fix for the morrow's run, enough time before they headed to Calabishi City on the big island the day after for supplies. The three men grunted in contented agreement. “Woana, Mamémé's wife who was sitting with her back against the bole of a spider palm tree commenced to scold her husband for being too generous. He retorted that the pelwe’é bird can not build a nest without first giving one of his tail feathers to the twika’i’long’a tree. It is a local myth that this colorful little bird of paradise (I'm not an ornithologist so I couldn't begin to give you the Latin or English taxonomy of its species) with long elegant tail feathers, more than twice the length of its body, cannot build a nest in the only tree it chooses to do so unless he plucks one of his beautiful tail feathers as a gift to the tree. What the tree does with the feather is never explained and often forces the ‘sayer’ of the saying to be the brunt of a lot of ribbing and teasing, sometimes with sexual connotations. The fact that I've never seen a pelwe’é bird sans tail feather has never further entered into the deep analysis of the famous proverb. And this night, no smart comment was uttered as the point was well made and taken: no one in that village could do what they were put on the gods’ good earth for if they didn't sacrifice and help out their community members. Woana just shut up and sulked, slumped against the prickly bark of the spider palm, staring into the waning embers. “When the day was done, the sun had set, and all was said, I retired to the house of bamboo cane the Bunuau'u always provide for me on my occasional visits

Volume 1, Issue 9

He wondered if he would have to wade through the rain and the raging war rendering the islands asunder to find her.

from Tangihanoe’ile kana’u’u, the Land of the Dead. I fired up the lantern and penned my thoughts onto empty ledgers hungry for ink. I didn't know whether my words transcribed in that ink would satisfy any piece of paper's cravings, but I believed that what I had to say was and is of import as it is a testimony to a strange and wonderful existence. It's also a way to remember some really good yarns that could easily get lost in the fog of memory. “Earlier on, I had mentioned the beverage and dessert economy that turned Africa into starving slave states by the 20th Century.” Peter had no idea where this reference came from or what it pertained to in her account. “Must be from one of the other journals,” he said and read on. “The land was used up, the soil destroyed for its nurturing value, traditional values and practices corrupted by western abuses and greed, tribal conflicts promoted to seize properties by the divide-and-conquer stratagem. By the late 20th century, we thought we had learned from our mistakes. Green movements took on new methods to better understand this planet's environments and the peoples who inhabit them. Yet there is still that tinge of contamination à la Heisenberg wherever the well-intentioned tread to research local ecology or a culture for future preservation. In other words, wherever people arrive from outside the natural area, there will be influence and inevitable change — evolution if you will — some small, some big, some beneficial, some utterly catastrophic. “These islanders didn't always have nylon cord for making fishing nets, nor did they have propane cylinders to cook with, nor cigarettes to smoke. But the introduction of these mundane material items hasn't caused a collapse in their societal structure or cultural practices. Yes, they have included a few English and other foreign words in their language. Yes, they wear sneakers to protect their feet on the reef when spearing for parrotfish and wear t-shirts that say ‘Drink NoBra Beer’ or ‘I LUV TUVALU’ on them. But the island’s royal matriarch is still respected and her word adhered to. The boys are still educated in the arts of spearing and

net casting, sometimes, wild pig hunting and of course on building a cane house and becoming a man (and where cigarette smoking becomes significant). “Girls are taught the home economics of island life: how to weave a durable and colorful netwé mat to place on the cane floor; how to grow taro and yams and prepare them in exquisite fashion to entice the right man; how to be a good wife but also how to have a good time exploring sexuality. “Relationships are not determined by a matchmaker or clanships but by heat of the moment. That's natural. If the ‘marriage’ doesn't work out, you negotiate. If that fails, one or the other will decide to leave and take up with the next one that comes along. Given that the coastal village Hue'ili Pe'i Pi'i has a total population of 585 -- 289 males aged 14 to 48 and 227 girls of the same age range, with the remainder 60 to 85 and apparently no longer interested in following libidinous urges, it's a little difficult to follow who's with whom and whose child is whose, exactly. What it does create, however, is a system of relationships with little or no jealousy and a strong sense of egalitarianism among men and women. The only hierarchical measuring stick is age and to a limited extent, bloodline. Children must kowtow to adults and follow orders. The younger must serve and learn from the elder. All must bow before the Mbamu'ai and the Pitautau.” “Pi-tau-tau,” Peter mouthed the syllables. It referred to her as... what was it again? Divine vessel. He pondered the meaning then resumed his reading. Pouring over these journals would hopefully lead him to her location if in fact they didn’t bide his time until she should return to her lair. He wondered if he would have to wade through the rain and the raging war rendering the islands asunder to find her. He worried Kalinda Tawee, née Thorpe, the Pitautau of Pe’i Pi’i, alleged eco-terrorist whose renegade activities aided and abetted the criminal agenda of the notorious environmental protection group, the Green Avatars might no longer be a viable target in the crosshairs. The hunt continues in our next issue.

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

SHORT-CIRCUITS, RESONANCES, AND FALSE STARTS There is no telling what Joasia Gajewski’s fate might have been if she had not come under the care of Dr. Eustachiusz Gadula, then chief of the paraplegic ward at the Miners Medical and Vocational Rehabilitation Center No. 1 in Tarnowskie Gory. Thanks to his determination, courage, and personal involvement, a scientific team consisting of specialists in various disciplines was formed in May 1983 to investigate the phenomenon in question, particularly its biophysical, psychological, and medical aspects. Before this took place, however, the girl attracted the attention of scientists from the Polish Biocenotic Society, which arose in early 1983 and included engineers, physicists, architects, and physicians among its members. The organization’s name derives from the Greek words “bios” (life), “keines” (united, joint) and “tikos” (done). Almost from the outset, the PBS delved into the problems of psychotronics and especially the alternative medical modalities such as bio-energy therapy. When the newspaper stories on Joasia Gajewski had begun generating widespread interest in the case, the PBS sent a team beaded by Professor Lech J. Radwanowski to Cseladz in late April 1983. Assisted by a radiesthetist, they conducted the first tests and experiments with the youngster.

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The commission also noted that when persons approached within 20 cm of the girl’s outstretched hands they suddenly felt weak, as if they had lost a great deal of weight.

The members of the team attempted mainly to ascertain the “nature of the field emitted by the girl’s organism.” They concluded it was “neither a magnetic, nor an electric, nor an electromagnetic field” (later studies would show that this conclusion was unfounded, or at any rate definitely premature — AO and MR). Tests involving Joasia’s effect on the resistance of a wire on the electromagnetic field of condensers yielded negative results. The next experiment aimed at determining the girl’s effect on various objects suspended from a string. The official report signed by all members of the team stated that Joasia Gajewski, while holding her hand several centimeters away from these objects, was able to move them at will regardless of the type of material used (metal, wood, crystals, etc.). The commission also noted that when persons approached within 20 cm of the girl’s outstretched hands they suddenly felt weak, as if they had lost a great deal of weight. This feeling was experienced by all those who conducted the experiment, but we should emphasize it was purely subjective. An important part of the studies carried out then with Joasia was the so-called Manczarski Test, in which a sender telepathically transmits geometric figures drawn on a piece of paper to a receiver. Out of the twenty figures transmitted, Joasia correctly guessed eight, much better than the range of probability. When asked how she picked up the information sent to her, she replied that at the moment the tester was making a choice one of the figures on the card in front of her would “become larger, warmer, and more pleasant.” The most important success achieved in the course of these initial studies was Joasia’s bending of a stainless steel spoon by rubbing it with two fingers of her right hand. Her bending of spoons and other metal items received much publicity and was repeated hundreds of times under various (including scientifically controlled) conditions. A separate chapter in [this serialized version of] our book is devoted to

this topic. Here we shall just note that although this was the first such experiment in which Joasia participated, it came off perfectly. We had an opportunity to observe the second series of tests and experiments, which took place on May 3, 1983. We had gone to Czeladz several days after Mrs. Gajewski phoned us that her daughter’s headaches and the accompanying kinetic effects were getting worse. the basic experiment involved the use of a prototype apparatus for measuring socalled functional potentials, invented by Dr. Ireneusz Janczarski of the Warsaw Academy of Medicine and by Dr. Jerzy Sosnowski. The apparatus consisted of two vessels filled with an electrolyte solution, plus an electronic device for registering (in comparative units) the differences in potentials between the fingers of both hands. Repeated measurements showed that the values of the potentials recorded by the apparatus at the moment the girl was attached to it were several times higher than for other persons (in our case, for example, the values amounted to 5—10 units, whereas Joasia’s ranged between 30 and 49). This time the experiment involving the movement of objects on a string ended in failure. Also unsuccessful was a telepathic test we prepared, similar to the one administered to Uri Geller at Stanford (i.e., guessing the number of dots on the top side of a die placed inside a closed aluminum container). On the other hand, the spoonbending experiment once again confirmed the girl’s amazing powers. The first spoon was bent after some twenty minutes of gentle rubbing with two fingers (before the attempt, we had Joasia wash her hands so that there could be no possibility of her using a substance to “soften” the metal). The second spoon took five minutes to bend; the angle of its curve was approximately 110 degrees. Thanks to the (continued on page 11)

Adventures for the Average Woman

The Elusive Force (continued from page 10)

presence of Maciej Billewicz, a reporter from the Polish news agency “Interpress,” both experiments were photographed. Let us consider for a moment that flatware bent by Joasia. The operative force here is clearly paranormal, since analogous tests with other persons have been unsuccessful. The moment immediately preceding the final effect is of particular interest. It looks as though the spoon were bending in an arc or drooping like the broken calyx of a flower on the spot where Joasia rubs it. If one tried to obtain such an effect through a mechanical force, the metal would snap on that spot, but the girl’s rubbing inexplicably causes metal to “soften.” This spot also seems to have a higher temperature, which is perceptible to the touch. (However, experiments conducted at the Institute of Physics at the Jagiellonian University, where the temperature of the material was measured immediately after the girl bent it, do not bear out this conclusion — AO and MR.) We should add that this experiment does not succeed with aluminum flatware, which breaks under Joasia’s fingers. On the basis of the above-mentioned tests (which in hindsight, particularly when compared with subsequent studies carried out by Dr. Gadula’s team, must be regarded as random and superficial.), the biocenotic team formulated a tentative working hypothesis to explain the phenomenon occurring around the girl. In their view, this was an extremely rare case of “local disturbance of gravitational forces.” In other words, Joasia Gajewski’s organism supposedly emits a peculiar field (of energy) in which the forces of gravity cease to operate. The stir that arose in the press when Joasia Gajewski first attracted public attention lasted for nearly two moths. Fortunately, it subsided and then faded away altogether. We write “fortunately” because as mere handful of the copious articles and reports that appeared on this subject in the spring of 1983 contributed anything worthwhile to knowledge of the strange phenomenon seriously disrupting

Let’s begin by saying that Joasia (5’5”, born March 25, 1970), contrary to popular opinion, is not in the least demonic.

the Gajewskis’ family life. Regardless of their informational value, however, these publications represent a sociological phenomenon in their own right and thus deserve attention, especially as some of the more important ones had an international impact. The hypothesis formulated by the scientists of the Polish Biocenotic Society was originally published in “Kurier Polski” on May 16, 1983. During the next few days the editorial office of this popular daily was barraged with calls from around the world (so many, in fact, that a short-circuit occurred in the international switchboard when reporter telephoning simultaneously from Belgrade and London demanded an immediate connection). The first to call were the Japanese, who displayed astounding technological proficiency. When Kyotaka Hirai, editor at the Tokyo publishing company “Shodensha,” realized that the conversation could be held only in Polish or German (he himself knew English), he asked fro a minute to find an interpreter. This turned out to be a Polish woman residing in Japan, Mrs. Elzbieta Suzuki. That in itself would not be surprising were it not fro the fact that Mrs. Suzuki, while interpreting the telephone conversation on the Tokyo-Warsaw line, was herself in Osaka sitting by her household phone. Editor Hirai inquired about various matters. He wanted to know, for example, what the previous experiments had been, what color Joasia’s hair and eyes were, whether she was short or tall, how she dreamed, whether she liked to read and go to the movies, what her favorite subjects at school were, and whether all these happenings were impeding the girl’s academic performance and relations with her peers. No sooner did the conversation with Tokyo end than Japan rang up again, via the Warsaw office of “Yomiuri Shimbun,” the largest media conglomerate in Japan. This time, the callers asked about the next scientific studies to be conducted with Joasia. A Danish journalist from a Copenhagen afternoon paper declared he would like to

follow the Joasia Gajewski story and simply must take part in an experiment with her. From Paris came a call from a well known esoteric, who, repeatedly mentioning his affluence, offered to send the girl a package of clothing, primarily cotton garments. (A very sensible idea, incidentally, for it was obvious Joasia should wear apparel that reduced static electricity to a minimum.) Attempts to shield the girl from intrusive media representatives were not always successful. For example, when a group of Japanese TV reporters were visiting Prague, they insisted on seeing the Sosnowiec teenager during their stay in Europe. They finally got their way. After shooting a great deal of film material, the guests departed quite satisfied. It is easy to imagine their distress, therefore, when they discovered upon returning to Japan that the film was not exposed. The reason for this remains unknown. What is certain is that often in Joasia’s presence digital watch batteries would discharge and radios and tape recorders break down. A coincidence — or something else? We shall not take it upon ourselves to answer this question. We can only add that a few months afterward a similar malfunction occurred in our presence. It is discussed later in the book. JUST LIKE US, ONLY A LITTLE DIFFERENT Thus far we have devoted relatively little attention to Joasia herself, particularly her peers, and the girl’s own attitude toward the phenomenon she suddenly had to confront. Let’s begin by saying that Joasia (5’5”, born March 25, 1970), contrary to popular opinion, is not in the least demonic. She is an average girl (with respect to the conditions in which she was raised), easy-going and attractive. When we first met her, she seemed surprised and troubled by the situation in which she found herself. Eventually she grew accustomed to it, to the point that she (continued on page 12)

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The Elusive Force (continued from page 11)

began treating the phenomena occurring around her as an inseparable and somewhat amusing part of everyday life. Such an attitude undoubtedly facilitated her adaptation to what must be termed unusual conditions, but it also incurred criticism or suspicion that she was deliberately playing pranks. Usually the girl herself suffered from the efforts of the psychokinetic phenomena, as when she was badly cut by pieces of flying glass. Often, however, other persons became the victims. Many incidents of this type can be cited. For example, Joasia’s grandfather , Marian Tomecki, was constantly struck in the head by flying shoes (the unknown force that set into motion the objects around Joasia took a special liking to the family’s shoes in addition to their dishes and tableware.) On another occasion, a friend of Joasia’s father from work was hit by a large screw while setting up shelves with him in the parlor. When a friend of Joasia’s, 17-year-old Dorota Sowa, visited the Gajewskis in June 1983, she was nearly brained by a flowerpot that took off from the windowsill. She had to hide behind the cabinet to escape the effects of further “bombardment.” When Dorota told us about this incident several months later, she still seemed frightened. Finally, we should mention an unfortunate occurrence involving Dr. Eustachiusz Gadula. During one of his visits to the girl’s home, a speeding inkwell splashed his new suit from top to bottom. The Gajewskis’ flat in Czeladz resembles

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Moreover, the animal exhibited a specific behavior pattern just before the spontaneous movement of objects: it would curl up in a safe place as if sensing imminent danger.

a battlefield. Countless stains and dents on the walls (especially in the hall, where kinetic effects are most intense), the chipped, heavily damaged bathroom door, the pieces of glass imbedded everywhere, the wrecked furniture — all this effectively discourages a renewed attempt to fix up the apartment and it presentable. We say “renewed attempt” because in 1985 Joasia’s father did make such repairs, but his efforts were in vain: shortly afterwards that hall was thoroughly demolished. This havoc has drained the household budget of the Gajweskis, who are not well off. Ewa’s salary as a telephone operator is very low; her husband, currently employed in a municipal services enterprise, earns little more. Their combined income does not suffice to replace the constantly breaking dishes and other utensils. The family is understandably distraught, particularly the mother, who is a regular bundle of nerves. The continual “earthquakes” in the apartment have a harrowing effect upon her. During the first few weeks she cried, thinking her daughter was doing this to spite her. When she realized Joasia had no control over what was happening, she slowly accepted the situation. Whenever something flies in the apartment, however, Ewa becomes fearful and anxious. To make matters worse, there are problems with clothing. Specialists have warned that the youngster must avoid fabrics generating static electricity and recommended that she wear cotton. It is also hard to find suitable shoes that reduce static charge to a minimum. Joasia, it should be noted, wishes to live like her peers despite everything. This requires considerable fortitude and a number of sacrifices on her part. For example, the girl is very fond of animals, but they feel ill in her presence. It is not that they do not reciprocate the affection she gives them; they simply react more strongly than humans to the overaccumulation of electrical charges in the environment. Joasia’s first dog, her beloved poodle, became sick a few weeks after the

initial kinetic manifestations, then died. Moreover, the animal exhibited a specific behavior pattern just before the spontaneous movement of objects: it would curl up in a safe place as if sensing imminent danger. The next puppy Joasia brought home also failed to “adjust.” The latest dog (knock on wood!) has adapted to the unusual conditions, and so far everything is fine. What may happen in the future, though, is anybody’s guess. Joasia herself appears quite indifferent to the attempts being made to explain these phenomena. After glancing through books on psychotronics presented to her as a gift (we had the impression she did this more out of courtesy than real interest), she buried them deep in a drawer. “Joasia,” states Dr. Gadula, “Simply does not take note of certain things and considers it a waste of time to investigate them.” When the Gajewskis were still living on Plonow Street, the happenings there occasionally evoked unfriendly reactions toward the girl. Some children and even adults called “with” or, less offensively, “dynamo.” No doubt some of the persons in the gawking crowds gathered underneath the windows would have volunteered to burn her at the stake if the whole affair had taken place a few centuries earlier. In the spring of 1983, Joasia fell far behind in her studies (she was attending Primary School No. 1 in Sosnowiec) because of a prolonged illness and the disruption resulting from the uncontrollable kinetic phenomena. At one point, it even seemed likely she would be held back in sixth grade for one more year. There is no telling how Joasia’s school life might have turned out if she had not had the good fortune to come across gifted teachers who, seeing that her strange experiences were not delusions, empathized with the girl and helped her get through the initial, most difficult period.

This true life account continues in our next issue. Subscribe today, if you haven’t already, and tell your friends!

Adventures for the Average Woman

The Spoiler, Part IX “She was both frightened and titillated. I watched her sweet budding bosom heave beneath her bodice as I fed her bread pudding, china cake, and sundry victuals that I had pilfered from the party fare. I brought each bit of food to her plump lips and let her taste. Then I’d ask her to guess what the confection was and what ingredients it contained. Between bites I gave her sips of mead and watched the inebriating flow pump the blood to her cheeks and bring her to chortle. When crumbles of raspberry tart fell to her breast —” “Watchya reading?” Detective Rene Savage chirped a gasp for being caught off guard. Before she could slip the book into her bag, Officer Caleb Ross had snapped it up between his strong fingers fast as a crawdad on a bit of bait. “Woo. Looks tasty.” His tongue wet his lips as his eyes skimmed the page. Renee sprung from her seat at the deli counter where she had gone to get away from masculine sneers at police headquarters and lunged for the book. “Give me that!” Ross deftly pulled away and read, “I had lured Abigail into the garret of her house where I had set up a chair and table covered with a cloth. I told her we were to play a guessing game. I sat her in the armchair and fastened her arms to the chair’s arms with strips of lace. I explained I needed her to keep her arms restrained so that she wouldn’t cheat.” Renee put a choke hold on the young man in blue. “Now, Officer Ross.” “Okay! Uncle already. Here.” He tossed it onto the counter. The embossed cover blared the title, The Spoiler. “So reading robbery reports isn’t titillating enough for you?” He jested and straightened out his uniform and smoothed down his thick black hair. “Abigail Fletcher.” Renee slammed the three paperbacks and a folder full of notes

Volume 1, Issue 9

“From what I’ve been reading, I think if I can trace Abigail’s movements in the novels then I’ll find our missing writer. There’s only one problem.”

she drew from her bulging black leather back onto the deli counter. “What?” Caleb’s nose found its way into the pages of the lunch menu. “I’ll have the salami sub,” he told the hefty waitress behind the counter. “Abigail Fletcher, the character in Marsha’s books. She’s the key to all this.” She turned to the waitress, “Could I have what he’s having with a strong cup of your blackety-blackest coffee?” “You want fries or chips?” asked the large woman with the big brassy hair. Her brown nylon uniform bulged with every row of fat that rolled up and down her like a freshly ploughed field. Renee glanced over at Caleb. “Uh, chips, I guess.” “Ditto for me,” he chimed through a Prince Charming smile that could cut through the thorniest hedge surrounding any sleeping beauty. “But instead of coffee, could I get a nice cold iced tea and lots of sugar, my sweet?” The woman’s elephant-trunk arm tipped the coffee pot over the small ceramic cup with a hairline crack in it. She flashed him a rare glimpse of her beauty with a brief show of her dainty pearly teeth. “Surely.” “Thanks,” Renee acknowledged before taking a giant gulp of coffee. The waitress’s smile disappeared from her face as she turned to the kitchen and bellowed the order. The tea sloshed in the tall glass that she hastily set before the handsome young officer before dashing off to take more lunch orders. Caleb swallowed his savory mouthful and chased it with a gulp of sugary iced tea. “How do you figure and why are you still obsessing over a case that you officially have nothing more to do with on top of why did you ask me to come here to discuss it when you know that I have no authorization or jurisdiction to help you?” Renee scowled and took another sip form her cup. “Let’s just say I figure it’s gonna

take a woman’s touch to crack this one. But I’m gonna need a man’s help to do it.” She pouted only slightly. “Doesn’t Detective Myers qualify in both gender categories?” Renee nearly spit up her lunch. “Off the record,” she said after wiping spittle her plump lips with the smooth back of her hand, “Myers is the biggest dyke on the Zeider Zee.” “Detective Savage, that is not how we practice tolerance on the force. I just may have to write you up for that discriminatory remark.” His thick lashes fluttered playfully. “Why Officer Ross, are you implying that I am biased?” He threw her a side glance as he noshed on his sandwich. “At any rate,” Renee offered after another sip, “From what I’ve been reading, I think if I can trace Abigail’s movements in the novels then I’ll find our missing writer. There’s only one problem.” “What’s that?” Caleb inquired with a smack of his lips. “In the novel and its sequels, it seems Abigail is also a missing person whose whereabouts is a complete and perplexing mystery.” She wrapped her ruby-glossed lips wide around the long round sandwich and bit off a jaw full of bread and salami. Caleb swallowed hard at the sight of it. “So, uh, how do you propose to track down the real person when the fictional one is nowhere to be found?” Renee chewed as she spoke in spite of what her grandmother taught her. “Well, from what I’ve read,” she swallowed and cleared her throat, “I can tell you the clues in the books parallel Marsha Tucker’s trail from Baltimore to New York back to Baltimore to Maine and to here,” then took another bite. “So, she’s here in the city then?” (continued on page 14)

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The Spoiler (continued from page 13)

With savoring relish, Caleb polished off the pickle she’d left on her plate and reminisced about how the case of the missing writer broke the doors of their relationship wide open.

Renee wagged a finger for her chewing. She took a swig of coffee to wash down the food. “I don’t think she’s in New Orleans proper but somewhere in the vicinity.” Caleb finished his glass and signaled the burly waitress for a refill. “That’s still a large area to canvas. I don’t think Chief Danube’s gonna authorize a sweep without a solid lead. So far, you’ve been talking vagaries.” “Vagaries?” She squinted at him. “What else would you call such flimsy indistinct speculation?” “How ‘bout a hunch?” “Or woman’s intuition?” “Let’s not get sexist there, bub.” She finished off her hoagie and slugged down the coffee. “More?” the waitress offered. “No thanks.” Renee wiped her red-nailed fingers with a napkin that she crumpled up and tossed onto the crumb-filled plate. “You didn’t eat your pickle,” Caleb noted. Renee didn’t explain why. She took up her old thread. “I figure the publisher in New York might know something. I need to interview the current author or authors of the series to get more insight.” “Renee, I hope you’re not going to buck command to do something — how should I put it — stupid.” He crinkled his youthful brow. “How far would you go to become a good detective, not just a good one but a great one?” “What are you driving at?” “Put in for a three-day furlough and come with me to the Big Apple. I could use an extra pair of extra sharp eyes and ears.” “Uh-uh, I’m not doing that high-flying act with you when I’m still jumping through hoops.” He drained his cup and set it on the counter. “Aw, c’mon, Caleb. With two of us working the case we’d achieve more in less time. We can pose as reporters for cover.

It’ll be exciting.” She flashed her I-got-youso-wrapped-around-my-little-finger smile. Caleb squirmed on his stool for the throbbing in his groin. “Why me and not Lewis, Hanfield, or Myers even?” Renee cast him a surly eye for the mention of Myers. “Because, I trust you and like you, you big lug.” She punched him lightly in the left shoulder, stood up, and tossed her lunch fare on the counter. “Try and take off next Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.” “Won’t it look suspicious with both of us asking for leave at the same time? I mean, it doesn’t take a detective to figure out — ” “Figure out what? That you’re sick and I’ve got a cousin’s funeral to attend or that maybe we got something going on?” Her fingers gently brushed a piece of lint from his dark blue uniform before she walked for the door. With savoring relish, Caleb polished off the pickle she’d left on her plate and reminisced about how the case of the missing writer broke open the doors to their questionable relationship. * * * The morning of Marsha Tucker’s disappearance, Jack Weatherwax, proprietor of the Olde Towne Taverne, shook the night’s excesses from his shaggy gray head. He sipped the bitter brew offered him by one of the uniforms at NOPD Headquarters — a young officer who called himself Ross — the same uniform who had arrived at the scene and convinced Jack to come in and make his report. Jack leaned back in the black vinyl chair Ross had directed him to and exhaled heavy and long. That’s when Ross noticed the most ravishing plainclothes detective he had ever laid eyes on. “Mr. Weatherwax?” Jack startled and spilled coffee onto his gray cotton pants. “Sorry, to sneak up on you,” apologized the tall woman in a black pantsuit and white (continued on page 15)

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the picture is dead Indie/Alternative/Experimental

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Got Music to Promote? Contact us at ideagems@ aol.com Adventures for the Average Woman

The Spoiler (continued from page 14)

She noted how heavy the thin white card embossed with the name Detective Renee Savage weighed in his hands as he walked out. She gnawed her pen as a feeling gnawed her insides.

the tall woman in a black pantsuit and whiteblouse. “Here,” her hand extended a tissue. Jack took it and blotted the hot liquid from his right leg. “Won’t you follow me, please?” Her smile stretched wide and ultra-white across a mocha complexion that was framed in thick raven hair. On the way up off the seat Jack caught a glimpse of her detective’s badge hanging from her the belt around her slender waist. Officer Ross stepped up to help sweep up the messy plate before trying to hit one into the ballpark. “Uh, I’m Officer Ross. I was first on scene and took Mr. Weatherwax’s initial report.” He fumbled with a sheaf of papers to pull out the form and hand it to her. Renee fought back a crooked smirk creeping up on her perfectly symmetrical face as she took the paper. “Thank you, Officer…” “Ross. Caleb Ross, ma’am.” “Mr. Weatherwax, would you follow me please?” She turned and walked into a sea of well-muscled hustle and bustle. He followed her to the cluttered desk by a window that overlooked the traffic snarls of South Broad Street. He sat in a green vinyl office chair with a rip in its seat and handcuff scrapes on the paint of its metal arms. She took her place behind the piles of coffee-ringed dog-eared folders and lipstick-stained Styrofoam cups. “I’m Detective Savage. How might I help you?” Her svelte features and fine-boned face with the cherry lips contradicted all that her name suggested. Jack stopped ogling to answer, “Uh, yeah, well, one of my employees has gone missing. I, uh, came to open up my bar this morning and found the door unlocked, the alarm off, and my bar back gone.” Detective Savage chewed on the end of a Bic Round Stic. “I see. Was anything taken or vandalized?” “No, but I called it in, and some of your

Volume 1, Issue 9

boys came over to take a look but couldn’t find no evidence of forced entry or foul play. They figured she just up and split. But I swear to you, Marsha just wouldn’t do that.” The empty coffee cup trembled in Jack’s meaty paw. “Something terrible’s happened to her, I just know it.” “Take it easy, Mr. Weatherwax. Why don’t you give me a description of Marsha?” Detective Savage knew she couldn’t file any missing person’s report for at least twenty-four hours, unless it concerned a minor. She knew the upset people go through when faced with the possibility of abandonment. In this case, as with every other, she hoped that was all it would prove to be. She typed the details into a data base and asked Mr. Weatherwax for more details about when he last saw Marsha, what she was doing, who was in the bar, what he had found that morning when he opened for business. She gave Jack her card, explained procedures for filing a missing persons report, shook his hand and said she would be in touch. She noted how heavy the thin white card embossed with the name Detective Renee Savage weighed in his hands as he walked out. She gnawed her pen as a feeling gnawed her insides. Renee picked up the phone to call Officer Ross and find out what if anything he had discovered at the scene that morning. He said he had to go back out on patrol but would be happy to discuss it over lunch. It was nearly 2 p.m. when they met at the nearby twenty-four/seven convenience store for nuked dogs and coffee. They sat at a rickety plastic table out on the smoggy gritty sidewalk. Caleb Ross was a young officer on his way to making detective. Therefore he was more than willing to assist Detective Savage anyway he could. Besides, he thought she was hot and had heard through the scuttlebutt that she was available. Caleb sat across the table and studied the fine lines etched around her eyes and mouth as he ate. She was twelve years his senior but that didn’t faze him in the least. He

pushed half of dog into the wide mouth of his rectangular head. A dark blue police cap covered his thick, short black hair; steel blue eyes with sultry lids and thick black lashes peeked out from beneath the visor. He swallowed his chaw before speaking, “Yeah, so my partner and I get the call at oh-ten-thirty and go over to the place on South Rampart. We responded to what we thought was a B and E, but we couldn’t find anything to support that assumption. The only thing disturbed was a shot glass that had dropped to the floor in front of the bar. No sign of a struggle or anything. Hell, the place was in order. Except, one thing was odd.” He glided his tongue over his silky lips then took another bite. “What was that?” Renee asked before taking a bite of the relish-encrusted dog clamped between the long red nails of her slender fingers. Caleb’s square jaw worked the wad of bun and meat. “Well, it looked as though she was halfway through straightening up. I mean, chairs had been stacked up only on one half of the bar. The other half hadn’t been touched. Also, her clothes and things were still in her room, including her ID.” “Guess that’s two odd things,” Renee said as she chewed hastily. She set the unfinished frankfurter down on the greasestained paper plate that sat beneath her cup of coffee so that it wouldn’t fly off with a gust of wind from a passing truck. The internal alarms were ringing one by one as the wires of her professional savvy were tripped. A decade’s worth of training and experience taught her never to ignore the signs of abduction, and from what Officer Ross was telling her, all the portents were in place and pointing the way. Although she was barred by statute from officially declaring Marsha a missing person for another nineteen hours, she knew she had to collect as much evidence as possible before the trail went dead cold. The mystery remains to be solved in our upcoming issues. Subscribe today!

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Mystery of the Majestic, Part IX

WILD RIDE That night, a strange group showed up at the Majestic. Marque introduced them as members of the alternative-lifestyle community. “Arna,” he explained, “I’m going to give them a tour of the place, show them some of our act, and discuss investment possibilities.” His look communicated the direction he was taking on this drive. “Y’all want me to keep outta yer green, purple, and orange punk hair,” she wisecracked. “I’ll just head up to the office then.” “Is there somewhere else you can go? I’m going to need the office to some negotiating.” His expression suggested she would not find this either a comfortable or comforting process. Arna soon found herself back prowling around attic where she succumbed to the Proustian effect of touching the old costumes that she and her cousins once donned combined with the faint smell of her aunt’s perfume now as stale as fading memory. The crumbling walls with their peeling desiccated wallpaper seemed to rehydrate with Arna’s reminiscences. She could not let this place perish; for Yutter blood ran through its rattling pipes and the family spirit insulated the crumbling walls. She didn’t know how, but she would miraculously breathe life into its desiccated corpse. She could hear the loud music and percussive thuds of the performance rise through the floorboards. She tried to block it out by humming to a book on old-time

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The hairs began to rise on her neck. The shrill screaming echoed through the cavernous hallways then died off.

theater. “A woman could be chubby in those days,” she cackled. “Whatchy’all thaink?” Arna’s ears perked to a subtle click. Her heart skipped ten beats when Jack sprung out of his box. The bells on his jester’s hat tinkled as he bounced on his springs and beamed her a garish smile. Now, you know that was just a mechanical glitch. Her internal thoughts told her rapidly beating heart. There weren’t no ghostly hand in it. Be logical. That ol’ Jack-in-the-box probably just has a loose spring. Other than that defect, it might surely be of value along with a lot of the rest of this collection of junk. “Besides,” she said aloud, “don’t sittin’ alone in a musty attic with a spooky Jack-in-thebox beat socializin’ with a group of rich deviants?” She turned the book toward the leering Jack. “That’s what I thought. You’re a right perv along with the rest of ‘em. Well, I ain’t gonna have you googly-eyein’ me all night.” Instead of pressing him back into his box to the risk of his unexpectedly popping out again, she turned him toward the wall. “Behave yersef and mind not to jack off. ‘Tain’t polite.” Joking with her fear rendered it powerless. She dozed off to the trance music thrumming through the beams. In a dream, she saw her uncle motioning slowly for her to follow him. He led her through the Majestic’s dark halls that began to twist and turn in maze-like fashion. He would disappear around one corner after another. Arna followed until she found herself deep within the crumbling walls. All light had gone. Her uncle called for her to follow. She felt along the wooden beams. The passageway narrowed to the point she could no longer squeeze through. In her panic, she screamed her uncle’s name, “Armand!” A loud wail wrested her from her sleep. Was it her own? Cold sweat poured down her face and soaked her shirts. The attic was dark and quiet. The only sounds were Arna’s heavy breathing and the soft creak of springs as she pushed herself up off the sofa. She put her bare feet on the floor next to her boots. She needed a smoke. She padded over to the ornate coat rack where her purse was slung.

The streetlight coming through the window sufficed to show her the way. She groped in her bag and found her cigs and a pack of matches. She lit up and took a puff. The hairs began to rise on her neck. The shrill screaming echoed through the cavernous hallways then died off. “Cain’t sleep fer them noise-makin’ weirdos!” Arna pulled on her boots finished her cig and headed down the stairs to check out the din and use the restroom. “Who the hell is makin’ that racket?” she yelled down the hall as she approached. “That’s the screamer.” Arna jumped to see creepy Cindy step out from the shadows. “Jee-sus, gal, you scared me halfway to the grave.” Arna took a breath and asked, “What’s the screamer? One y’all’s hopped-up friends down there?” “No. Just another ghost.” Waiflike, she floated down the stairs. Arna followed suit to come out on the stage where she witnessed debauchery at its best. Frustration, sleep-deprivation, and irrational encounters with the supernatural eroded her thin reserve. She could no longer stand the assault on her family values and homebred sensitivities: the gruesome sets, the torturous stunts, the acerbic music, the sick suggestiveness of it. First Amendment rights aside, she saw how the sweet Majestic of her childhood memory had turned vile. She didn’t like these alternative people, lecherous, voyeuristic investors and other would-be contributors who were now making their freakish presence known in the place. She despised the slutty groupies that slinked like snakes backstage to abuse substances and engage in illicit acts. She stumbled upon one such performance in the ladies’ room. Two Goth women were committing unspeakable demonstrations of affection on each other. That tore the last veil of tolerance from Arna’s live-and-let-live demeanor. (continued on page 17)

Adventures for the Average Woman

Mystery of the Majestic (Continued from page 16)

“O-U-T, out! All of you! Before I get the poh-leece over here to bust your skanky butts!” Her round face scrunched up in a fierce snarl and purpled from the over expenditure of oxygen. The toad had venom. “Screw you, old bitch.” One of the girls grimaced and flipped her the bird. Arna was in mid-lunge when she felt the grip of strong hands pull her back on her heels. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s going on here?” Marque grilled. She struggled against his grip. “Goddam it, lemme go. I’m gonna kick the shit outta her scrawny hide then put my pointy-toed boot up her nether parts!” “Arna!” He barked. “Let’s say we go up to the office and discuss the matter in civilized fashion.” “I want y’all outta here! I’m calling the authorities!” She ranted. Grappling her in a full-nelson, he dragged her up the stairs to the office. “Why is it I find myself constantly scrapping with you?” Lily was in the midst of seducing a generous gift from a likely contributor when Marque and Arna broke in. “If you don’t mind, I have a situation on my hands that requires privacy.” A lurid grin crept over the fat face of the drunken balding businessman in glasses and rumpled suit. “Oh-ho, can’t we play too?” “Let’s say we have our own party in my changing room, hmm?” She grinned and tickled the man’s wattle. “Excuse us.” She lured her prospect past Marque and the struggling Arna whose fingers were seen making a last ditch effort to take the door frame in with her. They let go just in time for the door not to slam on them. “What in hell are you doing? Didn’t I tell you to steer cleat?” He held her tight in his vice grip. “Let me go!” She gritted her teeth and tried to pry herself free.

Volume 1, Issue 9

In answer to her prayer, her weak-kneed feeling subsided and the stiff rod of moral rectitude got her up on her feet.

“Why, when I see just how much you enjoy the rough stuff?” “Don’t patronize me, you smarmy bastard. I’ve had it with your satin tongue. You’re nothin’ but a con job. Now, unhand me or I’ll file assault charges just as soon as I do break lose.” Marque twisted her around to face him. “And I’ve had it with you uppity interfering!” Anger flashed in his eyes and thundered in his voice. His eyes locked with hers and bored in with intense energy. Arna froze like the proverbial deer in the high beams of a speeding pickup. She was about to be creamed but couldn’t leap to safety. So she resorted to the only defense she had at her disposition: a flood of tears. She let go a high-pitched keen. “I saw a Jack-in-the-box grin at me, then I heard a ghost scream, and then I came down to find those two doin’ that disgsutin’ deed.” He led her over to the black leather sofa and snatched up the box of tissue from the smoked glass coffee table. He got down on one knee to present it to her in a manner betoken of offering a queen a precious treasure. Her face took on an odd expression over this unusual pose given the circumstances. She did her best to compose herself. “I cain’t….” Her sobs prevented anything more to slide down her thick Texas drawl. “Can’t what?” He conjured his most consoling voice and stroked her hair. She inhaled through the phlegm with a noisy sniffle then exhaled her explanation. “I tried, Marque. I tried. I tried to see it your way, my uncle’s way, Blue Earth Developers’ way until I can’t see it any more ways of allowing this to continue.” He puzzled at her vagueness. “I still don’t know what you’re trying to say. Do you mean you want to sell the place and close down the production?” Her silence sounded her affirmation. “Why? We have three more days to meet the tax deadline.” For the very first time the timbre of fear resonated in his voice.

“You ask me why?” Her thin eyebrows arced above watery eyes. “The drugs, the revealing costumes, the sick tricks, and all the sin you are openly entertaining downstairs.” He placed a well-manicured finger to her lips. “Stop. I get your drift.” He stood up and straightened out the black ribbed turtleneck that had gotten twisted in their fray and dusted traces of dust from his black trousers. He tossed back his head and fixed on the cracks in the yellowed ceiling plaster. Arna’s eyes traced the contours of his thin waist and well-formed limbs. To this day she couldn’t tell how old he was, and she was too well-mannered to ask. She figured him to be in his early thirties, yet given the fact he was a performer and possible acquainted with a surgeon’s scalpel, she could bump up her estimate to his late thirties or even early forties. Her glance slid down his attractive frame to the tedious frayed gold carpeting on the floor the moment he shifted his gaze back to her. “Arna, Arna, Arna,” he appealed. He lowered himself to a squat before her in order to give her a sense of empowerment and convince her he was not a threat. “What can I do to make it all right for you? What can I do to make you understand that the show must go on no matter the obstacles?” Arna’s hackles began to rise ever so slightly. Oh, God, she thought give me strength. What will I do if he takes my hands in his or gently brushes back the hair from my face? How will I react? I am all alone and vulnerable, dear Lord, and he knows it. Will I melt to his touch or turn to ice? Hell, in all the confusion of my life at this point, I don’t know how to handle my feelings anymore. In answer to her prayer, her weakkneed feeling subsided and the stiff rod of moral rectitude got her up on her feet. “I’m sorry, Marque. I can’t tolerate the decadent illegal behavior that’s going on under this sagging,” she searched for an adjective that would reflect dignity, “majestic roof. I’m calling the authorities to (continued on page 18)

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Mystery of the Majestic (xc0ntinued from page 17)

get these pree-verts out and I’m suspending all rehearsals until you can come up with a way to do your magic tricks without having to resort to peep-show tactics.” She was surprised at her mastery. She was even more surprised that he didn’t try to stop her as she walked out the door. * * * The pointed toes of Arna’s boots tapped every passing second on the polished hardwood floor of the county tax office in Columbus. The fringe on her jacket bucked lightly along her crossed arms. A thick sheaf of documents sprouted from the hand-tooled purse strapped over her shoulder. She glanced from under the brim of her Stetson at the merciless clock. “C’mon, Marque. Get your butt in here.” She muttered . Early that morning, she had driven to the bank in Helena where she learned her uncle’s account had been closed out decades ago. It had been a long frustrating trip. When she got back to the Majestic that afternoon she dragged herself up to the office in the hopes Marque would be waiting. To her disappointment, the place was entirely empty. She plunked down on the sofa and tossed the bankbook at the waste bin beside the desk. It ricocheted off the rim to vanish under the heavy-laden bookshelf. “Shit,” she cursed. She got up to retrieve it only to get distracted by a note lying on the desktop. “How’d I miss this?” She picked it up and read: “Am in Billings to pick up money from old friends. With the money collected from the soiree, we should cover the taxes. Meet you at the tax office by 3:00 p.m. to wave my magic wand and make the problem disappear. M. D. S.” Arna looked at the clock and noted the time, 2:05 p.m. Columbus was but a twenty-minute drive away. She grabbed up her purse overflowing with the necessary papers, limped down the stairs, crawled back into her Jeep and cranked up the engine. The drive to Helena and back had been seven hours, yet this cross-country

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Arna squinted at the varmint in the gray polyester blend and bolo tie. ... She looked down at her boot that scraped the floor as though to remove something vile from its sole.

jaunt seemed interminable. After circling several blocks to find a free and empty parking space, she pushed through the tax assessor’s frosted glass doors at 2:51. The wall clock’s black hands torturously approached 5:00. Arna’s reverie of the knight charging with lance in full tilt vanished before her eyes when she heard the dragon’s voice behind her. “Well, where is the money, Ms. Yutter? We’re about to close.” It was Bryce Mendelssohn from Blue Earth Developers and his toothy smile. Arna squinted at the varmint in the gray polyester blend and bolo tie. “What are you doing here?” “In case you didn’t you know, I’m on the local tax board.” She looked down at her boot that scraped the floor as though to remove something vile from its sole. “You’re just like one of them giant octopuses with your tentacles around every treasure chest, ain’tchya?” He bypassed the flap and cut to the nerve. “Looks like you’ve missed your payment deadline. I’m afraid we are now closed for the day. I’ll be sure to get the foreclosure papers in order. The sheriff will be by to serve you come Monday. You should have taken me up on my offer. Ms. Yutter.” He took her by the right arm to escort her out the door. She jerked away from his clammy hold. “Get offa me, you slimy bastard. I can see myself out.” Arna stomped off. Brimstone tears burned her eyes and stung her nostrils. The ignition of her Wrangler whined and the gears groaned pitiably to carry her off into the dusk. It was dark when she drove up to the gates of the Majestic. For some unknown reason, they were wide open. Arna’s Wrangler lurched up the ramp and clattered to a stop. She cut the engine, jumped out. The air was still and balmy in the manner preceding a storm. She saw Marque’s classic T-bird silently sitting in the lot with its headlights on. She

clopped up to the driver’s-side door. With both palms she slapped the tinted window. “C’mon outta there, you double-crossin’ sonuvabitch!” Getting no response, she kicked the side panel and pounded the hood. She cursed and ranted then stepped back to gain momentum for the next assault of cowboy boot against molded chrome. Before she could land another fell blow to the defenseless fender, a dull thud sounded. She skidded to a stop on one heel with the other suspended in midair. Her ears perked up to detect more pounding coming from the back of the car. Cautiously, she walked around to the trunk. She startled to see it bounce with a solid bang and a muffled groan. Arna noticed the keys dangling from the lock. She gave them a hard twist and sprung open the trunk. Inside lay Marque, sharply dressed in a black knit shirt, sharkskin jacket and slacks with short black leather boots. His hands were manacled behind his back and hogtied to his legs with a set of chains to a pair of leg irons about his ankles. Strapped to his face was a bulging red ball gag. “Don’t you look just like a hog fit for the spit! So, what the hell happened to you? One o’ your li’l ol’ escape tricks go bad?” Marque squinted to make out the Stetson-bearing spitfire silhouetted against the streetlight’s magnesium halo. He twisted in jangling chains and mumbled unintelligibly. “This better not be a gag, or I’ll strap you to the hood of my Jeep and drag y’all back down to East Texas.” Ignoring the mangled words clambering to escape his mouth, Arna leaned in. “You thaink yer in deep stew now, just wait ‘til I get you—” A black curtain dropped down in midmonologue with a swift crack to the back of her head. A masked and gloved assailant rolled her into the trunk and slammed it shut. The car revved up and rolled out onto the dark streets. What’s in store for our heroine and hero? The drama continues next issue!

Adventures for the Average Woman

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

Chapter 11 and a half cup of afternoon tea. There were numerous eateries to choose from in this part of town, all of them designed to pedal overpriced, deep fried junk food to the hammered masses. Wolfcastle drove on. Stopping at a red light he glanced across at two men engaged in the wild flailing of arms and lashing out of legs/feet that passed as a fight. Nearby three other men were yelling encouragement – not for either of the ‘fighters’, it seemed, just generally, to keep the fight going. Then, as Wolfcastle watched a barely-dressed girl appeared and began to screech, at a frequency barely audible to the human ear, for the fight to stop. Evidently one of the fighters was called ‘Leave-it-Gary’ and the other, in the girl’s alcohol hazed view, was “…Not Worth It”. The lights changed to green and Wolfcastle moved off, glad to be secure in the Lada with it’s anti-lock brakes, multiple airbags, central locking and air conditioning. Granted the brakes wouldn’t lock because they would hardly work at all, the airbags were in fact just two bags of potato chips taped to the dashboard, the only functioning door was indeed locked and the air conditioning was really just a broken sunroof – but he felt safe all the same. Added to that it was clear that the staff at Lying Dave’s took the small sticker stuck on the dashboard of their hire cars literally – ‘Seat bests must be worn’ it stated - and indeed they were! Further along the street two police officers sat in their patrol car, sipping warm coffee from paper cups, watching events and waiting for the scuffle to come to a natural end. At such point, in Wolfcastle’s experience, they would finish their coffee and arrest whoever they considered would put up the least resistance – invariably the loser of such skirmishes. Wolfcastle wondered to himself why, in the meantime, the two police officers didn’t exercise their public duty to the full and arrest each other on the charge of wasting police time.

Volume 1, Issue 9

Stopping at a red light he glanced across at two men engaged in the wild flailing of arms and lashing out of legs/feet that passed as a fight. Nearby three other men were yelling encouragement – not for either of the ‘fighters’, it seemed, just generally, to keep the fight going.

He drove on, on towards the Chinese quarter. Out of the centre now, the streets were emptier at this hour. But not empty. Wolfcastle weaved along the quiet roads, swerving between the various groups of Chinese that seemed to appear from nowhere in particular on their way to nowhere special. Each group of Chinese were industriously gathered around a shopping cart packed full of assorted household goods and were urging it along the rough and potholed roads that gradually worsened as you left the central parts of the city. Televisions, ‘Welcome’ mats, pillows, toasters, coffee tables, rolls of carpet, books, kettles…all manner of domestic items were jammed into the carts. To the uninitiated this scene would undoubtedly look even more bizarre than it did to Wolfcastle. But he knew the score. These were not random fools busying about in the night like so many disoriented ants. This was the public face of a highly organized and secretive organization. These were Wong’s people. He directed the C class around an exceptionally excited looking group who seemed to be having some kind of disagreement over how best to free their cart from the large pothole part its front wheels had become embedded in. Wolfcastle then turned the Lada off the main route to the west of Cardiff and down towards the blend of derelict industrial buildings, abandonedlooking warehouses, and under-maintained high-rise anti-social housing estates. Before long all memory of the bright and bustling city centre had faded. This was a side of the city that the tourist never got to see, not in the whole six hours he’d stayed there. Such a fact suited the locals and would have certainly suited the tourist had he known what it was he didn’t see. In any case, the tourist had never returned and didn’t plan to. Wolfcastle pulled the Lada up outside a battered looking shop front, relived to have finally gotten near to the end of the chapter. Despite the lateness of the hour, the darkness of the dark and the fogginess of the fog, a small child was perched on the

edge of the badly paved pavement. Taking care not to fall foul of the local customs, Wolfcastle nonchalantly tossed the girl a £5 note. As she speedily tucked it away in her pocket Wolfcastle played his part – “Watch the car for me kid”. It was a game, a routine. He was expected to play along and did so. No sense in upsetting things…not just yet at least. The broken sign above the door flashed on and off as the florescent lights intended to illuminate it struggled to remain lit. The main sign read ‘Wong’s Authentic Chinese Kebab and Pie Shop’. Wolfcastle glanced up at the pathetic sign and ambled casually into the pie shop and up to the counter. “Yessir?” asked the eager young man behind the counter. “Is Wong in?”. The young man wasn’t expecting that! Chapter 12 When he had arrived in Wales, the young Ddwwllychff had, in addition to the battered old suitcase and Welsh phrase book, an envelope. Not wishing to cast her first born out into the world totally on his own, his mother had made contact with a local Cardiff Indian organization. There were no Bangladeshi groups in the city at that time. To her son she had given the envelope. The envelope contained a letter of introduction which he was instructed to pass to the head of the Indian organization who she’d arranged to greet the boy in Cardiff. On the long journey to Wales Ddwwchllyff had treasured that envelope above all things… the envelope had born the unmistakable odour of his beloved mother – a mix expensive French perfume, cheap Italian gin and mid-priced Swiss chewing tobacco. Arriving in Cardiff the boy had little difficulty in spotting his greeter. The figure stood almost seven feet tall from his bare feet to the top of his brilliantly coloured, feather headdress. Ddwwchllyff meekly handed over the envelope. His greeter took it, opened it and carefully digested the contents of the letter contained in the envelope. (continued on page 20)

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The Cardiff Grandma (Continued from page 19)

The boy had thought it an odd thing to do but figured that eating letters was normal practice in this country. The greeter introduced himself as Big Chief Running Water of the Saachewin tribe, but stated that Ddwwchllyff could call him BCRWunreproduciblesymbol... “Everyone else does” he had added. Chapter 13 “Once again, our main story this hour is the news that an incident may have happened at Cardiff International. We are getting reports in from our reporters as I speak… and I t..h..i..n..k (?)”, he paused as the director urged instructions into his earpiece, “…we can now go over LIVE to our ‘on the spot’ reporter, Samantha Panther… Samantha, can you hear me?” The sharply dressed and smooth news anchor, Richard Reese, placed two fingers to his right ear and frowned slightly into the camera. The satellite link had just been put in place. The signal, and Richard Reese’s query, had been dispatched through the maze of cables in the studio and routed up to the large dish on the roof of the three storey building. From there the signal dashed up through the atmosphere and into space. There it was received by one of the myriad of orbiting satellites, processed and boosted before being powered back down through space and the atmosphere and being picked up by the 6 foot round dish on the roof of the Channel 12 news van in the short stay car park of Cardiff International airport – some eight miles west of the TV station. It was then routed to the earpiece of the waiting reporter. All of this happened in considerably less time than it took to read the above account of how all of this had happened. The camera cut from the pseudo bustle of the Newsroom to a serious looking, well dressed, young woman in what appeared to be the departures lounge of an airport. “Hello Richard, yes, I can hear you.” She pushed the earpiece further into her right ear and smiled into the camera. “I’m here live at Cardiff International. Police are refusing to

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She had drive and determination, grit and gumption, spirit and heart, a crystal clear complexion and movie–star teeth. They hadn’t been cheap but she picked up a set of dentures formerly belonging to Burt Lancaster on one of the ever popular internet auction website sites.

comment on the suggestion that earlier tonight an incident took place in the airport.” Back in the pseudo bustling Newsroom Richard Reese was hollering abuse back at the director and drawing hard on a cigar. Threats of violent insertions into various body cavities were being made on account of how he, Richard Reese, had just been made to look “totally unpro-flippin’-fessional”. A check on identity was also mentioned at one point as the irate Reese asked - “Do you flippin’ing well know who you are flippin’ dealing well with!?” The director winched and assured the star anchorman that he did know who he was and then lied that the problem was due to ‘technical fault’ and, while beyond his control, he was sure it’d never happen again. He wasn’t prepared for this kind of abuse, the woman at the employment agency never mentioned being subjected to this amount of invective when she interviewed him. Samantha had been with Channel 12 for six months now. She’d started her career as a sports reporter for a student paper. While studying she spent two years learning her trade by reporting on endless inter-university cheerleading contests for The Infinite Split trade magazine and writing reviews of the Postgraduate Chess society’s latest ‘stunning victory’ for the Check, Matey! column. All along she had wanted to get into broadcast news, but it was so boring, so fact-y. Through sheer force of will she finally attained the desired enthusiasm. After completing her journalism diploma, having a brief stint as a travel reporter on a local radio breakfast show and a short while out of work, she got her big break into TV when she was offered a position at the Cymru Broadcast Company … doing the travel reports on the breakfast show. She had drive and determination, grit and gumption, spirit and heart, a crystal clear complexion and movie–star teeth. They hadn’t been cheap but she picked up a set of dentures formerly belonging to Burt Lancaster on one of the ever popular internet auction website sites. She was a damned smart girl, generally laid back and calm.

In fact one of the few things that was guaranteed to make her lose it was being called a ‘smart girl’. She had a lot of self belief in herself and was sure that she could make a successful career for herself on TV if people would just stop drawing attention to her smarts and be more observant of her teeth. One of the unwritten rules of working in the media was that all new recruits to the broadcast news industry have to start at the bottom. (That particular rule isn’t written on page ten of the unwritten rule book). When you plan to sleep your way to the top you have to be sure that starting at the bottom is something you are prepared to do. But sleeping her way to the top was not for Miss Panther. No, she had to be wide awake the whole time. It wasn’t that she had any moral objections to such a course of action – she just hadn’t ever met a producer, director or executive remotely attracted to her. Those ugly smarts again! While career advancement via sexual favours was out, everything else was firmly and squarely ruled in as far as she was concerned. Samantha Panther wasn’t the reporter’s real name. Obviously, if she had any hopes of making it in the world of TV news she had to change it. How could she be taken seriously with a name like Agnes-Marie Wrinkler? In fact her name was nothing like Agnes-Marie Wrinkler but she decided to change it anyway. The old name had to go, an, in as long as it takes to legally change your name, and with just as much fuss, the budding broadcast journalist ‘Samantha Panther’ was unleashed on the unsuspecting media world. Chapter 14 In the short stay car park of Cardiff International Airport, a parking attendant, who had been circling for some minutes now, began to close in on the Channel 12 news van. The newly wedded couple, Mrs. and (continued on page 21)

Adventures for the Average Woman

The Cardiff Grandma (Continued from page 20)

Mr. Pinesniffer, had only just gotten back to Wales after their three week honeymoon. Still jetlagged and misty-headed, the eager Mr Pinesniffer wasn’t concentrating as he drove around the fog covered car park in search of the exit so he could get him and his wife back home. He hadn’t seen the parking attendant due to his general tiredness and the amount of fog. The parking attendant hadn’t heard the Pinesniffer’s car due to being so obsessed with ticketing the Channel 12 news van. Outwardly marked by only a dull thud and a screech of brakes, the event was over in a split second. This was an accident. Mr. Pinesniffer’s car window operated with an old fashioned crank who rolled it down and peered back at the prone and prostrate attendant sprawled on the asphalt. “Terribly sorry,” she called out as her husband stepped on the gas and roared away into the fog. The Pinesniffers were never to be seen again. At least that’s how they understood it. Chapter 15 (or rather, most of it) The young man behind the counter was still reeling from the earlier question, which was making him dizzy. He stared at multiple Wolfcastles. “How do you all know about Wong?” the young man angrily demanded. All of the Wolfcastles were tired and hungry. They didn’t have time for such long-winded questions. By now the man behind the counter had pulled himself together again but he was still on edge despite being caught off balance. “Maybe I am an old friend of Wong’s?” said Wolfcastle calmly plucking a thin plastic drinking tube from the receptacle on the counter and tossing it aside as if to punctuate his point. The young man glared at him. Partly in disbelief, mainly in the once white, now stained overall that passed as a uniform in this place.

Volume 1, Issue 9

Wolfcastle had somehow walked himself into the middle of a stand off. Wolfcastle couldn’t stand stand-off’s

“Maybe we have known each other for 26 years?” Wolfcastle continued, dispatching another drinking tube the same way. The glaring turned to gawping. It was a suspicious gawp. An angry gawp. “Maybe I saved Wong’s life during the Monroevian uprising back in ’92?” Wolfcastle paused. The gawping man facing him began to glower. Wolfcastle continued to pause some more and flung further cylindrical oral fluid ingestion tubes onto the filthy tiled floor. “Or maybe…”, he commenced, only to pause again and then continue. “Maybe I can read?” he concluded as he glanced over at the large chalk covered blackboard advertising ‘Wong’s Midnight Menu’ and threw the sole remaining tube back over his right shoulder, That was the final straw. The young man took offence at the last jibe. He didn’t know how Wolfcastle knew about his cognitive difficulties, but he wasn’t going to take that from anyone. “I can read two!” yelled the young man. And then back to his earlier line of verbal aggression. “What do you want down here mister? This is no place for you!” wasn’t the welcome Wolfcastle had expected… but it was the one he got. Things were getting heated - and not just the unspecified things of uncertain origin under the grill or in the fryers. Wolfcastle didn’t want a big scene when a microscopic one would have sufficed, but the young guy was being unreasonably aggressive. Having innocently ambled into the pie shop in all innocence Wolfcastle had somehow walked himself into the middle of a stand off. Wolfcastle couldn’t stand stand-off’s. He hadn’t come for a fight either - but if a fight was coming for him he was planning to prepare to be ready for it. The tension between the two men was rising. Each was now locked in a staring contest and refusing to yield or blink. Wolfcastle was busy eying his new

surroundings for a weapon (not easy when you are also locked in a stare-down) – the options weren’t good: just how much damage could one man do with a three pronged plastic fork? Maybe they’d get to find out any second now? Suddenly, a loud ‘ping’ came from the direction of the large microwave in the corner of the room. The Ping was both loud and large. Standing almost over 6 feet tall and weighing in at a weight disproportionate to his stature this was not someone to be trifled with. And now there were two of them glaring at Wolfcastle. When Wolfcastle entered the pie shop mere chapters ago, the first young man, soon to be revealed as being called Tong Li, had turned ugly. He didn’t think it could get worse but Ping was clearly streets ahead in the ugly stakes. To Wolfcastle there seemed little doubt that the figure had fallen out of the ugly tree, hitting every branch on the way down, then, it appeared, he’d been soundly beaten with the ugly stick by his undoubtedly ugly father for being so stupid as to go climbing the ugly tree in the first place. Despite the arrival of the new arrival neither of the other men flinched (very much). The young man, known as Tong Li, began once more, “You don’t belong here! You must go now!” He snapped again. This was getting tiresome. “Look what you made him do!” contributed Ping stepping over the pieces of his colleague that now lay splintered on the tiled floor. Wolfcastle was about to retort when he caught sight of a figure out of the corner of his eye. Alerted by Wolfcastle’s reaction, Ping looked to his right. In an instant the atmosphere in the shop changed. “Easy Ping. Be calm. And close that door, it’s gotten cold in here all of a sudden.” Don’t pull out all your hair yet. To be continued in our next issue. Tell your friends. Support AFTAW today!

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Neomodern Nosferatu, Part IX

Lover’s Heart

by Jamie Studebaker

“Where have you been?” Gina practically cried. “Yes, do tell,” harped the drag vamp posing as Marilyn Monroe. “The poor girl’s been pacing those rickety floorboards all day long. My coffin creaked with every footfall depriving me of my beauty rest.” She stared into a cracked dressing room mirror and teased the strands to her platinum blonde wig. Clive pushed past the vexing crew of cross-dressers and flopped down on a dusty burgundy velvet divan. “Don’t start. I ’m exhausted,” he lisped in his best drag queen dialect. Gina stomped up to him. She clenched her fists and shook her head, but couldn’t quite verbalize how that act turned her gut. Noting her distress he switched roles and returned to the charmer with the British lilt he knew she loved. Taking her hand, he supplicated, “Cara mia, I do apologize. I shouldn’t have left you like that.” Gina feigned resistance. “No, you shouldn’t have, but you did. What if the police had tracked us? What if harpooners had come crashing in and mistaken me for one of you? No offense, but…” “Darling,” snapped the Tina Turner vamp who appeared in the doorway, “They could hardly take you for being one of us.” She flicked a long painted nail against her nonretractable fangs. “But they could have unearthed us in

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“No offense, but that’s what we think of you Os. You’re just weeds in our gardens that sprout up then wither away.”

looking for her,” fretted the fat vampire in the tight-fitting tuxedo. “Fatula is right,” Tina piped in, “You put us all at risk in coming here — especially with a branded O.” “What does that mean?” Gina snapped. “I’m not branded. See?” She showed her bare arms. “Not even a tattoo.” Soon, the room in the upstairs of the old theater building was a-flutter with transvestite vampires who clamored loudly about Clive’s decision to bring a straight ordinary into their midst. Marilyn turned from her seat to face the group. “My, my, what a murder of cackling crows we’ve become. Can’t you see the poor, frail, fleeting thing is scared.” Marilyn got up and brushed soft fingers under Gina’s chin. “Why, her life is brief enough without being prematurely snuffed out by the harvest dragoons. If we can help prolong her existence in any way,” a bloodthirsty tongue swept across her collagen-filled lips. Clive pulled Gina brusquely down onto the sofa, away from the seductive movie star impersonator. “Not like that.” “And if marauding harpoonists and hungry lesbovamps weren’t terrifying enough, your friends here would see me delivered up on a platter.” “Ooo, how about a little Camembert with that whine, honey?” sassed a vampire dressed like Liza. “Admit it! You’d sink your teeth into me the moment you’d have the chance, wouldn’t you?” “Sorry, but I don’t drink vin ordinaire,” she said huffily. “That’s enough!” Clive growled. “Now, all of you, clear out and let me think!” “You don’t have to be rude,” snarled Liza. “Just be gone when we get back. And take your walking-talking swill with you.” She sashayed out of the room. Several of the others followed. “Never mind that old bat,” Tina said with a sneer. “She’s just jealous ‘cause ol’ Clive here went straight as a harpoon shaft

on her then shattered her slow-pumping heart by taking up with a flimsy weed. No offense, but that’s what we think of you Os. You’re just weeds in our gardens that sprout up then wither away.” “I thought we were more like roses,” Gina stated under her breath. “Look, I need time with Gina to devise a plan to get us out of here so that everyone can be safe and happy, all right?” He shooed Tina off then closed and latched the door to assure their privacy. “Well?” Gina tossed across folded arms. “Well, what?” Clive slumped back onto the plush divan. His pallor was worse than usual. “You don’t look so hot. Considering the current record-breaking temps, that could be construed as humor.” She wiped the sweat streaming down her forehead and pulled at the silk robe covering her body. “Think someone can get me some decent clothes anytime soon?” She sat next to Clive who offered up a soft grunt. “So, you going to tell me where you’ve been for the past day and a half?” “Trying to scrape up the cash we need to get to Iowa. Since the political heat is on with the raves, this is all I could earn.” He reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. He plopped the ball into Gina’s hands. “$500, in that neighborhood. Nowhere near enough to buy us a car and pay for gas.” She squeezed the ball of cash in frustration. “Clive, you can’t be prostituting yourself like this. I mean, after all the centuries you’ve lived, don’t you have anything stashed away? Old family jewels? A bottle of vintage wine? Antique coins?” Clive cast her a look to dispel her naïve notions then wearily explained, “All that was hocked years ago when I first started my plummet into hedonism. I thought my pilfered and accumulated wealth would last as long as I — forever — but living high on (continued on page 23)

Adventures for the Average Woman

Neomodern Nosferatu (continued from page 22)

the hog combined with escalating inflation (not to mention strict regulations dictating how much property we can own and how much in taxes we are obliged to pay) I’m afraid my treasure trove is completely tapped out.” “You never heard of stocks or bonds?” He sat up to challenge her sarcasm, “Given the way the system was designed to keep vampires in check by limiting our financial resources, there are no stock options. Besides, I lost it all in the market crash of 2012 when everyone thought the world was going to the end because that’s when the Mayan calendar did. Never in all my days had I witnessed such unfounded panic.” “Not even with the plague or witch trials?” “The plague was bit before my time, and witch and vampire hunts, albeit evil, were small in comparison. 2012 put all previous ignorant human behavior to utter shame. But the pioneer spirit of America encouraged vampires like me to investigate their nature and invent methods for survival. We’re the ones who proposed state-operated blood banks and research facilities to help us not to kill or convert humans; we were the ones who began debunking the popular myths that kept Ordinaries and vampires divided. We were the ones who marched on Washington with the backing of the AFL-CIO and other civil liberties’ defense groups so that we might create an era of tolerance and lead fairly normal integrated lives with jobs during daylight hours and families to raise. For a while, it seemed to work.” He paused. “What happened?” Gina ventured. Clive studied his fingernails with a sigh. “Unfortunately, greed, corruption, fear, and ignorance happened — all qualities of human nature that affect even the preternatural. Regulations grew more severe. Many of us lost all that we had. Some of us were forced into drugging for a living once we discovered that vampire

Volume 1, Issue 9

“Besides, I lost it all in the market crash of 2012 when everyone thought the world was going to the end because that’s when the Mayan calendar did.”

bites in small doses become a potent and addictive drug for Os.” “How did you get into it?” she asked. He slipped a cool arm about her shoulders. “At first it began as a recreational activity at the high-society parties I once openly attended. I learned it from a master who knew how to control the blood flow through sucking. I was fascinated to see the Os’ eyes glass over before they got giddy. The trick was to stop before your own appetite for blood took over. That is the hardest thing for a vampire to learn. We can be raging bloodo-holics.” “Is that why the synthetic products came into vogue?” “They were never in vogue. They taste like proverbial crap but were necessary if you didn’t want to dry up and blow away.” Gina’s eyes widened. “Is that what happens when a vampire can’t get blood?” “No one really knows. You go ravenously mad first and attack the first warm-blooded creature you spot, be it canine, feline, equine or mankind. For a half a century, regulated blood seemed to be working. Many Os donated willingly to the banks just to keep us at bay. But then it went the way most good social concepts do — it grew into a greed-driven industry. Smart chips ruled the day and everyone’s lives. Vampires could no longer obtain or even fake birth records, passports, and ID cards. We could no longer hide our assets. Considered no longer living, we could not be employed, own property, or receive social security benefits.” “But you said there were some very wealthy vampires still roaming the planet. Your old lover for example, Lord Hadwith… Wickward....,” she strained to remember through the heat-induced haze. “Harwick. Yes, he was one of those with the means and the know-how to jump through the legal loopholes and curry political favor. Unlike me and others of my ilk, he was not reduced to committing petty crimes by working the drug circuit

servicing wealthy patrons for the money. “But let us not be concerned with those trifling realities. We have to muster our combined ingenuities and engineer our escape to the green pastures of Iowa.” He got up to pace the same floorboards Gina had done throughout the day. Coming up empty he turned to her. “Any ideas?” Gina sat with her arms crossed. The bare toes of her feet tapped the floor beneath the spot on the sofa where she sat. She didn’t want to speak the thought that rose in her head but did, “Maybe he can help?” “He who?” “Harwick.” Clive stopped and glowered. “I think not.” “Why not?” “The man raped me, turned me into a vampire, and buried me alive!” “But you told me you loved him once and even remained friends after all of that.” His voice crescendoed, “I fled to the New World because of him and refused to join forces when he came to exploit this great land. No, I’d rather take my chances with the harpoon goons and those Gestapo federal agents. I can still disguise myself as—” “As what?” boomed a voice from the doorway. “Don’t you find going in drag is becoming a drag? Why, when you have such beautiful manly features?” Gina’s jaw dropped on its hinge to see the tall blonde man in the expensive black suit standing at the closed door that she had never seen open. “Harwick,” Clive coldly addressed him. “How did you find me?” “I would think with your centuries of experience you would have heard the old adage, ‘Speak of the Devil and he shall appear,’ hmmm?” Gina blinked at the streak of black lightning passing before her eyes. Suddenly, Harwick was hovering over her, fangs fully exposed.

To be continued...

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