Adventures for the Average Woman

Newsstand price: $8.00 July-August 2007 Boldly go wherever your imagination takes you!

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

IDEAGEMS ® PUBLICATIONS

Volume 2, Issue 4 INSIDE THIS ISSUE

Unrest About Our Contest The Gospel of IdeaGems

2 2 2

Book Look: Summer Sizzlers –

3

The Tombland’s Tale

Unrest

The Spoiler

12

A Wink at Midnight

17

Disconnect

20

Almost Paradise

23

Cockroaches!

28

Playground of the Gods

29

Reflections at Sunrise

29

Silver Crayon Studios Presents

31

Fiction in a Flash - The Upper Hand Fatherhood The Passing

33

Torment Refused

35

Cake

36

The Maid

37

Husband Hunter

39

Journey Into Darkness

40

Days Gone By

43

Don’t Make Me Go Postal

44

From the Mind of Jamie Studebaker

45

Poems for a Summer’s Day

46

How I Found Turquoise

47

The Portland Banner

48

Submission Guidelines

52

A Word With You

53

by Im Sook Kim © 2007

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Our vibrant cover art painting depicts the theme of this issue: the state of unrest. For some odd reason we’ve got quite a few tales of women coping with widowhood. Wonder why that is? Our other stories spell out unsettling experiences, loss of love and life, discombobulating dislocation, restless spirits, creepy crawly critters, and muddling mysteries. By the same token, these same stories and articles teach us how to cope with loss, struggle, and despair. There is hope!

Hope is our counterbalance that keeps us walking the tightrope of existence and creative production. We hope you enjoy our publication. We hope our stories inspire. We hope more people subscribe. We hope our writers find fame and fortune. We hope we will finally land the big-ass grant that we need to keep afloat. We hope more literary circles will take us seriously. We hope beyond hope that IdeaGems ® Publications grows into the open-minded publishing house it is striving to be.

So in our state of agonizing unrest and furtive hopes, we offer you this, our latest version, of women’s adventure stories, true and imagined.

We thank our generous writers and artists who have contributed their skills and craft to make this publication possible. We only ask that if you haven’t already subscribed that you do so now to give us hope that you care and help relieve our unrest over our future.

We tried and tried, but just could not drum up enough entrants to make our Woman-centered Adventure Stories Contest complete. (We needed a minimum of 200 entries and only achieved a third of the required quota.) But to those of you who did enter, do not despair! There is hope! We will be holding on to your stories for our future competition and publication. At this time, we are re-evaluating our options and restrategizing our plan to recreate the contest as we still believe it is a kick-ass idea! Keep watching our Web site for details.

Please understand that we are only in our second year of publication. Even though we continue to struggle to garner the attention and support we deserve, we ain’t doing so bad when you consider: 1) we are still in production; 2) we have begun our venture into book publishing; 3) slowly but surely more subscriptions are trickling in (hey, a torrent would be nice, but until the floodgates open with the thousands of dollars from sponsors, we’ll just have to make due with what we’ve got).

— Laurie Notch, Managing Editor and (do I dare say it?) President, IdeaGems ® Publications

Deep down in the mines of the imagination are buried raw fictions, the distortions of surface reality.

Peer into the shafts and caverns of the creative process.

Be dazzled by the underground fluorescence of surreal perceptions.

Hereunder lie the multifaceted reflections of the inner self.

Explore what lies below to unearth the entertaining and illuminating treasure you seek.

One of these gems that we have cut and polished is “Adventures for the Average Woman” (AFTAW) -- a bimonthly (or whenever we manage to get it out) feuilleton de femmes for women who agonizingly endure ordinariness, suffer the blight of the potato gene, and anguish from hormones-gone-haywire. When day-to-day life has worn them down with its dull tedium, the need for excitement and stimulation begs fulfilling.

Unlike men, most women won’t react to their life crises by buying a cherry-red Corvette or running off with a twenty-something receptionist.

Most will internalize their distress and languish in a perpetual state of depression deep inside a box of chocolates or a gallon tub of ice cream.

Prozac might help put a vacuous smile on their faces but won’t fill the void.

Perhaps, our rip-roaring tales of thrills, chills, and sexy spills will help dispel the blues of banality. There’s nothing like a good read to work wonders on a weary woman’s mind.

AFTAW stories are painstakingly written, illustrated, and assembled into handcrafted booklets because the authors are women without much in the way of means but with a hell of a lot of creative drive. On a thread of hope, our stories weave words of empowerment in a colorful tapestry of imaginary adventure.

Walter Mitty, eat your milquetoast–loving heart out.

— Cytheria Howell, Alter-ego, Author, Editor, and Incurable Figment of Imagination www.ideagems.com

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Adventures for the Average Woman

AVAILABLE NOW AT BORDER’S BOOKS, LONGFELLOW BOOKS, BOOKS ETC., AND WWW.MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM

Description: Lifetime aspiring novelist, Christopher Wayne, abandons his hard-earned corporate career in order to pursue his true calling. But his quiet life on an island off the coast of Maine is soon shattered by a series of supernatural events that follow the disappearances of several exotic dancers who work at a local strip club. The question is: Can Christopher hunt down an escaped psychopath in time to rescue the love of his life?

About the Author: Ali Alavi, a native of Iran, came to the United States in 1995 as an international student. He attended the University of Southern Maine and received a BS in electrical engineering, a BS in business administration, and a Master’s in business administration. He is the author of three poetry collections written in his native language, Persian- and a series of short stories. The Tombland’s Tale is his first novel. He currently resides in Portland, Maine.

Reviews: “A suspense novel with a love story mixed in.” – Portland Press Herald “Bursting with ideas, characters, and promise.” – Maine Sunday Telegram “…the themes and ideas make The Tombland’s Tale the kind of on-your-toesbut-feeling good-book Oprah might even like.” – The Portland Phoenix

prologue Shortly after the darkness prevailed the howling wind picked up fiercely, knocking the remaining withered foliage leaves off the frost-beaten branches of New England oaks and maples, keeping them stray in midair as they twirled frantically. The grayish, hovering clouds that for the past twenty-four hours had been lingering in the pale and gloomy sky of Portland finally huddled and began to flood the streets of the city as soon as the first boisterous thunder roared.

Meteorologists had forecasted an unprecedented storm in Southern Maine and New Hampshire throughout the night, with constant increase in magnitude till midnight, as well as a high possibility for power outage in numerous locations.

Followed by a compelling prelude all the streets of the city were virtually evacuated in a matter of minutes. And now, beneath the starless sky and amid the sudden metamorphosis of the heaven and earth, the dark and desolate city in a stormy autumn night looked battered, lonely and perplexed-very much like a person who is abandoned by her loved ones precisely when she needs them desperately.

Somewhere in the midst of that massive upheaval of the nature Danielle Starr, a Junior Lit. major at Yorkshire College and an ex-Thompson High cheerleader had just opened her eyes to what she wished it was another one of her nightmares.

Lying on a bed of damp hay, Danielle had found herself in the pitch-dark corner of a cell that seemed like a medieval dungeon. The hay clusters were held together by black leather straps. A massive ring was tightly locked around her right ankle, and a rusty chain connected the ring to a colossal shaft that had been bolted to the wall.

Glancing around with a pair of sedated eyes, she struggled to rise as she watched the walls quiver in a sea of faint lights and shadows. The air was thick with the stench of burning toxic herbs: unripe Jerusalem cherry seeds and Himalayan Pokeweed roots smoldering in an old Assyrian clay jar by her bed.

“Hello?” the girl hollered tremulously. Her voice briefly echoed between the walls before the callous silence prevailed again.

She managed to sit up and catch a better glimpse of the place.

In one corner three rows of lit candles made the ambiance slightly brighter than the interior of a closed casket. To her right she saw a toilet, a shower, and a basin. In a distance where the chain did not allow her to reach stood a massive door that was half darkened by a dancing shadow. She noticed that she was not in her own clothes.

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Instead, she was wearing a silk gown.

“Hello? Can anybody hear me? Please, I need to know where I am.”

A muffled snarl from behind the walls chilled her blood, then like a fleeting twinge of pain it abruptly died and silence prevailed again.

She was trying hard to remember what had happened earlier that night as she slowly regained her consciousness. And when she finally did, the world crumbled before her eyes. She jabbed her teeth into the tender flesh of her lip and the silence ended with her tearful plea: “Oh God! … Oh God … please let me go …please.”

A deep, melodic voice silenced her as it shivered through the dark: “There, there, beautiful Danielle! This is so unlike you. Nobody wants to hurt you here. You should be very proud of yourself.”

Danielle felt paralyzed. The sudden blast of terror had rendered her numb. In the chilling silence, she briefly faltered, then in a tone that barely resembled hers asked: “Who are you? Why am I here?”

“My name is Judas,” the voice replied. “His majesty’s butler and confidant. And you, Danielle, are here because my lord has chosen you to be his queen. The late queen of Tombland passed away two full moons ago. Sixty days laden with grief! But it is now the royal wish to bring happiness back to our lives. The people of Tombland need a new queen, Danielle. And that queen may be you. If you pass the trial, of course.

Now why don’t you wash your hands and face like a good girl and I go fix your supper.”

The voice said no more and Danielle collapsed on the floor as she continued her tearful plea: “Please let me go … Oh God, please … please let me go.”

one Teazzers, the most flamboyant strip club in New England, was dead that night due to the unprecedented storm. The ten o’clock feature show had been canceled and most of the girls had already left the club. Those who hadn’t left were sitting with their regulars in VIP booths or were upstairs in the champagne rooms. Regulars were always worth the time. They had money to spend and they spent it exclusively on the girl they thought they were in love with.

Those guys were mostly middle-aged, married, and well to do bunch who were looking for some excitement on the side; a get away so to speak. The truth is that most men suffer from an ailment that Amber, the nightshift bartender, called morbid infatuation syndrome. But the girls didn’t care. For them those guys were always worth the time.

Their regulars were more than just reliable sources of steady income.

Those guys were the sweet daddies they always longed to have in their lives. They bought expensive clothes and jewelry for them. If their secret fantasy girl pissed away all her money on drugs, cosmetics, and clothes – as they invariably did - they would pay their rents and pick up their credit card and car payments.

Teazzers was like an emergency room for craving souls. It never closed, except for Christmas and Thanksgiving. Dominic Turturro, a made guy from Brooklyn, had spotted the place in the mid-nineties and turned it into what it was. Turturro was the only person who had the license for operating that sort of establishment in southern Maine. And he would do anything to keep the monopoly. He greased the cops, state legislators, county commissioners, and even judges on a regular basis. He had apartment buildings all over the town and accommodated dancers he brought from Russia, Ukraine, and Eastern Europe. If a government friend of his wanted a taste, Dominic would set him up with one of the girls.

Most of the dancers at Teazzers had customers who paid them for sex outside of the club.

And that was no secret to local cops. But they didn’t care. Dominic Turturro kept all of them happy with cash. For Dominic, Teazzers was more than just a lucrative business. Operating in Maine, a state exploited by none of the families, was like an entrepreneurial venture. Of course, he had to send the bosses their cuts every month.

But that would be the case no matter where he was. Ever since Dominic had brought Teazzers to Southern Maine the guys with “morbid infatuation syndrome” didn’t have to look for something extra on the side at work or in their health clubs. Dominic had given them a perfect haven to blow off steam. No ties, no risk, lots of variety, and most importantly, no scandalous break ups.

Perhaps that night the only customer who didn’t fall into the “regulars” category was Christopher Wayne, a handsome, 30-year-old overachiever, whose oddly out-of-place air had triggered the curiosity of the dancers and waitresses since the moment he had walked into the club. Sitting with him at the other side of the table was Rachel Tripp, the only “colored dancer” at Teazzers. Actually, she was half white. Her mother was the only daughter of an Irish couple who had migrated to Boston after the Second World War. She had met Rachel’s father in New York City, back in the early seventies. The family had moved to Portland in 1978 and had bought a small house in a blue-collar neighborhood called Munjoy Hill. Her parents, now retired, had both worked at A.P Warren, a paper mill in the outskirts of Portland, for more than 25 years.

Chris and Rachel had been best friends during the last two years of high school, but soon after graduation they had lost contact, until on a rainy Sunday afternoon, about a month earlier, they had run into each other at a shopping mall in South Portland. That day Chris learned that time had not changed his feelings for Rachel — the feelings that he had never expressed out of the fear of jeopardizing their friendship. What he didn’t know, however, was that Rachel had always felt the same way about him. They spent the entire afternoon in a coffee shop, talking and

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reminiscing. It was a bittersweet experience for both of them. Rachel told Chris about her stormy marriage that had ended in divorce, and how she had ended up becoming someone she’d never dreamed of. Having gotten her number, Chris had promised to call her, but he had not done so – another reason for him to feel awkward that night. He knew that he hadn’t done the right thing by showing up in there unnoticed. But he just had to do it.

It was as though there was a storm inside of him just as strong as the one that was rumbling outside of the club.

A blond waitress in a bunny costume came to take their orders: a glass of white wine for Rachel and a double-bourbon, straight up, for Chris.

The DJ made an announcement as the nerve-racking techno tune blasted out from the amplifiers: “Ok, gentlemen, make some noise for your next lovely entertainer.

Sexy Valerie! Also, don’t forget to visit her at www.meathouse.com.”

The waitress came back with their drinks. Rachel sipped her wine and made a gesture with her eyebrows toward the stage. The dancer had climbed the pole that was in the center of the stage and was hanging upside down from the top of it as she slowly slid downward.

Her blond hair shimmered in the dimness of the club as she spiraled down. Between her small shoulders she had a tattoo of a flying angel that pointed an arrow to a bleeding heart.

“Impressive,” said Chris, trying to pop the bubble of awkwardness that hovered between them by striking up a friendly conversation. “Can you do that?”

“That’s something you will never find out, mister.”

“Oh? How is that?”

“Because I told the DJ not to put me on the stage anymore tonight.”

Chris laughed under his breath. “Maybe I come back some other night and sneak up on you when you’re up there.”

“Maybe I’m planning on telling the doorman that you’re a cannibalistic psycho who shouldn’t be allowed in the club. Come to think of it, you kind of look like one. Not that I can blame you. All that pressure that you have to put up with, day after day. Barely thirty years old and Mr. Director already? Jeez!”

Chris chuckled. What she had said was absolutely right. In fact that was exactly why he was there that night.

“So, Mr. corporate big-shot, enough with the chit chat. What brings you here?” Rachel winked at him as she sipped her wine. “Come on, you can tell me.”

“How do you know it’s not just a casual visit?”

“Is it?”

“No.” Rachel chuckled triumphantly. She then leaned forward toward Chris. “You ask me how I know. Because I know you, Christopher Wayne. It’s me, Rache, remember? You fool!”

Chris smiled. “I remember. That’s why I’m here. Because you’re still the closest friend I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Bullshit!”

“You don’t believe me?”

“What about the girl you said you were seeing. What was her name?”

“Tiffany,” Chris reminded her. “We’re not that close anymore. What am I saying? We were never close. Anyway, it’s over now.”

Rachel paused, feeling bad for sassing him. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Chris sipped his bourbon. “That’s all right. I’m sure it was for the best.”

A fleeting expression flashed across Rachel’s eyes.

“What?” asked Chris.

“The expression on your face. I’ve seen it before,” she replied.

“When?”

“Beginning of junior year. We had just become friends.”

“And?” “Don’t you remember?”

Chris shook his head. “No.” “The night you and Shanna Anderson broke up.”

Chris chuckled. “Oh, yeah.”

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“Once again you’ve come to me with a broken heart, mister,” said Rachel, shaking her head in mock disappointment. She was referring to Chris’s first and only heartbreak, which had happened in the junior year. That event had later inspired Chris to write a collection of poems and had helped him discover his literary talent. Since then Chris had written extensively: poems; short stories; memoirs. He had even attempted to write a novel once, but none of them had turned out to be nearly as good as those sorrowful verses that he had written with his heart and soul in his junior year.

The rest were soulless and bleak, he thought. And that was no surprise to him. He had buried the poet under the practicalities of the life of a mature and responsible man.

“That is not why I’m here, though,” he said. “And I’m not heartbroken. Not by one bit.”

“No?” asked Rachel.

Chris shook his head as he sipped his drink.

“You pig!” Rachel snapped at him. “How can you be so cold? It was just a month ago you said you were thinking of proposing to her. And now … When did this happen?”

“This morning around 8:30 a.m.”

“Sweet Jesus! It’s been only a few hours and you say you’re perfectly all right. Are you sure you’re not in denial?”

Chris chuckled. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“This is so unlike you, Christopher. You were never such a potato head! Are you a least bit concerned about that girl?”

“Listen, Rache, the way I look at it, I’ve no reason to feel guilty and no reason to be sad. You don’t know anything about us; how things were, and … besides she left me, so …”

“She left you?”

“Yes. I had a derogatory message from her mother on my answering machine this evening. Let’s just say it’s safe to assume that she is back in Connecticut and is with her parents now. But believe me none of this has anything to do with why I’m here. I told you I wanted to talk to you.

But what I wanted to tell you is far more important than this break-up.”

Rachel looked puzzled.

Chris glanced at the empty glasses.

“You’re gonna have another one with me, right?” he asked, and without waiting for Rachel’s response he signaled the bonny girl who looked bored out of her mind.

In one of the corners an old man in a dark corduroy suit had buried his face in the humongous breasts of a red hair who was giving him a lap dance. The girl who was on the stage stepped down and went back to the guy she had been sitting with as she put her black leather outfit on.

The DJ introduced the next entertainer as Jade, another tall blond with colorful tattoos, six inches of high hills, and a pair of silicon breasts.

Walking on the stage she screamed ecstatically as the DJ announced her name.

When the second round of drinks came Chris lifted his glass and said: “Here’s to our friendship, or as the Italians eloquently put it: Salute!”

Rachel shook her head: “Christopher W. Wayne, what’s gotten into you?”

“I believe it’s called bourb…”

“Is it really the buzz?” she interrupted him. “Or this is just a pathetic show you’re putting on to hide your sorry ass? I’m a veteran stripper now.

You know what that means? It means that I understand men better than their shrinks.”

An hour and a couple of drinks later they had both forgotten about Chris’s break-up. They had even forgotten where they were.

As though all the distractive elements of the ambience had somehow disappeared: the lights, the music, the inviting naked flesh, the fluttering stench of lust — everything — they were back to high school days, talking only of their happy memories. Rachel choked on her drink when Chris did his famous Mr. Stein imitation. Mr. Stein, their senior year geometry teacher, was married to a woman much younger than himself. He was a short and stocky Jewish guy with an abnormally deep voice that roared every time he pronounced the sound A. Nobody could imitate his voice better than Chris.

“Imagine Mr. Stein in his boxers in bed with his young wife,” said Chris. He then turned his head to one side and roared like Mr. Stein every time he had to pronounce the sound A. “Oh, baby, you look so hot tonight. Why don’t you turn around forty-five degrees clockwise around your X-axis so I can see your perfectly symmetric aaaaaaass?”

Rachel laughed so hard that tears ran from her eyes and smudged her eye shadows on her cheeks.

“Remember the day Mr. Stein sent Troy Sammons to the principal’s office?” asked Chris.

“Oh, my God! How could I forget? I’ve never seen anyone burst into laughter like he did that day.”

“But I bet you don’t know that the whole thing was actually my fault.”

Rachel’s eyes widened in surprise. “No way! How?”

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“I wrote something on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk in front of Troy. And as soon as he glanced at it, well, you know what happened.”

“What did you write?”

“I wrote: In the grand museum of noses, Mr. Stein is the Mona Lisa.”

Rachel exploded into laughter again. “Holy mother of God, Christopher! You’re a riot!”

Chris gazed at her affectionately. “Godammit, Rache, it’s so nice to spend time together like this again.”

Rachel looked up.

In the mystifying hue of shadows and lights their eyes briefly met and they fell silent. There were no words for what they wanted to say to each other.

It was Rachel who finally broke the silence. “Do you remember the Gipsy Flock?”

“Sure. It used to be my favorite band.”

“Remember you always said that their music took you to places where no one had ever been?”

“Sure do,” Chris replied, smiling.

“Well, guess what? Steve, the DJ, has their Placid Heart in his collection.”

“You’d better not be shitting me.”

Rachel shook her head as she sipped her wine. “Every time he plays it, it reminds me of you. You remember the night when we got stoned in the basement of your grandparents’ house. You made me and Jonathon Reeves listen to that song ten times in a row”.

“Holy crap, yes, I remember! Jonathon got so pissed he took my tape out of his boom box and ripped the shit out of it.”

“I’m gonna ask Steve to play it!” said Rachel as she got up and headed toward the DJ booth.

When Rachel left Chris decided to finally tell her about his decision, how he had decided to quit his job right at the time when he’d had the opportunity to become one of the youngest vice presidents in corporate America. He had presented Salem Technology’s board of directors with the most impressive business plan they had seen since the inception of the company in 1989. The idea was to introduce a product line consisting of low power-consuming batteries that would enable manufacturers of portable digital devices to produce lighter, more compact and less expensive gadgets. This idea had been recognized as a unique opportunity for gaining competitive advantage and increasing the company’s market share. Chris had been elected the head of the product development team and only nine months later he’d surprised the members of the board with working prototypes and simulation models. As a result, the necessary funds for production of the revolutionary product line had been allocated in the company’s budget for the upcoming quarter. There was only one problem. On the verge of taking over a new division of a multi-million dollar corporation, the rookie executive had abruptly called it quits.

Later on that night he told Rachael all about his decision.

“You’re insane. I don’t believe it. You’ve lost your mind, pal. That’s your problem.”

“That’s what Tiffany said today.”

“Well, she is right. You’re throwing out all that you’ve been working for all these years because of this silly spiritual awakening you think you’ve had?”

“I wasn’t happy, Rache. The job I had didn’t fulfill me. It was driving me out of my mind. It just wasn’t for me. I sort of knew it all these years, but I didn’t have the guts to face it. The weekends I spent at Mount Washington and the conversations that I had with Professor Sanjih thrust me out of the prison that I’d created in my mind and helped me find the courage to make the decision which I should’ve made years ago. I’m not cut out for the corporate world, no matter how much success people think I’ve had. I was living the life of a productive robot. I kept everyone happy except for myself. I want to do something that deals with our lives as human beings. I want to produce something that reflects human emotions and experiences — things like love, hope, disillusionment, courage, fear, bliss, and bleakness.”

He tossed down his drink, grimaced, then continued: “The world of microelectronics is not for me. And if Tiffany had really loved me she would have understood that. She didn’t even think twice to leave me when she found out that I was serious about my decision. I’m sorry but I can’t feel sad for not having that calculating bitch in my life anymore. I’ve wasted a few years of my life trying to conform to the standards of the social class that I was born into, but it’s not too late. I’m ready to start a new life. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but I never found the audacity to pursue that path because I thought I would never succeed. For years I thought I had made the right decision. But one weekend I realized that playing it safe had been the source of my misery all these years. Sitting on the porch of Pacific Creek Lodge, I pictured myself forty years from now as I watched the sun gradually sink behind the majestic heights that stood before my eyes. I tried to look back and see how I felt about what I had made out of my life. I imagined myself in that situation and asked myself “Will you be able to live with the fact that you didn’t even try to live your life the way you always wanted?” And I panicked. I panicked, Rache! I had never been so scared before in my entire life. It’s true that at that moment I hadn’t given that subject enough thought, and didn’t quite understand the essence of that experience and the nature of that compelling vision that had left me utterly disenchanted with myself. But I knew one thing. I could not lock that thought out anymore. I had to get to the bottom of it. And then, miraculously, I met Professor Sanjih among the guests; the man who guided my thoughts through the right channels and opened a whole new world before my eyes. I didn’t make my decision during those two days, though. I had to go back to Pacific

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Creek Lodge weekend after weekend for three months. I saw Professor Sanjih in there a few more times and we spoke again and again. Like I said, I arrived at my decision about three months later, October 6th to be exact.”

“That’s last Tuesday,” said Rachel.

Chris nodded. “Yes” “When did you tell Tiffany about it?”

“Same night. She didn’t take it seriously first but when she saw my resignation letter, and found out about the new place I wanted to move to, she finally realized that I was serious. And that’s when she left me.”

“So, where is this new place that you’re moving to?”

“It’s an old summerhouse on Peaks Island. I thought I needed a quiet place for the kind of work I’m going to be doing. I’m renting my townhouse at a pretty good rate. And I have to pay very little for my new place. The owners of the place are very rich and they were just looking for someone reliable who would look after their place until summertime.”

Rachel was beginning to admire Chris even more than she’d ever had. “Well, I must say you always had a thing for writing.”

“Remember?”

“Of course. And I don’t want you to get cocky now, but I always thought you were quite good at it.”

Chris laughed under his breath. “Thanks, Rache. You weren’t exactly bad yourself either. Remember we wrote a screenplay for ‘Murder in Newcastle’ together?”

“I’d auditioned for the role of the undertaker’s wife, but Mrs. Hayward thought I was too cute for the part.”

“Well, you were.”

“You bet your ass I was!”

“She then sent you to help me with the screenplay.”

“And that was the beginning of our friendship,” said Rachel softly.

They fell silent again. All those memories seemed so distant now.

Rachel shifted her gaze to the hypnotic glow of the candle flame in the translucent jar that sat between them on the table.

She then lifted a sad face to Chris’s concerned gaze. “Oh, God. If someone had told me that this was what the future held in store for me I would have ended myself right then,” she said.

“Hey, hey, what kind of a talk is that?”

It was Rachel’s turn to open up. And she did. She told Chris the things that she had kept inside herself all those years; the unseen scars that were eating her up like cancer. She told him about living with a monster for six years. “If it wasn’t for my daughter I would have left him long before that. One day I came home and found out that he had beaten Jessie unconscious. He didn’t let me take her to hospital. That was the day I found the courage to leave that house. The judge gave me the custody. He’s supposed to pay child support, but he doesn’t. And I’m just tired of going to court time after time. So I said: “Fuck it! I’m gonna do whatever it takes to raise my child even if I have to strip to earn the money that I need.” He can still have Jessie two weekends every month. Actually that’s where she is now. We both still live in Portsmouth which makes things easier. I let him have her this afternoon because I needed to work and the babysitter couldn’t stay with her tonight. Every time we argue about child support or anything else he threatens to go court and claim that I’m a stripper; an unfit mother, and get Jessie’s custody. It’s his bullshit, you know? I know that he doesn’t want the responsibility. But he just says it to shut me up.”

They talked for another hour or so. Chris tried to fortify the brittle remnants of hope in Rachel with his genuine caring and optimism.

A few minutes before midnight, Rachel said that she had to go to pay the house because if she did not do it soon, she would have to pay them for the next shift too.

“Listen, Rache. You’re not driving back to Portsmouth tonight, are you?”

“No I can’t. In this weather with all the drinks I’ve had, I’ll either kill somebody or lose my license. There is a motel across the road that I usually go to when I have to stay in Portland. I’ll get a room over there for the night.”

“Why don’t you stay with me tonight? I’ve moved most of my stuff to the new place, but I bet it still beats the hell out of a motel room.”

Rachel looked at him for a few seconds, trying to make up her mind.

Chris smiled. “Come on. I’ll even buy you pizza. We’ll have it delivered. Happy?”

“Hah! That’s wishful thinking,” said Rachel. “You may manage to lure me to your place with your charm Mr., but in this weather nobody’s crazy enough to deliver pizza to your place to make a couple of bucks in tips. Let me change and pay the house, and we’ll go. I’ll leave my car in the parking lot ‘til morning. You’re the designated driver!”

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Adventures for the Average Woman

two By dawn there was no sign of the storm that had turned the city upside down the night before. Chris and Rachel slept through the morning.

They were both 30 years old but that was the first time they experienced true lovemaking. It was liberating, they both thought; a sort of blissful sensation that quenched their souls and healed their unseen wounds. They put out the flames of desire as the wind howled, the thunder roared, and the rain played its tune on every roof in the city of Portland.

When they got out of bed it was almost noon time. Chris remembered that the movers were coming at half past one to get the rest of the stuff.

He had given them the extra pair of keys, so he decided to take Rachel to the cobblestone streets of the Old Port for a little stroll before lunch. *

*

*

“This is where I first met Tiffany about fifteen months ago.” Chris pointed to the brick-faced building of Treasure Harbor Hotel. “It was a fundraising event and Tiffany was one the organizers.” Saying that, Chris looked up at the clear sky above him, took a deep breath, and held it for a few seconds. It was a sort of breath that a newly released inmate would take after years of incarceration. He then slowly exhaled with a long, bitter sigh. “Christ, what a mistake!” he said ruefully. “Can you believe it? This dupe almost married the most neurotic member of New England society of snoots.”

Rachel who had been quiet all day burst into laughter, which made Chris laugh, too.

When they were crossing the hotel’s front garden Chris took a nickel out of his pocket and said, “Make a wish!”

Rachel closed her eyes. “Mmmmm. okay!”

Chris tossed the coin into the Roman fountain that was in the middle of the garden and said: “Just don’t forget to share the riches with your friend.”

“No bloody way!”

A couple of minutes later they got to Exchange Street where nineteenth century Victorian buildings housed a diverse mix of restaurants and shops. In the right corner, across the street from a bookstore café, a group of teenagers with dyed hair, pierced faces, and bizarre tattoos, were uncomfortably squatting on the stone-paved sidewalk. One of them was playing an old rock tune on his guitar. An empty case was open in front of him, just in case a generous pedestrian passed them by. A pimpled face blonde was patting a Dalmatian puppy that was snoozing on her lap.

A few feet away, a street artist was drawing a sketch of the kids. He had setup his tripod adjacent to them and drew with something that appeared to be a small piece of charcoal.

“Pretty funky town for 21st-century America, huh?” asked Chris.

“Pretty funky,” Rachel acknowledged as she threw her arms around Chris and gave him a long kiss on the lips.

They walked down to Fore Street where the local brewers and taverns were, and then to Commercial Street that ran parallel to the waterfront.

Near the harbor they saw commercial ships and luxury boats placidly floating in the water.

Chris pointed to the ferry terminal and said: “Here is where we get the ferry to Peaks Island. There is one every thirty minutes, from six in the morning till eleven o’clock at night.”

“Did you know that one of the oldest mansions in New England is on Peaks Islands?” asked Rachel.

“No. I didn’t,” Chris replied.

“I’ve never seen it myself, but I know it sits on a hilltop on the west side of the island.”

“I should go check it out sometime,” said Chris.

When they got to the end of the waterfront road, they turned around and headed toward downtown.

“I know a great seafood restaurant you’re gonna love. But first, let’s go check out the downtown area.”

They passed through Fore and Exchange Street again and crossed Middle Street toward Monument Square which is in the heart of downtown Portland.

When they were passing through a small flea market, Rachel stopped to look at the exotic handicrafts that an old Latino peddler displayed for sale on his wooden cart. She picked up a strange piece of ornament that had been made of some sort of a silver-like metal and had delicate carvings on it.

The old peddler said: “The Eye of the Owl. That one is more than 100-years old. Back in the old days my people believed that if the owner wore that piece around his neck, it would help him see things others couldn’t.”

“Hey, I like that,” said Rachel. “How much do you want for it, amigo?”

The old man’s rotten teeth appeared as he smiled mysteriously.

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“Twenty bucks Senorita, for the Eye of the Owl and a nice leather strap so you can wear it around your neck.”

“What do you think?” Rachel asked Chris, holding the piece on her neck with her index finger.

“You’re gonna wear a dream-catcher around your neck?” Chris asked.

“It’s not a dream catcher. You heard what the man said. Besides, I want to have something to remember our first date by.”

“Well, that’s different. Then let me buy it as my first gift to you.”

Chris paid the peddler who was observing Rachel with curious interest.

“There you go,” said Chris, trying to get the old man’s attention.

The peddler shifted his gaze toward him and took the money.

Something suspicious danced on the peddler’s face, thought Chris.

“Muchas gracias,” the old man murmured absently. *

*

*

For lunch Chris took Rachel to the Atlantic Pearl, a floating restaurant on Long Wharf.

At about two o’clock they walked back to where Chris’s car was.

Rachel asked Chris to take her to Teazzers. It was a bit early but she wanted to take a shower, do her hair, put make up on her face and get into her costume so she could be ready for the happy hour when “the big bucks would start rolling in”. She was going to work for a few hours then join Chris for the first night on the island.

When Chris pulled into the club’s parking lot Rachel said: “I’ll be at your place around nine o’clock. You have an extra parking space, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

He watched her as she blew him a kiss before entering the club then drove off toward Back Bay where his townhouse was.

When he got back he saw a note from the movers on the kitchen table next to a pair of keys: “All done. We took everything to the Island. If you have any questions call Mark at the office on Monday. Good luck with the new place. Signed: Randy Wilson” Chris briefly mused as he patted his chin with the note card, gazing out the window with a placid smile on his face. Then, walking into the living room he picked up the phone as he hummed a couple of lines of The Scent of Enchantment in a jazzy tone while dialing Professor Sanjih’s number at USM. He knew that the Professor lectured from 3:15 to 4:30 on Saturdays. He glanced at his watch. It was 2:45.

Professor Sanjih picked up the phone on the first ring. “Rashid Sanjih.”

“Hi, Professor. It’s Chris Wayne” “Oh, Christopher, of course. I’m so glad to hear your voice. How are you?” His melodic Indian accent was refined and sophisticated.

“I’m fine, Professor. And you?”

“So am I, my friend. So am I. I see you decided to stay in Portland this weekend. I had plans to go to Mount Washington tomorrow as usual but they say we might get another storm soon. So I guess I’d better stay home this Sunday. How about you, my friend? What are you up to?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Professor, I was hoping that I could meet with you sometime after your lecture this evening. I have some news and there is also something that I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Sure, sure. How about, say… at quarter to five, in my office? I’m at Payson Smith Hall, third floor, room 302.”

“Payson Smith Hall, room 302” Chris repeated.” Sounds good, Professor. Thank you very much” “Okay, my friend. I will see you then.”

three Professor Rashid Sanjih was born in 1949 in Bombay, India. His father, a prominent government official, was assigned to a diplomatic post in London when Rashid was 17 years old. After finishing high school Rashid was accepted to Oxford where he double majored in Philosophy and Psychology. Throughout the years at Oxford he impressed his professors with his aptitude and drive. He then came to the United States to pursue his graduate studies at Harvard University. After completing his dissertation, he accepted a faculty position at Boston University and later became a research associate at Massachusetts Institute of Forensic Psychology.

Over the years Professor Sanjih had served the state police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation as an expert in profiling and forensic psychology. He had come to the University of Southern Maine in Portland as a visiting professor and was working on an academic book with a colleague of his. Professor Sanjih had lived as a bachelor all his life and it appeared that his complete devotion to research and academic career

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Adventures for the Average Woman

did not leave room for romance in his life. One of the unique aspects of his character was his never ending quest for spiritual refinement. He was not a religious man in the traditional sense of it, but he deeply believed in the existence of a superior entity that was responsible for all of the creation. In a sense he had his own version of truth that would sound esoteric and farfetched to ordinary man. One of his favorite topics that he always preached to his students regardless of the subject matter of the course was Individuation which had enlightened Chris at the time when he had found himself standing at a crossroads in his life. Chris was fortunate to have met Professor Sanjih at a time when his mind was “ripe,” as the Professor would put it, for such intellectual engagement. And that afternoon when Chris told the Professor about his decision he was not surprised and claimed that he had expected to hear such news from Chris sooner or later.

“So you are determined to devote your life to writing,” said the Professor. “If that is where your heart is, I don’t see why you shouldn’t succeed.

Just remember for inspiration you have to stay connected to that cosmic source of intelligence from which you have emanated. Bear in mind, my friend, that an ocean of abundance is always available to us. It lies within us. All we need to do is be aware of it. Abu Khalid Aflaki, one of my favorite Sufi poets and philosophers who lived about 400 years ago in Persia, believed that the state of mind in which a person is fully connected to that cosmic source of intelligence is the safest refuge for human beings because that is the only place where we can receive full support from our creator.

Professor Sanjih rose from his chair and walked toward a small decorative lamp that sat on his bookshelf. It was an illuminating sphere that had been mounted on top of a beautiful clay stand and emitted a mesmerizing crimson glow as it slowly twirled around its axis. “A souvenir from Bukhara,” said the Professor, smiling. He held the light switch which rested on a piece of wire that connected the lamp to an electric socket on the wall and continued: “Speaking metaphorically, we are like this lamp. We are all connected to a source that can illuminate us. As I said, this source is available to us at all times. It is entirely up to us, however, whether we want to turn on the switch. That is my interpretation of the so called free will. Throughout the human history many people have resorted to rituals in order to attain oneness with their creator. The more common example of such rituals is praying which most everyone is familiar with. There are, however, those who practice more extreme rituals such as fasting for long periods of time or walking through fire and so on and so forth. But it is my personal belief that in order to benefit from that ocean of abundance a simple but perpetual mental and spiritual awareness is enough.”

Professor Sanjih and Chris continued their conversation until darkness fell onto the city and clouds began to appear in the sky of Portland.

“Professor Sanjih, I was going to ask you for some guidance for my first book.”

“Certainly, my friend. How can I be of any assistance to you?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking of writing a psychological thriller. And I thought since you are an expert in forensic psychology, you can help me with some aspects of character development. Perhaps you can tell me about your experiences and some of the interesting cases that you’ve come across in the past.”

“Sure, sure. I think it would be possible to access some of the documented cases, although not in their entirety. Only the parts that are not classified. As it happens, I had an email this morning from one of the detectives who works for Cumberland County Sheriff’s Department.

Apparently somebody reported a missing person last night, a young girl. I don’t know the details yet. But I think the story was on the local news today. I was preparing for my lecture all day and I didn’t get a chance to watch the news. Anyway, the detective asked to meet with me as soon as possible. About two months ago, they had to investigate the disappearance of three young girls who mysteriously vanished last August one after the other. All the girls were here on work visas. They had come to the U.S as entertainers and were working at a night club in Portland as exotic dancers. If my recollection is correct they were either from Russia or Eastern Europe. Police talked to their employer but did not find out anything and later stopped the investigation because they were quite sure that the girls wanted to stay in the country and so one day they just decided to disappear. They believe the girls are probably living somewhere in the U.S, working at some other club. But now the disappearance of this girl. Let me see.” The professor turned his chair to the right side of his desk, faced the monitor of his computer and logged into his email account. “Let me see. Oh, I can’t read anything without my glasses anymore.” He wore his reading glasses that had been hanging from his neck with a thin cotton strap and stared at the screen again. “Danielle Starr. That’s the name of the recent missing girl. And this time she is an American.”

“They think someone might have abducted these girls?” Chris asked curiously.

“Yes. And now they want to try to profile the possible abductor.”

“Do you know if this girl, Danielle …?”

“Starr,” the Professor reminded him.

“Right. Danielle Starr. Do you know if she worked at the same club or any other club as an exotic dancer?”

“No, I don’t know. As I said, I haven’t had the chance to look at the facts yet. But that is a very important question.”

Chris didn’t tell the Professor that he could probably get some inside information about the missing dancers and the owner of the club from Rachel.

“Professor, do you think we can meet again to look at some of the old documents? You know, the ones that you said might help me with my book?” asked Chris as he got up.

“Certainly, my friend. I will think about it tonight and next time I’ll bring you some information about one or two interesting cases that I have come across in the past, and we’ll take it from there. I’ll let you know as soon as I have the materials ready for you.”

“Thank you very much, Professor. Let me give you my new phone number and email address.”

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A minute later Chris shook hands with Professor Sanjih and thanked him again for his help and encouragement. When he left the campus, it had just begun to drizzle. The story of the abducted girls had made him intensely curious. He tuned into one the local radio stations as he pulled out of the university’s parking garage and drove off toward downtown. He glanced at the digital clock of his car that glowed in the dark. It was seven thirty. He decided to spend some time at a coffee shop near Congress Square and have a latte or two before going back to his place.

He had just pulled over in front of the coffee shop when the news anchor said what he had been impatiently waiting for since he had gotten into his car.

“Danielle Starr, the 21-one-year old student from South Portland whose car was found last night near Casco Bay Bridge is still missing. The State Police believes it is still early to draw any conclusions. We will have the chief of police’s comments on the case later on tonight. The Portland Sea Dogs played …”

Chris turned off the radio and went to the coffee shop where he spent the next hour or so thinking about Danielle Starr and the other three missing girls.

The mystery continues in our next issue! Subscribe today! Or better yet, buy the book.

AVAILABLE NOW AT WWW.LULU.COM AND IN E-BOOK FORM WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

Description: Has-been novelist Marsha Tucker has been kidnapped by a character in her 18thcentury historical romance. Is he an obsessed fan like a "Trekkie gone Branch Davidian"? Forensic traces of a 200-year old tincture and the mystery of a missing heroine in Marsha’s novel lead Detective Renee Savage on the search for the missing author from Baltimore to Maine to New Orleans, but will she have to track back in time to find her?

About the Author: L. Notch is an anthropological linguist, educator, and world traveler whose journeys to Africa, Europe, Asia, and North America have inspired articles, artwork, and stories galore. Works like The Spoiler (and the sequential spawning of Cutlass Moon, Neomodern Nosferatu, Cube Ghouls, and La Escuela Sin Esperanza) hatched from actual nightmares resulting from years of working as a corporate drone in the Washington, D.C. Metro area.

Reviews: ABSOLUTELY NOBODY RICH OR FAMOUS, ENDORSES THIS BOOK! But ordinary readers who’ve checked it out have this to say: “Gee, you're a terrific writer. I love your exciting story! … You've got what it takes.”

– A. Rush, Silver Spring, MD “I like it. There’s more testosterone than one would expect…. The heroines are real ballsy for grrlz.” – the late B. Caldwell, Washington, D.C.

Preview: Marsha’s detour into hell was not announced by glaring orange signs and flashing fiery arrows but by whispers, smoke, and mirrors.

“Red Team meeting, Marsha, in ten.” Donning the colors of a corporate player with white shirt, dark tie, suit coat and slacks, Nick Sneider, the rookie systems analyst at Skylark Logistics, stood before the second string cubicle to call Marsha into the game. Fine blonde hair covered his head and face like fuzz on a freshly picked peach.

Marsha waved acknowledgement with her right hand as her left dribbled words across a computer keyboard. She was working out the final edits on a technical proposal for a digital imaging contract with the Maryland Bureau of Motor Vehicles. The Skylark group had, as usual, waited until the eleventh hour to review the specs and quote the costs before making the final play. She was given the ten-minute warning for passing her portion of the ball to company VPs who would make everyone scramble with last minute changes before the 5 p.m. deadline.

Marsha dreaded team meetings where the chief executive, financial, and operations officers would waste valuable production time with their sucky sports metaphors on how everyone had a position to play on the court of big business. It was March madness for contract bids, and if any player dropped the ball or committed a foul, penalties would be severe.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

“The problem with these jerks,” Marsha muttered under her breath, “is that they’re shooting hoops while the competition is arranging a fianchetto around the Queen’s bishop. No wonder this piss-ant company doesn’t win any bids. They’re in the wrong friggin’ game!” She banged out the statement of work and watched the computer clock tick down the minutes.

Suddenly, she smelled smoke. She checked the wiring, to the CPU but couldn’t detect any defect. Her olfactory senses tried to pick the bouquet – vanilla pipe tobacco? She needed confirmation for her odd assumption. “Hey, Nick,” she called to the neighboring cube, “Do you smell smoke? Nick?” Marsha stood up on tiptoe to peer down into Nick’s cube. The desktop computer screen showed a half-finished game of solitaire, but the solitary player was nowhere to be seen.

A deep voice thrummed in her left ear. “Gwynyvere.”

Marsha gasped and turned around. Nothing was there but the three gray walls of her corporate cell. She stepped into the aisle to find it void of human activity. The background noises of phones purring and keyboards clacking trained Marsha’s ears.

“Gwynyvere,” the man’s whisper blew past her right ear.

She swiveled on the backs of her heels to face... ... no one.

“Who said that? Stu? Andy? Who’s there? Come on, guys. How do you know my—?”

Another voice crept up from behind. “Watchya—“ A loud shriek leapt up and arms swung out to collide with a Styrofoam cup of steaming black coffee. The searing spray exploded over the bulging blue pastel of the intercessor’s shirt.

“—looking for?” It was Glen Mackie, a doughy, balding ,and bland telecommunications engineer from Fort Meade.

Marsha grabbed her chest and heaved. “Sorry, Glen, you startled me.”

“Geeze, Marsha, get a grip,” he chastised. The hot brew scalded the pale pink flesh under a sky-blue Joseph A. Bank dress shirt.

Marsha scrambled to retrieve a box of tissues from her desk.

Glen made five snatches from the box. “Thanks, but I don’t think Kleenex is gonna do much for third-degree burns. Way to go for a lawsuit.”

He fussed over the large stain on his shirt. “Man, I gotta go wash this out.” He waddled down the aisle, past reception, and out the exit.

“You all right, Marsh?” It was Kelly Groh, the webpage content editor three cubes down from Marsha.

“Yeah, I was looking for Nick.”

“He’s already in the conference room. What happened to you?”

Marsha took a tissue and daubed the coffee splatter on her gray suit jacket and white blouse. “Glen sorta snuck up on me and...,” she changed tack, “Kel? Did you happen to smell something like pipe smoke a while ago?”

“You think someone was smokin’ in here?”

Marsha didn’t say what she thought. “Would you happen to know if we have anyone here named Gwen or Guinevere?”

Kelly crossed her ropey arms across her pole-like torso and shook her mulish head. “Nope. Why?” Marsha did not offer an explanation.

“You look absolutely ashen.” Kelly’s drawl belied her West Virginia origins. “Maybe y’oughtta go and freshen up some ‘fore Mr. Michaels hears the buzz and swoops down on y’all. I’ll try and cover for you at the meeting for a few minutes, ‘kay?” kindly offered the tall gangly woman in the olive suit whose sleeves were just a smidge too short in the cuff.

Marsha opened the women’s lavatory with her assigned key and went over to the faux-marble sinks. She set her purse down on the counter and looked in the mirror at the dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping well for the voices whispering that very name, Gwynyvere.

The night callings had been going on ever since she fled New York, five years ago. She could easily rack them up to the hallucinatory echoes of her stressed-out mind, but to hear disembodied voices in broad daylight at her place of work could not be so easily brushed aside. She pulled down the lower eyelid of her left bloodshot orb. “Am I sick or just cracking up?”

She twisted the two taps of the middle sink and cupped her hands below the flow. After applying several cool splashes to her face, she twisted the tap to the off position and felt her way along the counter to the paper towel dispenser. Once she wiped the water away from her eyes, she blinked them open.

There in the mirror appeared a young black woman in a worn buckskin coat and great floppy felt hat. Her bowed-out belly indicated a thirdtrimester pregnancy. Marsha had to wonder how what her bourgeois clothes-make-the-person biases assumed to be a street person had managed to get past security and into the building. “Can I help you?” Marsha asked with mild consternation.

The woman’s reflected image looked away nervously.

Marsha discreetly reached over the counter and opened her bag. “You need money?” She pulled a five-dollar bill from her wallet and held it up. “Here,” she addressed the reflected image.

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The woman ignored the offer. Instead she looked toward the door and stated, “Begging your pardon, Mistress Gwynyvere, but the gentleman waiting outside wishes to speak with you,” The fine hairs on Marsha’s arms rose to attention. “Gentleman? What gentleman?” Marsha turned to face the woman. “How do you know that name, Gwy —?”

The woman wasn’t there.

“Where’d you go? Who are you? Answer me! How do you know that name?” Marsha called out with the search of each of the three stalls.

All were empty.

The woman’s voice echoed in the ether, “He’s waiting for you, missum. You needs to go to him.”

Marsha rubbed her eyes hard but saw her face alone in the mirror. With trembling hands she rummaged the bottom of her bag for her cell phone. Her fingers frantically punched through the list of options until she found the office number.

“Skylark Logistics. How may I direct your call?”

Her throat was sere from fright. Her voice was a faint rasp. “Deliah?”

“Hello? Are you there?”

With a hard swallow of dry spit, Marsha pronounced. “Deliah? It’s Marsha. Put me through to Kelly, will you?”

Marsha nervously scanned the confines of the restroom.

“Kelly’s in the Red Team meeting.” Deliah stated flatly.

“Yes, I know, but you have to call her out. This is urgent,” Marsha squeaked.

“Hold, please.” The easy-listening version of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” broke in. The music droned for countless measures.

“Kelly Groh here.”

“Kelly? Marsha.”

“Marsh, what’s takin’ you so long?” Kelly spoke in a low tone. “Mr. Michaels been askin’ for your tech piece and he ain’t lookin’ none too pleased.”

“Kelly, I need you to come down to the women’s room.”

“What? I can’t take a break now.”

“I need you to come down and see if... if...”

“See what?”

“See if there’s a man standing outside the door.”

“What?”

Tears sounded in her plea. “Kelly, Please. It’s important.”

“Michaels is coming out now. I have to go.”

A knock sounded at the door. Marsha yelped. “God, Kelly, I mean it. Find a way to get down here.”

The connection broke off.

Marsha flipped down the cover of her cell and went over to the door. She pressed her ear against it to discern if there were any signs of a presence on the other side. She closed her eyes and tried to quell her hammering heart and raspy breathing.

Her eyes popped open. The aroma of vanilla musk and pipe smoke filled her nostrils.

“Gwynyvere, come out to me,” beckoned the voice.

She jiggled the butterfly latch to make sure it was secure then sprung back from the door. “You get away from me you demented prick! I have a cell phone and am calling the police right now. Do you hear—?”

The lock clicked and the door opened. There in the hallway stood a fretful Kelly with a scowling Mr. Michaels behind her.

“—me?” *

*

*

The black coffee quivered in Marsha’s trembling hands. Kelly rubbed her back as the building security officer informed, “Look, ma’am, we searched the entire building and couldn’t find any sign of that pregnant woman you saw. In fact, ma’am, our desk officer said he saw no one of that description on any of the cameras monitoring the building.” The Herculean African-American man in the gray uniform raised a hand to decline Deliah’s offer of a Styrofoam cup brimming with steaming joe.

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“What about the man lurking outside the women’s room? What about the smell of smoke?” Marsha desperately sought a confirmation of her sighting.

Kelly added, “I didn’t see anyone or smell anything, but Marsha says she heard him ask for someone named Guinevere.”

The security officer clasped his hands at his V-line waist, bowed his shaved head, and sighed as though to say a prayer. “Well, I’ll have Rob check the tapes, but we’re certain the cameras showed this floor to be clear of unauthorized persons. Otherwise, we would have responded immediately.”

“Thank you, Lloyd.” Jerry Michaels, the Chief Operations Officer and Vice President, had joined the gathering. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No inconvenience, Mr. Michaels. Just doing my duty.” He nodded and walked out the glass door.

“Ms. Tucker, I’d like to see you in my office please.” His tone was less than sympathetic.

Marsha knew the drill and noted the looks: the simpering smile on Glen Mackie’s piggish face, the sketchy glances of coworkers whose fear of making eye contact belied the insecurity over their own tenable positions.

“Close the door, please.” How the grin strained to break out onto Michaels’ tennis-court tanned face as he handed her the letter of dismissal.

“Ms. Tucker, you play tennis?”

Marsha shook her head.

“Softball? Basketball?”

She returned, “Do crossword puzzles count as a sport?”

Her smart remark was the drop shot he didn’t expect or appreciate. Michaels fumed and paced back to center court. “I don’t think you get what it means to be a player for Team Skylark Logistics.” He exhaled the frustration of most men who deal with women thick about sports. “It’s like Biblical basketball, Ms. Tucker. We have our team of Davids pitted against the Title (8) Goliaths like SAIG and DigiCorp. We can’t afford to have a freeze-up on the court. It’s give-and-go, Ms. Tucker, and you aren’t giving, just going. I’ll have a security officer help you pack up your belongings and escort you out of the building.” He was on the horn to Deliah as Marsha headed out his office door.

“Marsha, Mr. Michaels said you should stop and see Ms. Cummings on your way out.” Like a neon arrow, Deliah’s long faux pink nails pointed the way to the office.

Fae Cummings was the HR Director. Marsha stepped in the office only long enough to sign off on some documents, turn in her keys, and receive a brochure on stress therapy and anger management. Marsha refused to accept the corporate wraith’s bony claw extended to her in the pretense of wishing her well. *

*

*

Marsha’s run-down heels carried her across the hard pavement of the municipal parking garage on East Lombard in downtown Baltimore.

She opened the hatchback to her 1998 Geo Metro and tossed in a dented cardboard box containing the personal items she had cleared from her cube. She noticed that something was odd about the awkward way the car sat. She bent down to notice the right rear tire had gone tortilla flat. Slamming the hatch shut, she stomped the bumper with her right foot. “To hell with this!” She jerked open the passenger door, flung her purse onto the seat, then commenced to pound the peeling roof with her fists.

“If you please, ma’am,” a tiny voice echoed in the hollows of the garage.

Marsha let go a gasp and grabbed the car door to brace herself in her startle. The keys tinkled in her left hand as she pulled back a clump of brunette from her face. Standing not ten feet from her was a young boy with long curly red hair. Marsha collected herself, smiled, and said, “Hey there. And who might you be?”

“I prithee to help me.” His round face was covered in soot and sadness.

Marsha stepped out warily from behind her car door. “’Prithee?’ That’s a strange word for a boy like you to use. Did you learn it at school?”

She moved toward the boy.

The boy stepped back.

“Don’t be afraid.” She stooped down to be at his eye level. “Are you lost? Did you get separated from your mommy? Let me see if I can help you find her.” She tilted her head and studied his clothes. The puffy-sleeved shirt, brown buttoned vest with the frill at the bottom, the knee-length pants and knee-high stockings with brass buckle shoes appeared to be a costume. “Have you just been in a school play or something?”

The boy shook his head.

“Well, that’s some costume. Did your mommy make that for you?”

He put a finger into his mouth and nodded. Tears began to fill his sea-green eyes.

Marsha shuffled a little closer. “Oh, now, don’t cry.” She searched her suit pockets for a tissue. Finding a crumpled wad, she shook it out and handed it to him. “Don’t worry. It’s clean, just a little squished.”

The boy took it gingerly from her, examined it curiously, and then brought it to his eyes.

“What’s your name, little one?”

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“Micah.”

“Micah.” She was hit with a sudden rush of déjà vu. Why did this child give her a vague sense of familiarity? “That’s a handsome name.

How old are you Micah?”

He sniffed back his tears. “Eight.”

“Eight. Wow! You’re quite a big boy.” Marsha found herself struggling to find the right thing to say. Children and their fairytales never had fallen within her range of socio-literary interests. “Look, Micah, where did you last see your mother? Do you know what floor she’s on?” She arched her eyebrows and beamed a cartoon smile.

“Floor?” He sniffed and shot her a puzzled look. “Well, she had just finished sweeping the floor, I reckon.

Then the soldiers came and took her out of the house.”

Marsha reached out and took the boy by his arms to keep from toppling over. “Soldiers? What soldiers?”

The boy’s body stiffened but he did not break from her grip. “The soldiers in the red coats who came to our home in the night and—“ “And?” Marsha noted the boy’s gaze traveling to the area behind her back. He jerked free and ran off into the shadows.

The spicy scent of flavored tobacco enveloped her.

“Art thou not Gwynyvere?” came the voice.

Marsha craned her head to see a figure clad in a black cloak towering above her. She didn’t hesitate. She thrust her keychain up to his masked face and pressed the release on the canister of mace she was licensed to carry.

The costumed man moaned his agony into his gloved hands.

Marsha sprung to her heels, but her legs were cramped from squatting. She fell to her knees. The man latched on to her left ankle.

“Let me go! Help! Fire! Fire!” Her cries pealed through the pillars and parked cars.

Marsha flipped onto her back and braced herself up by the elbows. “You’re going down, creep!” With deadly aim, her left foot nailed him in the groin. He released his hold and doubled over. Marsha scrambled to gain secure footing on the smooth floor. She launched herself into full flight, losing a shoe in the process. She pulled off the second pump and skidded on nylon stocking feet down the stairs to the security desk.

A team of officers combed the garage but found no sign of a small boy or man matching the descriptions Marsha had given. When they checked the security tape that caught Marsha on the ground kicking and screaming they could not make out her attacker due to a pillar that conspicuously took up half the frame.

“We gonna have to find a bettah position fo’ dat camera,” commented the gruff and hairy garage attendant.

Marsha’s description proved less convincing than the poorly located security camera.

“You mean to tell me these two were dressed up like for Halloween or something?” queried the robust African-American police officer. The flecks of gray spotting his temples marked his many years on the force.

She couldn’t exactly blame Officer Franklin for the festive pictorialization, but she wished he wouldn’t treat the attack with such levity. “Yes, I know it sounds strange, but they were both dressed like something out of Johnny Tremain. The boy had on knee breeches and buckle shoes while the man wore a black cape and one of those three-cornered hats.” She rubbed at her sore forearm.

The other uniformed officer, a woman, bore the name tag “Lopez.” Her tenor was critical and dubious. “Why did you yell fire, Ms. Tucker? Do you realize that raises a false alarm? You could be cited for public endangerment.”

“Studies have shown that no one responds when a woman yells, ‘rape’. Shout ‘fire’ and that draws attention. Didn’t they teach you that in cop school along with victim sensitivity? Why are you treating me like the criminal here? I was the one who was attacked!”

Officer Franklin stepped in to smooth Marsha’s ruffled feathers. “Now, calm down, Ms. Tucker. Officer Lopez is only doing her cop duty according to cop procedure.”

“Besides, I did smell smoke, so…,” Marsha tossed in to justify herself and avoid a citation.

Begrudgingly, Lopez clicked her pen and began taking notes. “And you say he wore a mask? What kind?”

“Kind?”

“Yeah, like a ski mask or a scarf over his face?” She waved her pencil in one hand and her pad in the other in a gesture connoting the need for clarification.

Marsha thought about what description to offer up. “It appeared to be a domino.”

“A domino? Like those little tiles you play with numbers?” Lopez qualified.

“No, not domino tile. A domino is a party mask, you know, what they wear at masquerade balls,” Marsha rectified.

“Ah! Like the Lone Ranger,” Franklin piped in.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Marsha nodded. “Yeah, something on that order.”

Lopez scribbled then pressed hard on the pad with the nib of her pencil to put a final period on her notes. “Okay, Ms. Tucker,” she pulled out a card and handed it to Marsha. “We’ll do the best we can to find these two. Here’s our number in case you should need our help again. Let’s roll, Frankie.” The two uniforms strolled back to their cruiser leaving Marsha to soak in the futility of having ever reported the incident.

A towing service came and pumped air back into the tires. The rattling pistons of her car couldn’t match the pylon driving in her brain. The stresses of the day hammered at her combustive temper. Against her better judgment, Marsha pulled the cell phone out of her purse and began dialing as she sped down the exit ramp of the garage.

Never multitask driving and screaming at fickle old flames who dump you for fresh flesh then steal your work, ruin your career then send masked goons to vandalize your car, attack you, and drive you to the brink of questionable mental stability.

Rolfe had changed his home number to an unlisted one. His voicemail at work would have to serve as the receptacle for her rancor. “Listen you pusillanimous douche bag! You think I don’t know what you’re doing? I oughtta slap another lawsuit on your sorry sagging ass!” The car swerved erratically from lane to lane down East Pratt. Horns honked. Pedestrians cursed. Lights flashed. Sirens sounded. Marsha took a hard right onto South President Street and pulled to a jerky stop.

The officer came up to her window. “Is there a problem with the road markings, Ms. Tucker, or do you simply not care to regard them?” The name badge said, “Lopez.” She gave Marsha a citation and advised her to drive more carefully.

Marsha’s internal juices roiled. By remote control all the way from the upper west side of New York, Rolfe was opening all the valves to blow her up by her own steam.

Stuff your beach bag with this fun-in-the-sun fantasy-thriller-mystery-romance!

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About the Author: Sandra Davis Dorsett was born in California and spent most of her growing up years in Los Angeles. In grade school, she was a renowned tomboy, famous for a good left hook and her bag of marbles.

A lanky teenager in the 1960's - Sandra was a crusading rebel for the underdog, a trait which followed her into adulthood. Fortunately, she left the brawling and the marbles in her childhood, but the scruffy tomboy still surfaces every now and then. Her early years in Compton, California, were chaotic, but she survived with minor cuts and bruises. The more serious injuries came from falling from trees and rolling down hills in a cardboard box.

Sandra and her husband, Steve, live on Lake Conroe in Texas. Their hobbies include horseback riding, hiking, boating and travel.

Sandra has been writing short stories since she was old enough to take a pen to paper. A Wink at Midnight is her first novel.

Description: Beautiful and cunning Angela Madigan, a forty-one year old clinical psychologist, has the world by the tail.

Driven by childhood poverty and an overbearing, Bible-thumping mother, Angela has finally clawed her way to security and wealth beyond her wildest dreams. Between Thomas - Angela's rich, workaholic husband, Rob - her young lover, and Connie - the lesbian friend secretly in love with her, Angela enjoys a life of comfort, excitement and illicit pleasure.

Her hair and nails take precedence over the trivial, mundane problems of her patients, who are, to Angela, boring and easily eradicated.

When Angela accidentally runs over and kills homeless "Doc" on an isolated stretch of mountain road in western Maryland, her life is suddenly and forever changed. Afterward, lies and deceit are the tiny hammers that chip away every tangible aspect of Angela's life until nothing remains but the raw core.

Her sloppy, irresponsible actions eventually lead Angela to The Trinity House, a privately funded shelter for juveniles, where she meets her match, Olga Mengle: an old German woman who runs the place with uncomplicated wisdom. It's here where Angela ultimately finds atonement, acceptance, and unconditional love.

Volume 2, Issue 4

17

Excerpt: From Cumberland, Angela climbed scenic Route 40 over the northern edge of the Allegheny Mountain range where the road skirted the Pennsylvania State line.

Plenty of people who worked in Cumberland lived in border towns like Keyser or Rawlings or Bowling Green. But some, like she, chose to live high above it all in a place so beautiful it could easily rival Heaven. The commute could be treacherous in winter and the fog was always a problem. Snow came first and stayed the longest in Frostburg, but for Angela, the drive and the snow and even the eerie fog were all well worth it.

She'd come a long way since the small wood frame house in Los Angeles where her mother kept crosses and paintings of Jesus on every wall.

It was in the quiet, like now, when she thought of the bearded man on the old mill road. She wondered if anyone was missing him. Had he been a good man? Had he deserved to die like that? Did anyone?

Her cell phone rang, startling her from thought. She fumbled the thing from her purse and punched the little green button. "What?" she said.

"Angela?"

"What do you want, Rob?" "I want to know what's wrong."

"I despise people who answer questions with questions. What do you want?"

"Why won't you return my calls? Don't I deserve at least that much?"

"You deserve shit."

"You don't miss me, Angela?"

She felt a cramp of lust for him and cursed it. "Why'd you call my home after I specifically told you not to?"

"You gave me no choice, Angela."

"So, when did you become a Real Estate agent? Do you actually think Thomas is that stupid? I told you we're finished, Rob." "What if I don't want us to be finished? What if I tell your rich husband all about us?"

"He already knows."

"You're a liar."

"I hate you!" she hissed. She clicked the phone off and flung it violently to the floorboard where it came apart like a kid's toy.

She put her foot on the gas and took a curve sharp enough to make the tires screech. There was a good drop some five or six hundred feet below. She could take her hands from the wheel now and let the Ford play chicken with the road until it spilled over the mountain like a derailed boxcar from a train. She'd die quick. She was sure of it.

There'd be a couple of lines in the local paper. She might even make the front page. She and Thomas had, after all, dined at the Governor's mansion.

It would be so easy. There would be that first few seconds of sheer terror after she left the road, and then it would be over. She imagined the vacuum of silence for that one split second before the crash. Had it been that way for the bearded man?

She felt her hands loosen on the steering wheel. Her mouth went completely dry. Quickly, she took the wheel back and eased her foot from the gas. She began to shake, slowly at first, like being caught in cold rain and then her teeth bean to chatter.

Angela imagined Sally Jensen sitting on a rotting tree stump somewhere between Heaven and Hell, waiting. Sally would smile hideously with her dead mouth and form the word large and silent ... "Coward."

By the time Angela pulled into her long drive her hands had stopped shaking, but her knees were rubbery when she stepped from the car.

She looked strangely at the Escort. She would never look at another car in quite the same way again; they were death traps. They were weapons.

Thomas was not home. She was glad. The cleaning lady had come and the house smelled sweetly of wood polish and pine cleaner. She walked from room to room, relishing her freedom. How could anyone ever take it for granted?

Thomas, like Vanessa's husband, would most certainly want a divorce. Thomas had something much better than a stack of risquĂŠ photos.

She'd been his wife for seventeen years. It seemed an odd time to wonder if she loved him, or if she ever had.

In the kitchen Angela pulled a salad together and ate at the round breakfast table. She didn't bother with dressing and the salad was tasteless, like cold pieces of newspaper.

Through the kitchen window she watched the last of the day filter from the sky. Then she sat in the dark. Sometime later a thunderstorm rumbled down the mountain. It was chilly and quiet afterward. The only sound she heard was the large grandfather clock as it ticked the minutes away while she waited for Thomas to come home.

18

Adventures for the Average Woman

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19

Diane Crawford is a stay-at-home mother of three by day and international spy by night. When she is not busy carting kids to activities and making dinner she is deciphering intercepted foreign intelligence communiqués. In her rare spare time she plays the flute and enjoys the game of bridge (where the bids are in secret code, of course.) Diane’s travels as a spy have taken her from Hawaii to Central America to Europe, and even to Russia, allowing her to combine sightseeing with clandestine missions. Send your comments to: TheCrawfordFive@neb.rr.com As close as I can figure, it must have happened right when the radio went dead. I was on my way to the mall, just driving and thinking about nothing in particular, when the oldies station fell silent.

Strange, I thought. It can’t be the car; it’s less than a year old. Probably just one of those temporary hiccups that happen sometimes on the radio. With a wry sense of humor I imagined the panic at the broadcasting station where precious advertising seconds were evaporating, one by one, into the past.

That’s how it seemed, that suddenly and without warning, there was a glitch in the normal routine of things. Unremarkable, yet a definite change. I twisted the knob to off. I was almost to my destination and didn’t have patience enough to wait for the cacophony to resume.

Traffic was light, and within minutes I pulled into a parking space and stopped. Lots of good spots tonight. Monday nights are like that. No one thinks of shopping on a Monday night.

I flipped my purse strap over my shoulder and reached for my coat. It had been chilly that afternoon, but the air meeting my emerging body felt warm, just right. I dropped the coat back on the seat and stepped out.

Thinking back on it, this was the second time I had noticed something different. It was less abrupt than the radio quitting, but had I been paying attention at all, more peculiar. For the fall air was unseasonably warm. Not only was the climate pleasant, but the atmosphere in the parking lot seemed, well... muffled. That is, the sounds of cars and activity lacked the usual harsh clarity, that edge that gives noise its definition.

How nice to have a little quiet in this unlikely place, went the thought that flitted in and out of my consciousness, taking its turn in the unending parade of everyday reflections. It’s important in life to notice and appreciate the pleasant things we encounter. We have to make the most of our turn at living.

Of course, none of these philosophical notions enlightened me as I crossed toward the department store. I was focused on the winter clothes I needed to buy for my kids. These kids constantly needed wardrobe transfusions, it seemed. Hand-me-downs from cousins, always the right size in the wrong season, had petered out. It was just as well. I preferred dressing my kids in my own way, and though I had to close my eyes when the total was rung up, I did enjoy finding cute outfits for them.

My oldest, a girl, was five. Her arrival had marked the fulfillment of a lifetime dream. She was everything I had hoped for in those long years of scribbling name after name in the margins of notebooks. Her grandmother had described my golden haired Anna exactly when she recited the old rhyme: There once was a girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good she was very, very good, but when she was bad she was horrid.

My youngest was a boy, now nearly two. A precious little boy to complete our family. Drew was unlike his older sister; a sensitive, mellow, undemanding toddler who gave soft, wet kisses freely. I was thrilled to have produced these two perfect little beings. Who would have dreamed that I could be so blessed?

I went directly to the children’s department, striding in that purposeful way shoppers do when they’re not just browsing. My hope was to complete this task as quickly and efficiently as possible. While shopping could be somewhat enjoyable, it was not at the top of my list of preferred pastimes. And though I relished this brief interval of freedom from the duties of motherhood and home, that underlying urge to get back to my family – back where I was needed – refused to be subdued.

So it was in this frame of mind that I moved among the racks. First I scoured the girl’s 4-6x area looking for a few things colorful, easy care, and practical. I eyeballed each outfit for size, knowing that every manufacturer has his own idea of what constitutes a “five”. Another mother shoved hangers back and forth a few racks over. Soon straining the fingers of one hand were three ensembles: one winner and two acceptables. I then made my way through to the toddler boys section. There I located what I knew would be a few good choices, even if they were outrageously priced. Just buy them and get it over with, I told myself.

The salesclerk was busy behind the checkout counter, marking tags and shuffling piles of merchandise. I approached the checkout stand and heaved my stack of clothes onto the counter. “I’ll use MasterCard,” I said and began to rout through my purse. I produced the charge card and

20

Adventures for the Average Woman

glanced up at the salesclerk. She had made no move to greet me or help me, but continued to scribble and shuffle. I waited patiently; no sense in appearing pushy. But after a few more moments of the same, I said simply, “Hello.”

The woman was around fifty, I’d say. Her frame had the doughy, substantial look that belies a lifetime of over nourishment and underactivity.

She wore a blue striped shirt that she had covered for the day’s cool weather with an off-white cardigan. Half lens glasses rested low on her nose, and she alternately squinted down through them to examine one stack of price tags and then arched her eyebrows high to peer at a different pile. Her nametag read “Stella.”

Stella did not respond to my greeting. Instead, she proceeded to scoop up the large pile of clothes that had been commanding her attention and turned away from the checkout stand. She then began to hang each item, one by one, on an empty clothes rack positioned behind the station.

By this time I had passed from puzzled to annoyed, I made the appropriate (if not polite) sound of annoyance, and shifted my stance impatiently. It’ll be a while before I shop here again, I vowed.

Finally the clothes were all hung. At this point Stella turned from her task and smiled in my direction. But to my amazement she said, over my shoulder, “Are you going on break now?” The addressee was coming up behind me, and before long plans were made to meet for break time. I stood, mouth agape, as the two women walked away together.

Quite angry now, I considered my options and decided I would take my business elsewhere. I stuffed my charge card unceremoniously back into my purse and wheeled around.

Ummff! I had spun directly into the back of another shopper.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, stepping aside.

The woman appeared not to hear me. In fact, it seemed as though she was totally unaware that I had run into her. She shifted her glance to an adjacent circular clothes stand and moved in its direction with no change in expression whatsoever.

I stared after her. What was going on here? First the salesclerk, and now this. Why was I being completely ignored?

The mind has an amazing capacity to make sense of the senseless, to explain the inexplicable. It wasn’t long before I concluded that I had simply not been thinking clearly. From there it was a short step to convincing myself that I must have actually knocked into the clothes rack.

What else could explain that woman’s complete indifference? Of course, that was it, I told myself.

The incident at the sales counter took a slightly greater effort to rationalize. Maybe.... maybe the checkout stand was closed, and I didn’t notice the sign. That made sense. But... why had she let me stand there for so long? Any way you looked at it, she’d been extremely rude...

I now determined, with shaky resolve, to dismiss the doubts that threatened to collapse my hastily constructed but psychologically expedient view of reality. Not daring a glance at the checkout stand, I immediately turned for the exit.

I didn’t get thirty feet before yet another person failed to notice me. Just in time I leapt out of the path of a large middle-aged man before he sent me and my purse flying! Without pausing to contemplate the implications of my latest mishap, I collected myself and hurried out the door.

In the safety of the car I tried to shake off thoughts of my shopping ordeal. What a strange night it had been. The only thing left to do now was to consider the evening a complete bust and go home.

Twenty minutes later I arrived at home. It was dark by then. The kids would be in bed already, I knew. It was just as well. Sometimes they could really drive me nuts. As I pulled into the driveway I could see lights on in the children’s rooms. In fact, there were lights glowing all over the house. I became alarmed when I found the front door unlocked.

“Steve? Steven?” I called. The kid’s rooms were empty, but the bedding was rumpled as though they had gone to bed. I went all through the house, calling, even though it was clear no one was there. There was no note, nothing to indicate where they had gone.

I dialed my in-law’s number. There was no answer. I dialed my next door neighbor and got the answering machine. Panic rose in my throat.

I tried the closest hospital.

“Saint Mary’s,” said a woman’s voice.

“Hello, this is Joanne Neubauer. Hey, anyone named....”

“Saint Mary’s,” repeated the woman, more loudly now, a hint of impatience in her voice.

“Hello. Did anyone named Steve Neu.....”

“Hmm!” I heard next, followed by a click.

I stared at the receiver in disbelief.

It occurred to me that my cell phone might be malfunctioning. I went to the land line and tried again, but calls to the two other hospitals, and our family doctor, went no better. Even 9-1-1 couldn’t hear me.

I ran across the street and rang the doorbell. No one answered.

There on the lawn I stopped to sort things out. If one of the kids or Steve was hurt, they would go to St. Mary’s. I decided I should just go there myself and see. I didn’t know what else to do.

Volume 2, Issue 4

21

Even though I was terrifically distracted and anxious, I couldn’t help but notice that I got no more attention in my car than I did in person.

More than once I had to dodge motorists turning into my path or pulling out of a driveway just as I came by.

Finally along came one I couldn’t dodge.

I was just about to cross the intersection at 48th and Highway 2 when suddenly and inexplicably a pickup truck made a left turn in front of me.

There was absolutely nothing I could do to avoid hitting him.

In that year-long millisecond before the crash, a surreal picture appeared in my head: I was seeing the wreck before it happened!

In my vision I drove, smoothly and silently, toward the intersection. The light was green. A truck moved into the turn lane opposite me and signaled a left. The truck slowed down but then continued to glide through the turn, directly into my path! There wasn’t enough time for me to avoid him. I could see the driver’s head turn, eyes grow, jaw fall.

I jammed my eyelids closed and braced for the impact. An enormous whoosh filled my ears. The entire car shuddered.

But there was no impact. I pealed open my eyes. I had cleared the intersection without hitting him. In my rear view mirror I could see, but hardly believe, the pickup successfully completing its turn and continuing south.

I was shaking. It took all my powers of concentration to pull off to the side of the road and stop. My heart was thundering in my chest. The knuckles of my hands, still clutching the steering wheel in a death grip, were white.

As I sat shrunken and shivering behind the wheel, I got the distinct impression that I might have hallucinated the whole thing. Not hallucinated, exactly, but....remembered. My mind couldn’t go there, though, because such a memory was infinitely more disturbing than the near miss.

Several minutes must have passed; I can’t remember now. I do know that eventually I was able to regain enough composure to venture, once again, in the direction of the hospital.

But now the ride became excruciatingly long. I drove like someone’s half blind grandmother. Not only did I jump when any other car came within fifty feet of me, but my mind began to focus obsessively on the thought of being separated from my family. My beautiful Anna, so sweet, so headstrong! My darling baby Drew, with his curly blonde locks and innocent eyes. Even my exasperating husband Steve, my friend. How empty my life would be without them!

An eternity later I arrived at the hospital. I tore through the emergency room door and rushed toward the intake nurse in what I feared would be another futile attempt at communication, when out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a familiar jacket.

“Steve!” I called as the jacket disappeared through a door.

I ran after him and pushed through the door where he had gone. Relief flooded over me when I saw my Steve, my Anna, and my little Drew, all of them alive and safe!

They stood, backs to me, near an emergency room gurney. Steve held Drew on one hip. His free hand grasped Anna’s. They were looking down at a figure on the gurney, softly sobbing. I gasped. It was someone we knew! I moved around to see. Maybe one of Steve’s folks, maybe....

I stopped, horrified, disbelieving. On the gurney in front of me was....me.

A cry rose from the depths of my being; a primeval, guttural cry like that of a mortally wounded animal. My knees weakened. I stumbled back and withered, slow-motion, to the floor.

This can’t be! screamed my tortured mind. Yet the scene before me was unchanging. It was real, and ...I was not.

My family turned to leave. Jolted from my stupor, I lunged toward them and pleaded, “Wait! I’m here! Don’t you see me? This body isn’t me.

I’m right here. Don’t go!” I clutched and begged, feeling the solidity of their arms, their bodies, touching little hands, hanging on as they slowly walked out, pulling them back with all my strength even as they effortlessly slid away from me. They were unyielding, unaware. I had no impact on them. No connection. They moved together through the doorway and into the hall. The heavy door swung quietly shut.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO! My scream reverberated through every fiber of my body, a scream of pure horror, pure agony.

NO! I wailed again, but it was a wail of defeat. All that remained now was sorrow. I stood like one who has lost all reason and wept.

Drew skinned his knee today when no one else was around. He was toddling happily up the sidewalk, chasing the neighbor’s cat. The chubby knee was covered with gravel and bleeding. His little face contorted, eyes welling up, and he began to cry. Instinctively I ran to him and knelt beside him, gathering him in my arms, kissing his boo-boo, telling him “It’ll be okay, don’t cry, mommy is here....mommy is here.” But I could not comfort him, and so we sat there together, sobbing, until Daddy finally came. Long after the knee was scrubbed and bandaged and the incident forgotten, I sat alone on the sidewalk, waiting for the numbness to envelope me once again.

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22

Adventures for the Average Woman

Beate Böker has graciously submitted yet another wry-witted story about her own life and adventures – with pictures! To read more about Beate and her work, go to: www.happybooks.de

Beate On Board

Wobbling around in an ancient boat just a bit larger than a nutshell was not my idea of the safest mode of travel, but I hunkered down as low as I could get and wished I had one of those bright orange life jackets they pass out on cruise ships. I stared into the muddy water sloshing by and wondered why I had agreed when Julia asked me if I wanted to join her on a trip to Pulau Seribu. She said it would be Paradise.

Pulau Seribu means “Thousand Islands” in Indonesian. Because someone was fond of exaggeration, it's the official name of an archipelago that comprises some 105 islands north of Jakarta. I cast a look at Julia.

With her knees drawn up against her chest, she grinned towards the receding pier, without a worry in the world. How typical. All legs and laughter, Julia harbors a no-risk-no-fun attitude. No wonder she was completely relaxed, while I, supporting the don't-forget-the-safety-net school of thought, wished myself a hundred miles away. We had met a few weeks earlier, shortly after I had arrived in Jakarta as a trainee at the German-Indonesian Chamber of Commerce.

I'll never forget the moment she bounced up to me like a grasshopper, took my hand and said, "Your sister is called Sabine. You have a mother who loves red."

I believe my mouth dropped open.

It turned out she wasn't a medium, but had met me fifteen years before. We went to the same school in a small German town, and she recognized me instantly. How could I have forgotten someone so vibrant?

Just a few weeks later, we were on our way to Paradise--at least, that's what Julia said. I wasn't so sure. I knew I was not going to enjoy the boat ride as soon as our skipper swaggered on board and started the motor as if he were Captain Jack Sparrow.

Maybe I could still swim to shore? The water looked like iridescent mud, its oily surface garnished with an empty water bottle. Something green slithered by and touched the boat with a sucking noise. Eons ago, it might have been a t-shirt. A rotting smell hung over everything. The slum was not far away; nor were the dump sites of sprawling Jakarta. No, swimming wasn't an option.

Jetty

We gathered speed. With every snapping crash against the waves, I wondered if the boat was going to crack in two. I held onto the railing and prayed.

After an hour or two--my spine had shortened an inch due to the constant battering--we reached an island that looked just like the advertisements you find on cereal boxes: White sand, azure water, emerald palm trees.

I blinked my eyes to make sure I wasn't asleep.

A wooden pier welcomed us. I hopped onto it with a deep sigh of relief and couldn't stop staring into the transparent water below. It shimmered clear like air. Ripples of sunlight and shadow alternated with gentle movements across the sandy ground. Was Jakarta really only a short boat trip away? What had happened to the mud and dirt?

Suddenly, I discovered something on the ground that made me bend forward and stare into the turquoise water. An adventurous spirit had collected sea urchins and formed them into the words 'Welcome to Kotok Island'. I couldn't discover anything that fixed them into position. How strange. Maybe someone came back every morning and re-arranged the wayward ones that had dared to wander off? Their long black spikes moved in the water, reminding me of the day when I stepped on one of them and the agony I felt as we tried to pry the hooked spike out of my foot. But nevertheless, I was enchanted by their dangerous beauty.

At the end of the pier, a wooden gate, formed like a roughly hewn triangle, welcomed us. We strolled through, and all at once, I was no longer a trainee, with no experience or background. Instead, I felt like a rich tourist, coming all the way from Europe on a trip to paradise.

To our right, a hut covered with palm fronds represented an open reception area. A girl with caramel skin and a broad smile gave us the key to our hut. Lugging our bags over our shoulders, we started off in the direction she had indicated. White sand covered our way. Its softness made me want to sling off my shoes. Gigantic palm trees whispered in the moist air. Between their slim trunks, I could see the sea, sparking and blue.

"Paradise," I murmured.

Julia wasn't listening. She stared ahead then grabbed my arm. "Beate! Do you see what I see?"

I looked up. At first, I couldn't discover anything. Ahead of us, the path forked. One branch led along the shore, the other further into the Island.

Palm Way

"Pretty, isn't it?" I said, guessing what she wanted to hear.

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"Look to the right," she whispered. Her voice came out in shaky little bursts.

I frowned. Really, Julia's sense for dramatic production was sometimes extreme.

Then I saw it.

An iguana waited half hidden in the shadows of a palm tree. I'm not sure if you have ever met an iguana on the road, with nothing but a few, limp palm leaves between you. At first, I thought we had dreamed it up. No ordinary fellow, our iguana reminded me of a long-slung Rottweiler.

Its head reached to my knees, and counting the brawny tail that lay still in deceptive peace, the animal was probably longer than I was tall.

Palm Way

I stared deeper into the shadows that hid part of the massive body. The crooked legs filled me with repulsion and reminded me of a crocodile.

I wondered how swiftly they could move and remembered with a sickening lurch of my stomach that crocodiles jump quite far. The whole animal seemed packed with muscle and had a quiet aggressiveness about it that made me look around for the nearest escape route. The iguana chose that exact moment to show us its long split-tongue. I stepped back one step.

"Ugh," I said, "They're friendly animals, aren't they?"

Julia stared wide-eyed at the iguana. "Most are."

Great answer. "We can go back to the reception and ask," I said, shifting my bag so it covered my chest. The beast might bite, after all.

"Oh, no," Julia said. "Doesn't it look friendly?"

I scrutinized the unblinking eyes and grey hide of the stoic animal.

"Er. No. In fact, it looks like a prehistoric man-eater."

"Hmmm. But we don't have to go this way, do we? We can turn back and find another way to our hut."

I swallowed. "I don't think so. If I got it right, there's just one way to our hut. And the iguana is right next to it. Maybe it believes it's the guardian of the path." I retreated with yet another cautious step. "Let's go back."

"They'll laugh at us. How would you react if someone said he did not dare to walk past a milk cow?"

I eyed the animal once more. It stretched out its tongue at me and flicked it up and down, probably anticipating dinner. No way was I going to walk past the iguana.

But Julia was made of sterner stuff than I. She grabbed her bag and marched on.

Well, problem solved, I thought. All I had to do was wait. If the iguana didn't shred Julia, chances were good I'd be safe, too. She passed without even the tiniest little lick from that flicking tongue. My turn: I collected the shreds of my failed courage and hurried to catch Julia.

Iggy didn't move.

Two steps further down, I whispered, "What if it follows us?"

"Oh, God." Julia quickened her steps.

We almost ran to our hut and climbed the two steps to the veranda. Safe! Out of breath, we stopped and looked at each other.

"An iguana is a completely harmless animal," Julia gasped and collapsed with a hysterical giggle into a bamboo chair.

"Of course," I replied, dropped into the second chair and joined in her laughter with relief. "Did I ever say anything else?"

Woven Wall

Finally, we ventured into our one-room hut, furnished with two narrow beds covered with intricately woven ikatbedspreads. Their red and white design made the room feel welcoming. I went straight up to the bedspreads and flipped them over to see the backside. Ever since I came to Indonesia, I started to reverse textiles and I still do it today.

"Why did you do that?" said Julia.

"I wanted to see if the weave is authentic."

"Meaning?"

"Come here and I'll show you."

Julia came to stand beside me and I folded back the coverlet again. "See, the pattern is the same on both sides."

"I don't get it." Julia suppressed a yawn.

"Printed stuff usually has the pattern on one side only."

"So?" "So this is different. It means the yarn was dyed before it was woven and this, in turn, means that the

24

Bathroom

Adventures for the Average Woman

Wall

weaving process involved amazing know-how and experience."

Julia's eyes widened as she took in the blurred edges of the pattern. "Looks difficult."

I nodded. "It is. I came with so much arrogance to Indonesia, thinking that the industrial countries know it all. When I learned about the craft, it was like a revelation to me. We have no clue about the know-how that's hidden here."

Julia nodded, then pointed at the walls. "I'm not sure if a European could make those, either. Aren't they great?"

I stepped closer to the wall of our hut. It was woven too, maybe out of palm leaves, showing regular patterns. I touched one with a fingertip and smiled. "Makes me wonder why I put up with white walls for so long!"

Matching the soft tone of the walls, the wooden floor boards gleamed like polished walnut wood. The whole room was simple, and because it was simple, it was beautiful.

The bathroom was a bit more simple than beautiful, with tiles that ended next to an incongruous plant-border filled with struggling shrubs. A flimsy door hung on weak hinges and the crooked shower worked on an erratic schedule too, but we didn't care. Instead, we sat on the porch in front of our hut, keeping a weary eye out for Iggy, and talked idly, the way you do when you are happy and contented and can sit on a tropical island without a worry in the world.

At dinner time, we took the sandy path towards the dining room. Well, room isn't the right word. It was a large jetty that stretched out into the sea. The smooth surface of the polished railing that ran all around the outer edge addicted me; I didn't want to stop touching it. The dining jetty had a roof, covered with palm leaves, but no walls. They would only have disturbed, as the view of the sunset was something that awoke every romantic notion in us. Only, alas, we were here without our lovers. So we contented ourselves with talk about them in excruciating detail whileBathroom devouring a dinner consisting of tender chicken, fragrant beef, spicy vegetables and, of course, nasi. Life in Indonesia without nasi, rice, is unthinkable. We had sweet nasi and spicy nasi and nasi mixed with shrimp and nasi mixed with cashew nuts, and every dish tasted better than the one before. Luckily, it was a buffet, so we could go back for more several times.

The buffet presented a piece of art all by itself. All over the table, I discovered dark wooden figures. The figures had coarse hair that stuck out at unexpected angles. Flowers and spices decorated every single dish, reflecting love of detail and a perfect feeling for the right proportions. I sampled everything. The best was the fruit, served next to a boat with a whole group of dark figures rowing it. Ready cut pineapple, mango, papaya, banana . . . . I ate about three times as much as Julia and didn't know what to enjoy more -- the food, the sunset, or the fun I had with Julia. Again, I wondered how on earth I had managed to end up here in the middle of November, while my family sat shivering in the cold, German rain.

After dinner, we sat for a long time on the veranda with our drinks on a low table between us. Little rustling noises came from behind the hut.

The palm leaves above us rattled softly, and somewhere, a sleepy bird twittered. I'm not sure if Iggy added to the whispers of the island, but we felt relaxed enough not to wonder too much about it.

We sat with our knees drawn up on the large bamboo chairs. For once, we didn't talk.

"Julia," I finally whispered. "Do you feel it?"

Julia slapped her arm. "I feel the sting of a mosquito," she said. "Pass me some autan, please."

"I don't mean the mosquito," I bent forward and threw the bottle with repellent towards her dark shape. "Feel the night air. It's so soft, so sweet."

"I think it's still hot. All this moist heat presses me down. I sometimes feel I will suffocate."

"During the day, yes. But now . . ." I took a deep breath. "Don't you feel the breeze? It's like a caress."

Julia slapped her ankle. "Gotcha!" She wiped the remains of the mosquito onto a tissue.

"Well, I would prefer a real caress to one from an unsubstantial air lover."

I laughed. "There is a time for everything, my dear. For now, we've got the air. I'll miss it when I'm back in Germany."

Julia leaned back and stared into the dark sky. "I can't say I'm into the Indonesian night air," she said, "but have you noticed how intense everything smells as soon as night falls?"

Buffet

I felt I had to take a small revenge. "Yes. Particularly if you walk the streets of Jakarta at night and pass the private dumping sites in front of each house -- rotting vegetables, old meat, and the stink-fruit Durian. Not to forget the charming squeaks of the rats. Intoxicating, really."

Julia threw the bottle of repellent at my head. "Don't deny it. I know you're in love with Indonesia."

I grinned at her. "I have no clue how you came to have such an idea."

When we went to bed, I wondered about the absence of mosquito nets. Maybe there were only few mosquitoes on the island and hopefully, they had already finished their dinner on Julia. Anyway, for some unfathomable reason, mosquito nets in Indonesia are never large enough. In general, they don't have a round hoop at top that makes them so romantic. Instead, they are fashioned like a reversed coffin and strung from the ceiling on four long ribbons. Which would be fine if only they were large enough. But somehow, the rectangle above the bed is always much smaller than the bed, so if you have managed to stuff one side of the mosquito net under your mattress, you end up with the other end hanging

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in the air. So you tug and stuff and swear and when you are finally stretched out on your bed, your eyes still dart to and fro, to find an eventual opening before an enterprising mosquito does. So, maybe it didn't matter; there wasn't one. Finally, even Julia and I stopped talking and fell asleep.

Suddenly, I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding. Another scream shook the hut. It was dark, but I saw that Julia wasn't in her bed. The thin door to the bathroom slammed open and out Julia charged. She slammed the door shut behind her and shook herself.

"What on earth's the matter?" I clutched my ikat to my chest.

"There's . . . there's something in the bathroom!"

I didn't move. "What something?"

"An animal! A spider, a . . . I don't know." She turned around and opened the door just a bit, poking her head through it.

"There! There it is! Oh, God, and there's another."

I jumped up and joined her at the door, pressing my face to the small opening. And then I saw it.

To this day, I'm not sure if it was a spider. It surely looked like one. It crawled over the bathroom floor, with a body that could have covered the palm of my hand, and long hairy legs that extended much further. But one thing made me question if it was really a spider or some sort of crab. On its black back, it carried a house that looked like an ivory shell-- a nice shell, by the way, turned like a spiked dome.

Bedroom

"Yuk," I whispered. "Look over there. There's another one. And there!"

Julia shuddered. "Do you hear that?"

I held my breath. The hairy legs made a scratching sound on the tiled floor. They moved with slow purpose -- scratch, scritch, scratch.

We watched, horrified, frozen.

"Probably they're attracted by the water in the basin of the shower," I finally said.

"Yeah." Julia shivered. "They're awful."

I eyed the thin bathroom door with the slight gap at the bottom and touched the woven wall that had enchanted me just a few hours ago.

Suddenly, it all seemed paper-thin and much too flimsy to protect a nice human being like me against the horrors of the night.

We finally convinced each other that we could do nothing, since neither of us was willing to tramp through the darkness to the reception, which might not even be manned at this hour. So we climbed back into our beds, wishing more than ever we had mosquito nets, and proceeded to rest for what remained of the night. Julia soon fell asleep; I could tell by the deep and regular breathing coming from her bed. But I lay awake, wondering about the dark sides of paradise.

All at once, Julia screamed again.

I shot up. "What's the matter?"

"The crab! The spider!" she shouted.

"What? Where?"

She pointed upwards. "It dropped onto me from the ceiling!"

"No!" "Yes, I swear!"

"Julia, you were asleep. You just had a bad dream."

"No, I know it for sure!" She drew up her legs to her ears and threw scared looks around her.

"Then where is it now?"

Entryway

"I don't know! It fell down on top of me . . ."

I shivered. She was so convincing in her fear that I wondered if it had been I who had been asleep. But then, Julia was always convincing, no matter what she did, no matter how crazy the things she said.

When we had established that neither of us had enough courage to climb out of bed and check the shadows, we did the only sensible thing we could do. We went back to sleep.

The next morning, the sun sparkled on the blue ocean, and the sandy beach welcomed us, pure white and perfect. We laughed at ourselves and wondered if we had dreamed it all.

I dressed in a bikini top and a sarong. Hands on my hips, I paraded up and down in front of Julia and said "Beautiful outfit, eh?"

Julia laughed. "Yes. Particularly the flower flip-flops. They add a certain tasteful touch that's hard to match. Now

26

Adventures for the Average Woman

come on. Let's explore the island."

Kotok is not large, and as we explored it, we felt like it belonged to us. The beach lay empty, pure and promising. An old tree trunk had washed ashore and rested high on the sand, just at the edge of the dense forest of palms. Its bleached wood made a perfect backdrop for the pictures we took to make our friends envy us.

On the other side of the island, close to the pier, we found the coral reef. Up until then, I had thought snorkeling was boring. I mean, what's the interest in swimming with your head beneath the water to watch blue swimming pool walls, all the time chewing on a gummy mouthpiece that tastes like an old tire?

But as soon as I put my head under the water, I didn't want to come up again. Ever.

It's a silent world, stark in colors, stark in shapes. I didn't touch anything but moved like a visitor in a sunken castle with access to the private rooms of the Atlantis Queen. I glided through the blue world, speechless, breathless, wishing I could imprint the pictures into my memory and never forget them. Never forget the gaudy stripes of the fish that almost touched my hand. Never forget the intense orange hue of the coral.

Never forget the sliver of light, caressing the floor where a crab's feet created tiny clouds of sand that whirled away in the current. It was magic.

Within seconds, I converted to an addict of the underwater world.

I looked at Julia, motionless in the middle of a fish swarm. The fish were barely as long as my small finger, but there were hundreds of them, and the sunlight glinted on their silvery backs. They hung like a filmy cloud all around Julia who had stretched out her arms and legs to all four sides and floated motionless. I could feel her ecstasy across the gentle ripples of turquoise water and knew she enjoyed an out-of-body experience. With a smile and a cautious move of my flipper, I moved on and ended up in a similar swarm. The fish didn't seem to be afraid of me, but they never touched me. I lifted my hand--they shied away. I dropped it— they filled the void immediately. I felt like a conductor with a perfectly tuned orchestra. Each flick of my finger brought a reaction, and because they moved with such ease, and because the sunlight played on the hundreds of slim fish backs, the game intoxicated me.

Much later, we sat on the beach and watched the sunlight reflecting off the water. That's when we saw him for the first time. He sat a bit to the side, behind us, watching us.

Julia and I covertly took a closer look. He reminded me of some sort of Indonesian Rambo, almost as tall as me but packed with muscles in a way that made me hope he wouldn't sneeze if he ever shook my hand. It would surely be mush when he let it go.

All during the day, we drifted from one end of the island to the other, and Rambo was never far away, trailing us, always well within view.

Julia thought he sought a sexual adventure with two attractive women in their mid-twenties just within reach. But since he kept his distance the whole time, I thought he went about it in a rather unprofessional way. I wasn't tempted--muscle packages have never been my kind of thing. Anyway, he didn't bother us, and so we ignored him.

Towards afternoon, we went for another swim. Julia stayed by the shore, deep in another swarm, but I didn't notice in my fish-delirium that I had drifted towards the end of the jetty. All at once, something invisible pushed me out, towards the open sea.

I jerked up my head and looked around. The sudden current swirled me away like a piece of cork, but I was right next to a boat that lay near the pier. Not particularly worried, I started to swim towards shore.

But no matter how hard I swam, I didn't advance a single inch. The current laughed at me and pulled me further away.

Sudden fear clutched my throat. I tried to take a deep breath, but a stupid move of my arm disturbed my orientation. I went under and swallowed water. Coughing, I came up again, still fighting against the current. But no matter how much I pushed myself forward, the pressure was too strong and the current pushed me farther and farther away from the shore. My stomach formed a tight knot the instant I knew I didn't stand a chance against the strength of the water.

But the boat still lay next to me. It was within reach. I stretched out my hand and watched in growing horror as I couldn't get a hold. The wooden surface of the boat was so smooth; it didn't allow a firm grip. My hand slid off again and again. A splinter caught my hand. A tiny drop of blood ran down the wood before it splashed into the current.

"No, oh, no," my mind shouted. "No, no, this isn't happening."

In a last attempt to save myself, I looked up, hoping to find a handhold. The salt water stung in my eyes. But I had miscalculated the height of the boat walls. The top was too far away to be grabbed. The current hurtled me past the safety of the boat. I tried to grab the wall once again, but my hand slipped off. The wall ended. The current pushed me away, away.

"No, No!" My arms and legs felt stiff from fighting. The boat still hid me from view, and just behind it, the island was at an end. In a few more minutes, I would be well on my way to Australia. And nobody would know.

I was so stupefied I couldn't even shout. Frozen by shock, with limbs too heavy to move anymore, I drifted away with ever increasing speed.

I've never felt so helpless.

All at once, a brown hand shot out of the water and gripped my arm.

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Rambo!

He hauled me out of the current, towards the jetty. I let it happen. I was too stupefied to help. With a gentle push, he directed me towards the ladder that led up to the jetty and waited until I was safe. Then he came up too.

Exhausted, I dropped onto the wooden boards, feeling the lovely firm texture beneath my hands. The boards felt warm to the touch. "Thank you," I finally managed to gasp, staring at him in wonder. "Terima kasih."

He smiled without a word, nodded, and left.

I only saw him once again, far away, in the distance, trailing newly arrived tourists. To this day, I still don't know if he was an angel or the Kotok Security Guard. Whatever he was, I won't forget him.

Soon afterwards, our holiday ended, and we had to leave. One last time, I feasted my eyes on the turquoise ripples of water, the majestic palm trees, the beauty of it all.

Today, whenever I show my pictures of Kotok Island, my friends say "Wow. It looks like paradise."

And I say, smiling to myself, "Yes. Just like paradise… with a few minor hitches."

Joan Dawson has been working as an editor of high-school ESL books in Seoul, South Korea for two years. Her savings have helped pay off a student loan for her master's degree in health! She worked for a scientific journal back at home in the US. In the future, she'd like to be a human rights journalist and continues to travel the world. She truly beleives the real global terrorists are cockroaches. Send your comments to: joanied@hotmail.com I got to the hostel in New Orleans and unpacked my bags. As I sat on the floor going through my belongings, I saw a huge molasses colored cockroach. Oh, dear God! I thought. I’ve brought the silver dollar-sized cucarachas from the Dominican Republic back home with me! It’s not bad enough that they’re large, but, ew!, they also fly. My mind raced with the consequences of smuggling this international passenger back to the States with me.

My major in college was public health. I pondered the situation. What if I transported cockroaches that could introduce disease into its new ecosystem? I couldn’t recall any particular cases. I thought of poor Mary who unwittingly infected those she cared for with typhoid. Would I be known as Cockroach Joanie? I can see the headlines now: Peace Corps Volunteer Brings Back More Than Just Memories. Or perhaps: Peace Corps Volunteer Returns with Giant Roaches in Luggage.

I recall my brother once lived in Georgia. There, he said, the cockroaches are as big as your fist. Nothing kills them. Worse, if you step on a pregnant female, you may spread the eggs unintentionally. Yikes.

Okay, so for now I’m relieved. I no longer believe I’ve transported an infected cockroach from the Caribbean. The South must just have large cockroaches, bigger than their northern counterparts and, therefore, more capable of shock and awe.

Once I settle back into life in the States, I get myself a studio apartment in Baltimore, Maryland. There, I have the small but multitudinous cockroach variety. They keep me company at night — the only time I ever see them. Mom goes through panic attacks at the mere suggestion of my visiting her in New Jersey. She’s afraid I’m going to transport these pesky little fugitives to her homestead. Well, she’s just practicing good homeland security after all; something I’ve seemed to have breached judging by the number of cells that have infiltrated my own borders.

Eventually, I leave the studio apartment prior to my lease ending. I simply bring a roach motel down to the agent. The motel was fully booked with those plotting little homegrown terrorists.

I’m now back overseas, in South Korea. The native roaches here are just as scary as they are back home, though they are half the size.

American roaches are 3 cm, while their Asian counterparts are 1.5 cm. They have a better lifestyle here since the floors are heated. It must seem like one giant spa to them.

Not that they need such luxury. They’re quite sturdy. They can tolerate up to 15 times the radiation humans can. That’s why people believe they can survive a nuclear attack — an advantage here on the Korean peninsula these days. They can hold their breath for 45 minutes. That’s longer than I can hold a can of Raid to them. They can remain headless — decapitated, if you will — for one week and they can go without food for one month. I envy their low maintenance. In fact, I’d bet they’d make Jihadists in the mountains of Afghanistan green with envy.

I’m told Australia has the world’s largest cockroach. It can grow up to 9 cm. Australia, to my mother’s relief, is not on my itinerary.

Mom worries about me sleeping on the floor on traditional bedding here in Korea. I assure her I’ve never had a cockroach run across my prostrate body in the night. Moreover, she’s concerned again that I’m going to bring them back home with me when I return this summer. I try to assure her that I have no intention of aiding and abetting these resilient little global terrorists in their war on terrorizing us humans.

28

Adventures for the Average Woman

Mike Duffy is a university lecturer and author in South Korea, where he has lived and worked for nearly 20 years. He writes for tourism guidebooks on Korea and is well-traveled throughout Asia and the world.

In October 1797, a British ship called The Providence arrived in Busan [South Korea] looking for “new sources of knowledge and trade”. Its captain, William Broughton, surveyed Busan harbor from a hill to the north, which he called “Magnetic Head”, but which the ancient Shillas had named Sinseondae - “Playground of the Gods”.

Remaining for 10 days, Broughton found Koreans “affable and conversable”, and indeed the Dongnae magistrate offered the visitors gifts of food and firewood. He reported to King Chongno that he visitors were hospitable, despite being “tall like a pole” and having faces that “looked like a gingko nut”, but he found they could not speak Korean, Chinese, or Japanese, and “their writing resembles mountains covered with clouds”. Broughton recorded that Busan citizens dressed in linen jackets and trousers, and men wore their hair in a topknot, while women had theirs plaited round their heads. He made a small list of Korean words for numbers and body parts.

In 2001, Britain’s Prince Andrew unveiled a plaque at the place where Captain Broughton made his survey. Even with the container port on reclaimed land below, and the apartment blocks of Yeongdo across the water, it is a beautiful spot, commanding a view of the harbor entrance framed between Taejongdae Bokcheon-dong and the Oryukdo islets.

In 1969, an ancient tomb was discovered in the hills of Bokcheon-dong, overlooking Dongnae market. In the following years, archeologists headed off a program of apartment construction to excavate the site, and uncovered 70 tombs of various kinds and sizes. The diggers found skeletons, armor, weapons, bone tools, pottery, and ornaments. They concluded that the tombs dated from the Kumgwan Kaya kingdom, founded in the fertile and mineral-rich Nakdong River valley in A.D. 42 by King Kim Suro (whose tomb you can still see in nearby Kimhae City). Most of the tomb sites are now marked by small hedges, but two, one with a stone and one with a wooden chamber, are displayed under a beautiful glass dome.

Objects found in the tombs, and now displayed in the imposing Bokcheon Museum, show a preoccupation with survival – we can see iron swords, daggers and arrowheads – but the Kayas pursued the arts of peace too: pottery containers came in many shapes, including horses, ducks, boats, sandals, lamps and bells, while ornaments – necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and crowns – were made from glass, jade and gilt bronze. Artifacts from other regions, including Japan, give evidence of lively trading activity.

The Kayas disappeared from history in the 6th century when their lands were absorbed by the powerful Silla kingdom. However, they have bequeathed an enduring cultural legacy to present-day Busanians, who look to their neighbors overseas as much as they look inland to their compatriots.

Sandra Davis Dorsett has been featured before in our humble little ‘zine. We welcome her wonderful wordcraft on widowhood with this touching short story. We further hope you check out her novel, A Wink at Midnight. Email your comments to: sdorsett@sandradorsett.com This morning I woke up thinking it was all a dream. I do that often now. As usual, there's a moment of panic, but it soon ebbs. I lay quiet and still, thinking of a reason to get up.

I turn my head and see that old black alarm clock beside my bed. I never imagined I’d miss its irritating buzz at the crack of dawn. But I do.

How I miss the snooze; it was my best friend, especially on chilly mornings. I’d doze peacefully through slivers of an hour until my husband grumbled and ran his hand over my hip: a syllable from the quiet language we’d created over many years.

Suddenly, the phrase comes through the shadows of my bedroom and punishes me – widow, it whispers. It’s a sad and empty word with an even sadder reality.

I don’t sleep well. I toss and turn and have wild dreams. There’s medication for that, but I take it randomly. I’m afraid of being unplugged.

Valentine’s Day was really hard. Years ago, Chuck brought me heart-shaped boxes filled with luscious candy and a card that he always wrote a love verse in. Over time, I found that the candy went straight to my good birthing hips, and so, about ten years ago, I asked him kindly to stop bringing the candy; because I have absolutely no will power to resist food of any type. Since then Chuck gave me a stuffed bear each Valentine’s Day. All nine of them are sitting now on my bedroom window sill.

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I can’t watch any of our favorite TV shows. I’m cunningly evasive and find all sorts of reasons not to. But in the deepest part of my heart I know that I’m doing it deliberately.

In the waking hours I miss him mostly around dusk. It’s the hardest time for me when Chuck used to come home from work and we’d drive to the stables and tend our horses.

On Friday nights we’d stop at the video shop and Subway for sandwiches and rush home to watch our favorite shows. It was our version of date night; not particularly romantic, but they were nights filled with contentment. One of us always had to wake the other because we’d fallen asleep during the movie we rented. He turned off the lights and made for sure the doors were locked, while I tottered off to bed. It was a blessed ritual then; a memory now – often heartbreaking.

In fair weather we spent our Saturdays with our horses or with our kids or in the yard. Rainy days were strictly reserved for watching old movies. After thirty-three years of marriage and raising our children, life had settled into a comfortable routine that fit together like tattered puzzle pieces.

I miss my husband. I miss his companionship. I miss his voice and the tender, passionate way he still loved me after all these years, and I miss his exquisite patience in all ways. He even overlooked my menopausal ravings. I miss cuddling next to him and I miss hearing him say goodnight and kissing my ear three times. I miss his hand on my hip. In his arms I felt safe and I miss that most of all.

They found the cancer after a routine medical exam for a work assignment in Brazil. One minute we were packing our bags for an exotic adventure, and the next we were seeing specialists.

Sometimes those early weeks seem like the story of Alice in her Wonderland behind the looking glass. Our dark hole was through glass hospital doors that swished open to let us in as we held each other, fighting unspoken fear and uncertainty. Our Wonderland characters were cloaked in white coats with clipboards and sharp scalpels and nurses with bags of poison to kill the cancer that was killing Chuck.

My Chuck was a rock. His only concern, even then, was for his family. The years we would spend together in old age together became a fleeting hope in the long months that stretched into that following year. Chuck became frail and weakened by the harsh chemotherapy, but his spirit and will to live was strong.

He never complained and his smile remained kind and he was without bitterness that he might’ve thrashed upon the world and God and us.

He always had a kind word for his doctors and nurses and I’m sure that any one of them will say that the world is a lesser place without Chuck.

His faith was simple and pure and I know his sweet soul is at peace after a life well-lived.

I wish not to imagine how hard it will be to plow through life without Chuck. I become weary when I think of all the years that stretch into existence beyond this day. I feel lost knowing our littlest granddaughters will lose all tangible recollection of their Papaw, except for the memories that we keep alive for them.

I do not grieve alone. Chuck left a giant hole in many lives. I know for me it will never be filled. The ache in my heart may ease, as my good friends say it will, but I doubt that it will ever be completely healed. People do learn to live again after losing a limb.

I feel the pain rising in me now. Soon it will become bigger than me and I’ll cry as I’ve never cried before in my life. Sorrow comes like a thief with a suffocating blanket and tries to smother me, and just when I think it will carry me away to some dark crevice, the heartache fades and I can breathe again. It never ceases to amaze me; those sudden bouts with grief. I want to call out to Chuck and beg him to come home. But then I realize – he is home.

I wish we could've grown old together. I miss our date nights. I miss seeing him pull into the drive in his blue truck. I miss seeing him in his favorite red cowboy shirt and his tan boots. I miss seeing the love in his eyes. I miss him. I know that will never end.

In those last hours of Chuck’s life I prayed for God to take me with him. To remain here without Chuck seemed unthinkable.

But God did not answer that prayer. He answered another. Chuck slipped peacefully away in the wee hours on a cold December morning. In death his face was void of suffering and pain. His brow was not puckered and his lips were curved serenely. I don’t know if angels with gossamer wings came for Chuck and carried his soul to Heaven, or if there was a tunnel of brilliant light where Jesus waited with perfect love. I do know that death took him gently.

I’ve kept a few of Chuck’s clothes where the smell of him lingers. Every now and then I slip into my closet, close my eyes and bury my face into his favorite shirt. I have all his favorites; his golf clubs, his slippers, the white hankies where I embroidered a “C” into the corner – his pillow that I cuddle with at night in my lonely bed. I have his wallet safely tucked away along with his watch and his reading glasses.

I’ve said it often that the last year of Chuck’s life was a blessing because we were able to put our house in order and heal all relationships.

Not everyone has that opportunity.

Although I do have a tremendous support system and a loving family to lean on, I know the hardest work will have to be accomplished alone. I muddle through the days and try to find my new place in this existence and pray that someday life will feel normal again. I’ll have to find a new definition for the word.

Chuck would want me to live the best life that I can. He would expect me to find joy in each new day, because it was his belief that even on the worst days there is always some joy – no matter how small.

As I stumble into this morning, I wait for my mind to wrap itself firmly around something real to push me onward. After a little while, I’m reminded of the promise I made Chuck before he died and it sets me into motion. There is a degree of comfort in that reminder and also in the promise, and I know that my husband’s great love has survived even death.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Beautiful Young Widow with Fabulous Manuscript looking for Publisher and/or Decent Date.

Modest, witty, brave, kind, thoughtful, attractive, intelligent, charming, optimistic, irreverent young widow/ artist/ writer with three children, vintage house, fast car, wide assortment of traffic violations, stubborn streak, tendency to talk too much and fabulous book awaiting publication ...seeks kind, witty, brave, thoughtful, intelligent, energetic, tolerant, attractive man with extraordinarily high self esteem, minty-fresh breath, and publishing connections. Must intuitively understand the effect that the right cologne, when worn in conjunction with a crisply pressed, white cotton button down shirt, can have on a woman such as myself. Please do not ask me to go hang-gliding or do anything involving footwear with cleats on our first date. Good manners, the ability to navigate a thesaurus and familiarity with fine literature, including the Captain Underpants series, a plus. Please send responses to Sandi@silvercrayonstudios.com. Phone 617.851.2257.

Sandi in her studio

If this ad doesn’t apply to you...please pass it along to an adventurous publisher and/or attractive male who is not currently married, separated or under the daily care of a therapist. © 2007 Sandi Amorello. All rights reserved.

My Book “See sweetie... I told you we should have had more sex!”

A young widow’s slightly irreverent reflections on love, death and dating.

My Bio

Froggy Princes or Princely Frogs?

My name is Sandi Amorello. I live in Maine. I moved here from Massachusetts nearly two years ago...with three children, two cats, one fish...and a dwarf hamster. My husband Drew, the love of my life, died (very inconveniently and against my direct orders, I might add) on the 26th of December, 2002. So, yes, that makes me a widow. Worse yet, a holiday widow. Four years...and counting.

Fortunately, I come from a long line of independent, resilient, dare I say... extraordinarily stubborn (I mean, determined)...women. I chose not to follow Emily Post’s etiquette advice about wearing black for six months. Well, actually, I have pretty much chosen not to follow anyone’s advice about much of anything since hopping onto the wild roller coaster of widowhood and single parenting. Which accounts for the close proximity of the words “irreverent” and “widow” in the title of my book.

Drew and I met on our first day of college, at an arts university. Our daily life, both before and after the advent of our three children, was infused with generous amounts of creativity, love...and, most importantly...humor.

We laughed through our problems. In between the tears, of course. The reason we were together for nearly two decades was because we adored one another...and because I could never stay angry with Drew. He always ended up making me laugh.

What Is Sacred?

It was very irritating. Okay...well, I forgot to mention how handsome and sweet and wonderful he was. That worked in his favor, too. A great sense of humor and a movie star smile can only get a man so far.

If Drew could still find things to laugh about while dealing with a diagnosis of incurable cancer...and while hanging out at places like DanaFarber...well, I think he has given me his blessing to go out and be a witty, slightly irreverent widow. Laughter and tears just go together...and if we can remember that, even the darkest days of our life become just a little bit lighter.

My Message Volume 2, Issue 4

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Being widowed is not fun. It has, however, turned out to be rather humorous at times. In between the tears, that is. One day you’re going along, trying to survive the day to day challenges of raising three little children with a man you’ve loved forever...a man with whom you happily share a house, a bathroom...and a bed. The next day you’re logged onto match.com at one a.m., getting emails from men who want to drink merlot on the beach with you and give you a back rub.

Men with screen names (that they chose on purpose!) like “the Gregster” and “Betrayed Again.” Men who are not your husband. Men who might have restraining orders against them. Dear God. I never intended to be on this journey. I never in my wildest imagination or worst nightmares could have foreseen this tragic turn of events.

However, now that I’m here, I have to admit...it’s not such a bad place to be sometimes. In between the tears, that is.

There is no such thing as speed grieving. You’re in it for the long haul...and it’s going to be a bumpy ride. I suggest you pack a whole lot of Kleenex...a case of cabernet sauvignon... and make note of the location of the nearest emergency exit. Unfortunately, you will be crashing on a regular basis. The tears will never end entirely...but they will become less frequent. It will all be less painful. You may even be able to wear mascara again one day. Just in time for the next life crisis to kick in...

Can you say menopause??

It’s okay to be a witty, irreverent widow. Becoming a widow doesn’t change who you are. I was witty before. I went slightly against the grain before. I was creative before.

Now that I am without Drew, I am a witty, slightly irreverent, creative widow...instead of a witty, slightly irreverent, creative wife. It’s more than okay to laugh in the midst of your tears. In fact, it’s a necessity, if you want to hang onto your sanity. My sense of humor has saved me. I want to let people know that it’s okay to laugh...and cry...and cry...and laugh. Even death, loss, and widowhood have their funny points. Every tragedy has it’s moments of levity.

Hopes and Dreams

I myself cannot imagine what would have happened had Drew and I (and now, just “I”) not been able to see the humor and irony in any of this, from the day of his diagnosis, through his death, and beyond. I am pretty certain I would not be here writing this today from the comfort of my own laptop. I am pretty certain I would be writing this from the comfort of a small room in a mental facility.... with fluorescent overhead lighting and a nurse who comes around twice a day to give me my medication.

Humor doesn’t diminish the love and the life I shared with Drew. It honors it.

And if Drew could be a funny cancer patient, I can be a funny widow.

Fly by the seat of your pants... and don’t feel guilty if they’re really expensive pants...and you paid full price for them at some upscale little boutique...and used some of the life insurance money to pay for them. Go against the grain...leap into the unknown...break the rules...do what feels right...even if no one else agrees with you.

”Fad”ulous

When you have suffered a life altering loss, it is so important to trust in yourself... and know that the only way to the next chapter of your life is to listen to what is true for you. Follow your heart, follow your instincts...and listen to that barely audible voice deep down inside of you. I have been following my heart ever since my husband died...and it has taken me on an incredible journey. I can play connect-the-dots with the people I have met. It amazes me on a daily basis...the way my life is unfolding. Once you decide to move on with your life...the universe somehow kicks in. You just need to pay attention and follow those signs.

If I can do it, you can do it.

Spend more time making love, and less time arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes. Life is ephemeral. Life is fleeting. My normally healthy husband’s diagnosis of pancreatic cancer at age 40 was a bit unexpected. A terminal cancer diagnosis is never what you are “expecting” to hear from a doctor’s mouth. I imagine it is always a surprise. My life changed with one breath. In the time it took to say three little words. Those three little words could be: 1) Let’s make love, 2) It’s your turn, or...3) It’s pancreatic cancer. If you have the choice, I would suggest you take door number one. Don’t waste time on the unimportant.

Dishes fall into that category.

Timelessness

If mommy’s happy... everyone’s happy. Selfishness is not a dirty word. A healthy dose of selfishness means that you value yourself. Which is a good thing. Selflessness will kill you. And then your children will be orphans. I don’t care how you got to be a single parent...death, divorce, an alien abduction of your spouse...once you’re a single parent, you have to put on your oxygen mask first...and make sure you are actually breathing...before you can help your children. And believe me, they are going to need your help.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

My Vision Along with being a writer, I am a visual artist. I am trained in illustration. Which is, after all, telling a story through visual art. I think this is the first time I am using my college degree in it’s purest form. My mother will be thrilled that those costly tuition payments have finally paid off. It only took 24 years. Life works that way most times, I’ve found.

My story is more than just words on a page. It is told through a combination of words, pieces of artwork I have created to illustrate those words...and also, audio.

Timelessness My plan is to allow this to grow and evolve into a multimedia traveling exhibit or installation. Drew was a filmmaker, so it would be a fitting and natural evolution for this to one day metamorphasize into a film of some sort. It would be very emotionally evocative...a wonderful combination of laughter and tears. And a wonderful way to celebrate the life, love, humor, and creativity we shared.

Eventually, I would like to see this exhibit used at fundraisers held by various nonprofit organizations...with a percentage of proceeds from the sale of my book and my artwork being donated. I see my story inspiring people to go on with their lives, follow their hearts... and create a new reality after a loss. Mostly, I aspire to keep Drew’s wonderful spirit alive by helping people with cancer continue LIVING their lives.

Not just chasing treatments and cures...but really putting their energy into being fully engaged in life, even in the face of death. I saw my husband do it...with determination, laughter, and dignity...and he was an inspiration to me. He still is. He always will be.

While searching for a publisher who is an appropriate fit, and who will be adventurous enough to allow me to retain use of the words “irreverent” and “sex” within the same title...I will be exhibiting a number of essays from my book for the first time, along with the accompanying collage and assemblage pieces of artwork, during the First Friday Artwalk...October 5, 2007. This exhibit will take place at Silver Crayon Studios Art + Words that celebrate life.

75 Oak Street . Portland . Maine 04101 617 . 851 . 2257 © 2007 Sandi Amorello. All rights reserved.

lash ---n a fflash iction iin FFiction

The challenge is to use each word for maximum impact and tell a tale in 500 words or less.

Sydney Louise not only has a subtly risqué writing style, she also has a medical and legal background. She has a grown daughter and lives with her husband in East Texas. She's looking forward to retirement in three years at which time she hopes to finish that best-selling novel she's been working on for the past year. Send your comments to: poetryhere@sbcglobal.net poetryhere@sbcglobal.net.

He lay atop the quilt on the hotel room’s firm mattress. His legs hung off the foot of the bed, bent at the knees, feet touching the floor. She straddled him, her fingers intertwined with his as his arms rested above his head. She searched his eyes. He returned her stare.

He was completely dressed with the exception of his suit jacket, which he had hung over a chair back when he’d entered the room. She was nude except for her tiny, thong underwear, which she had taken a moment to put back on after it had become clear they were going no further.

Her face was close and he could smell her breath as she exhaled. The scent of it intoxicated him. Before his resolve could break apart into a million tiny, useless pieces he called her by her married name. “Riley Jo Rogers,” he said.

It had the effect upon her he had intended. Her eyes dulled with guilt and swam behind unshed tears. She rolled off him. He sat up to watch as she pulled a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from the bureau drawer and quickly covered her nakedness with them. He could sense she was struggling to keep from crying. He felt the need to say something important. “I don’t want this to get complicated. I don’t want either one of us to fall in love.”

She sat next to him on the foot of the bed, placed the crimson-polished fingertips of her right hand to the left side of his chest and said, “I only want a very, tiny place in here. Just a small, special little place.”

He took her hand and placed it in her lap, holding it there. “I don’t want this to hurt my family. Get in the way of my marriage.”

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She responded with a gentle desperation, “I don’t want that either. I just want to know I matter. That’s all. I just want to matter.”

Her eyes pleaded with him but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Afraid by doing so he would set off something he wouldn’t be able to control. And hee desperately needed to be in control of his life. Right down to the limited amount of space he gave his heart for love. There was no room for Riley. He simply refused to make room for Riley. Or refused to acknowledge the place she may have already stolen in there.

Either way, he would not speak the words she needed to hear him say.

His silence broke her. She finally lost the battle with her emotions and a single tear that had balanced precariously at the corner of her eye finally fell. It seductively trailed down her prominent cheekbone into the hollow below, before disappearing underneath her chin and reappearing again on her delicate neck. She roughly pulled her hand out from underneath his, using it to brush the tear from her neck. She stood with her back to him, composed herself and said, “Joseph Patterson.”

Rhonda Parrish is a poet and story teller who explains, “Fatherhood is one I’m quite happy with. I wrote it when my writing group, NaNoLJers had a challenge to write a drabble about fatherhood. I was stumped for a story and then I thought about my stepfather. My husband is now a stepfather as well, which, along with maturity, has given me a whole new perspective on things. This story is dedicated to Clark, my stepdad.” To learn more, go to: http://www.rhondaparrish.com Katya hung her blonde head while tears coursed down her sunken cheeks. "I know I've given you a hard time because we don't share DNA – I've been an ungrateful brat and always made things difficult."

A solitary tear trickled out of her eye and captured a sunbeam which made it sparkle like a liquid diamond. "I'm sorry. It doesn't take DNA to make a father, it takes love. You gave me that – not him." She sniffed, and looked down at the freshly dug earth. "I love you too, Daddy, I just wish I'd told you before it was too late."

Laurie Notch wrote this short, short story for Swapna Shah as based on actual recent events about the death of a spouse and appliances mysteriously shorting out.

He was gone. The house caved under the entropy of grief and emptiness. His beloved widow bore out each day by arranging things, writing thank-you cards, and dealing with the tedious details of death.

After the funeral, a week went by, then a month. Friends and family dropped by with comforting words and food.

When they phoned and the widow was not home, or simply not answering, they would still hear his voice on the answering machine: “You have reached…” and then the number. This was a reminder of his presence in the house.

This was the voicing of his existence. This was evidence of a reluctance to let go.

His widow went about the daily chores when one by one, the conveniences of their lives together -- the appliances they shared for cooking, cleaning, and communicating – began to fail. First, the microwave died. The electrician could offer up no explanation.

Second, the toaster gave up the ghost. Again, no fatal fault could be found. Third, the washing machine went the way of all things passing. The unfortunate widow threw up her hands as the repairmen scratched their heads. All the appliances were new and still under warranty.

She sought out her friends for sympathy, understanding, and perhaps an explanation. They jokingly said, “Maybe dear departed Bill isn’t so departed after all. He was always a practical joker in life. Why not in death?”

“Yeah, maybe he’s passing through your electrical. Spirits are known to do that, you know.”

“Maybe he’s telling you to let go and move on.”

The widow went home to find several messages on the answering machine. The callers commented on the long silence before the beep.

“Silence?” Puzzled, she played back her late husband’s greeting.

A long hiss sounded on the speaker. His voice had vanished!

“I guess this is his final message to me,” she resolved.

At that moment, the weight of the world and its ways of life and death lifted from her being and left her to wonder at the mysteries of his passing.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Betsy Fetco has been writing since she could pick up a pen. She’s had poems published in local newspapers, e-zines, etc.in the Portland, Maine area. She teaches psychopathology at SJCME. A breeze spawns whirling dust devils that scour her face.

She curls in a bed of red clovera low, hollow sob Anguished eyes: torment refused.

A voice beckons “Are you ready?” Her toes dig into the sand.

“Not while there are sweet teas to sip and berries to be crushed.

Shepherds Purse harvested Leaves of raspberries bundled.

There is bark to strip and dry. Tinctures to be strained, roots to be ground.”

Her arms stretched before hershe leaps, swirling, swaying,

Relief

by Im Sook Kim © 2007

spinning, dipping, pirouetting.

“I’ll call again.”

For more information, contact: Maddy Rosenberg 63 Tiffany Pl. #407 Brooklyn, NY 11231 718-797-1005 www.maddyrosenberg.com http://proteusgowanus.com/storeindex.html Volume 2, Issue 4

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Porcupine Smith is a poet, comedian, and radio show host in Flagstaff, taff, Arizona. Here he demonstrates how not only women seek solace in sweets. You can listen to Porc’s show Sunday nights 8 to 9 p.m. EST by going to www.kjack.org. Check out Porc’s Web site at The Porcupine Smith Show .

I’m a tortured man with a tortured soul and I’m going to buy some cake I’m a tortured man with a tortured soul and I’m going to buy some cake I’m a tortured man…

This life is pain - This life is pain - This life is pain Why don’t you look on the brighter side some bloke said?

Why do you think I’m going to buy the cake, you dumb-ass bastard?

Oh… I’m a tortured man with a tortured soul and I’m going to buy some joy I’m a tortured man with a tortured soul and I’m going to buy some joy I’m a tortured man…

This life is short -This life is short - This life is short Better make it short cake…

© 2007 Porcupine Smith 36

Adventures for the Average Woman

Yvonne Mikell is a divorced mother of one who resides in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. A dabbler in all genres, this is her second published piece with us. She is one wickedly crafty writer!

Author’s Caveat: “This story is a bit risqué in language and storyline. Although I don't get very graphic, it might not be appropriate for the Adventures for the Average Woman. I'll let you be the judge. I know that your magazine is written for women and is primarily about women, but I believe I read somewhere on your website that you welcome stories written from the male point of view. I can write from men, women, and children's points of view.” Send comments to: yjessey@netzero.net It's time for my first appointment. The appointment time varies. Today I had her penciled in at 8.45AM. I picked up the brass ring attached to the big red door by a lion's head, and knocked.

I feel safe coming here, after all I was hired by her as a professional maid. Her husband most likely left for work two hours ago and the children are probably at school. As usual we'll be alone, me and her. From what I can gather, she's playing a delicate game of tit for tat.

I bet you anything that this house is in total disarray, like always. I'm also willing to bet that when she answers the door, her pants will be wet.

Today I don't feel like it, there are more important things going on. She'll just have to wait until the job I was hired to do is complete.

"Hello Sean."

"Michele," I said.

We stand in the doorway, staring seductively at each other for a minute or so. She's very attractive for 45 and classy, too. It's a shame how she let her husband affect her.

"Time to go to work," I said.

"Let's get to it," she said.

I took off my coat and hat. I attempted to hang them in the vestibule's closet, but she closed in on me, giving me a gentle, obvious hug. Her soft hands caress my back, slowly working themselves to the front where they tenderly open the buttons on my shirt.

"That's not what I mean," I said hanging up my coat and hat.

I walked away, buttoning my shirt. I stood in the portal and looked. It's just like I thought a pig sty, probably to justify having me around in case the hubby asks. I quickly collected the clothes that are scattered about and take them to the laundry room. I load them according to the colors and measure the amount of detergent needed. I'll come back in 20 minutes or so and put them in the dryer.

On the way from the laundry room, I stop in the kitchen to clear the sink of breakfast dishes. I'll let them soak in dishwater while I quickly scoop up opened jars of jelly, close opened loaves of bread, and return room temperature margarine to the fridge along with a carton of eggs.

The dishes didn't take long. I was done in five minutes. I swept the floor and turned out the lights I opened a hall closet to retrieve the vacuum cleaner, Endust and a dusting cloth. I plugged it into a nearby wall socket and pushed. Not much to suck up. I pushed it all the way to the laundry room and back. When I go to the living area, Michele is lounging on the chaise in her birthday suit, covered only by the strategically placed morning paper. I act like I don't see her, and fluff the pillows across the back of the sectional. I wiped the tables, lamps and ledge of the fireplace with the dusting cloth.

Consider yourself lucky that your husband is not here as often as he should be!

I carried the vacuum cleaner upstairs and headed straight to the bedroom adjacent to the stairs. Again clothes are sprawled all over in here too, not to my surprise. This is Jason's room. A self-centered 10-year-old brat who throws things all over during tantrum fits. Hurriedly, I made the bed, dusted the bureau's tops, and vacuumed the floor. I cracked the bedroom window and closed the door.

The next room will be easier. I know 'cause its Jade's room, the cleanest room in the house. Nothing is ever out of place here. All I have to do is dust a little, vacuum a little, open a window and I'm out. On to the next.

Breathe deep and hold... it's time to enter the outhouse.

I hate doing other people's bathrooms, the thought of invisible germs. I'm not spending too much time in here. I did a thorough job yesterday. I sprayed the tub and tile cleaner on the sink and tub and wiped away the foaming bubbles. I also put clean towels on the rack and opened the skylight.

The next room is "their" bedroom and I am tired. Too tired to perform the second half of the job description. I'm going to change the linen and then I'm taking a snooze. I looked at my watch, its 11:30.

Give me a half-hour baby then I'll do what I really came here to do. I dozed off to sleep.

Half an hour I was awaken by the constant beeping of my watch's alarm, time for fireworks.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

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I looked at my watch, not exactly punctual but okay. I hear Michele screaming. Just play along. Footsteps are fast approaching. I better brace myself for a beating. They know not to go too far.

POW! UGH! OW! "What is all that for!" I screamed.

"Shut up, bitch-ass!"

Something's up, this is not my crew. I can barely see out of my left eye. There are four of them. They drag me down the stairs like a rag doll and sit me next to Michele, tying us both.

"We know you've been banging the help. If you want it to remain a secret it'll cost you some money, say $50,000," one of them said.

"I don't have that kind of money, I'm not rich," she said.

"Oh, come now, a fab spot like this and you're not rich? Bitch, don't play me!" he shouted.

"You're the one playing yourself 'cause I don't have that kind of money," she said.

Their anger boiled over. They pulled down every picture that was on a wall.

"What are you looking for you?" she asked.

"A safe, bitch! Everybody knows that the rich keep their money in a safe!" he yelled back.

They knocked over a grandfather clock, curio cabinets, highboys, bookcases, and an entertainment center. There was no safe.

Just play along, Brandon and Cyrus will be here any minute.

One of them went outside. He returned with several sledge hammers.

"What are they for?" she asked.

"Since you don't have one in the wall, maybe yours is hidden in the floor," he said. He faced his crew and shouted, "Well what are you waiting for, go to town!"

We jumped every time a sledge hammer slammed against her parquet floors.

She whispered to me, "Did you tell anybody about us?"

"No! I may be young, but I'm not stupid. You think I told somebody about us?" I asked.

"You're the only new person in my life," she said.

"What the hell is going on here?"

It was her husband.

"Justin these guys broke in, they think we're rich," she explained.

The burglars had returned to the living room.

"Did you find anything?" asked Justin.

"No sir!" they said.

"Did you ask her?" Justin asked.

"She said you guys aren't rich," said the leader.

"And you believe her!" he shouted.

"Yes," said the leader.

"She's right. I'm not rich...she is. Michele you should have given it to me when I asked," he said.

"Who wants to go first, hmmm? Who wants a piece of this rich ass?" They untied us. They grabbed her and tied me to the chair again. They carried her over to the sofa and pinned her down--spread eagle.

I could see fright in her eyes as she looked to her husband for help. He didn't budge. He stood there cold-blooded, probably in the same manner as he did the others. We had a tip that this was his last hit before leaving the country. Damn it Brandon and Cyrus where are you?

"Don't look at me... I'm not going to save you..." said Justin. "You've been giving it away every time I went to work. The least you can do is give me a live and close up performance. I was completely enthralled with your videos."

The patio doors flung off its hinges.

"Freeze! Put your hands up in the air where I can see them!"

"Hallelujah! What took you guys so long?" I asked.

"We had to get it all on tape. Ma'am cover yourself with this," said Brandon.

Cyrus untied me while uniform officers handcuffed the burglars and Justin.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

"Justin James you are under arrest for the murders of Karen Johnston, Theresa Livingston, and Marge Blackwell. You are under arrest for attempted murder, unlawful imprisonment, burglary, and sexual assault against your wife."

Michele looked at me, "You're a detective?"

"Yes I am," I said. "We had been investigating your husband for a long time. When we learned that he had planned on harming you, I pretended to be a maid and then one thing led to another—” "He planned on harming me?" she repeated.

"Yes, a member of this crew notified us," I said.

"Why? I'm the mother of his...

I could see that reality was setting in for her. She will learn soon enough just how much of a monster her husband really is.

"Is there somewhere you can stay the night?" I asked.

"Yeah I can go to my sister's," she said. "It was all a farce, you and I guess that's what I get when I caught myself cheating. You can never top the cheater who started it all."

"It wasn't all fun and games for me. Now that we don't have to hide anymore perhaps we can openly enjoy each other's company," I said.

"Perhaps we can," she said.

Elizabeth Brackett is a junior at the University of Southern Maine. She grew up in Bath, Maine and now lives in the great city of Portland. She enjoys writing in her spare time and spending time with her family, friends, and all her pets. Send your fan mail to red_grrrlie@hotmail.com.

Ever since Sex and The City came along, women of all ages will never be the same. Thanks to Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha, the boundaries of what friends can and cannot talk about have dissolved. There is no more of that “hush hush” conversation. Instead, we talk about every single detail of our forever changing plethora of men that enter our lives.

Brunch isn’t for tea and biscuits anymore. It’s for mimosas and talks of late night rendezvous and the forever enchanting question of, “So, how was he?”

Call us whores, call us sluts, but don’t call us boring. Us, women of the now, no longer fear what other people may think of us. If we watch Sex and the City, single no longer looks so mundane. Instead, single looks fantastic. Single looks like freedom and cocktail with the girls. Single looks like a night of endless flirting and dancing with a strange and mysterious man, or perhaps a couple of them!

If being single was once thought of as pathetic or sad, now it is thought of to be something to obtain. Being single means you’re not going to just settle because some nice guy asked you out. You’re suddenly choosey. You will check your options fully. You will browse through the selections, reading a bit into the first chapter, and only finishing the story if the first chapter draws you in. Under no circumstance will you, WE, be forced to finish a book just because the cover looks nice or if we feel that maybe it’ll get more interesting a few chapters deep… to this, I will say, “Next!” and let my new favorite book find me. Maybe even at a discounted, used book sale. As they say in Sex and the City, I’m “single and fabulous.”

Now that the single and fabulous part is out in the open… this begins me on my next great adventure. As Charlotte once decided was going to be her new fulltime job, I will also embark on this journey… as a professional Husband Hunter.

You may wonder why, when single looks as brilliant as a right hand diamond ring, that I would want to change my status and perhaps even find someone who is worth taking my single self off the market for. Well, let me tell you: I can’t change a tire. I don’t know how to check my oil. I hate when a spider finds its way into my apartment. I’ve almost mastered all the tools in my tool box…almost. I really don’t like going out on date night alone. Honestly, sometimes you just want that somebody who will hold your hand and smile as you take a nice stroll through town on a beautiful, spring day.

This is why I am beginning my fulltime career as a Husband Hunter. You might ask what this entails. Let me explain a little further: A Husband Hunter is a huntress since birth. From the moment her eyes awoke to this whole new world, every single man (and I do mean SINGLE) was an option. As we grow older and start to flirt and giggle at the silly things boys do and say, we start crossing off things on our mental check list. * Nice smile. Check. * Well dressed. Check. * Impolite manners. NEXT. And with that one thing not just right, we move on to our next hunt. Of course, as we move on from our elementary days as huntresses in training, we move on to high school where we really begin to decide what it is our perfect catch will have. He will be smart, he will dress nicely,

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he will not be rude to our friends, he will have a car… you get the idea. Slowly, things we once thought we wanted in our perfect man are being crossed off our list and replaced with something else. “He has a car,” is replaced by, “He has a 2007 loaded Mustang Convertible GT.” I’m not just talking about material and physical things we want our mates to have, either. Recently (ok, about a year ago), as I’ve become single and the hunt has grown strong, I’ve realized that I won’t settle. Just because some kind of cute guy wants to hang out with me, doesn’t mean I’m going to go right along. Does he say things that our offensive? Does he talk about breasts by saying other words that make me cringe? Does he work hard, and not turn around and spend his money on marijuana? Each and every one of these things, if caught, is an instant mark off in my book. It is a reason to put that once interesting book right back up on the shelf. Sure, people can change, I know, I know... but I don’t have time to sit around and wait for my perfect man to morph into flesh in front of my eyes. I believe there is someone just perfect out there for me. He will be smart. He will have a great family. He will be a romantic, but not so much that it gags me. He will understand that I’m independent and stubborn, but that I don’t mind if he pays for dinner every now and then. He will love animals and will treat mine as if they were his own. He will know that I like to go out from time to time, but I also love a movie and some wine in some nights. He will not be passive, but he will not let my dominant personality run him over. He will know when to tell me that I’m wrong, and he will certainly know when I’m right. He will show up and be there to rescue me, even if I don’t think I need a rescue. He will be someone who will not check out every woman that walks by, and he will certainly not hit on all my friends. He will be my knight in shining armor.

If you exist, Knight, just know I’m searching for you. Right after I finish this popcorn and the season finale of Sex and the City… for the hundredth time.

Margaret Damele Elam was born in Michigan. A Magna Cum Laude graduate of Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, she has spent the past 17 years teaching. Her most recent publishing success includes a series of children’s stories for international magazine, La Fenetre. The first of which will debut in a few months. In addition, another of her short stories will appear in Pindeldyboz Online in late July. “I have always loved writing and am so happy with my current success,” says Margaret. “Everyday brings a new challenge.” You can learn more about Margaret and her work at: www.wolfetales.com From the Tales of Timber and Evangileen Wolf “Oh no, baby girl. Don’t touch that. You will cut yourself,” said Timber. He lifted Laurel down from the chair she had pushed over to the wall.

“It’s pretty,” said Laurel.

“Yes, my little love, I know it is very pretty, but that is a special dagger that holds a place of honor in our home,” said Evangileen. She bit through the heavy thread she was using to mend the vest of Timber’s trail leathers and gave the garment a once over looking for other open seems that might need stitching.

“Not so special as my beautiful ladies.”

Timber smiled and hugged Laurel, but she struggled against him, and he set her on her feet. She made straight for the chair once more and climbed up.

“Tell the story,” she said and reached again for the dagger.

“Laurel Wolf! You will get down this instant,” said Evan.

“Please,” said Laurel. “Tell the dagger tale.” She went to Timber and crawled into his lap.

“I’m not certain you are ready for this tale, Laurel. Some of it is a little scary for such a small girl,” he said.

She sat up straight and put her hands on each side of her father’s face.

“I am six. I can hear scary tales.”

Timber laughed.

“Aye, indeed your advanced years open the door to hearing legendary tales, even scary ones, I suppose. But your mother tells this one best.”

“Tell it please, Mama, please.”

“Right after you must go straight away to bed.”

“I promise.”

“Very well,” said Evan. “This story starts long, long ago, before you were born.”

“Before me?”

“Yes, my love, before you. Mama and Papa lived alone in our little cottage in the woods.”

40

Adventures for the Average Woman

Evan leaned her head against the back of her rocking chair.

“Not so long ago before you were born…” *

*

*

Evangileen sat beside Timber in the quiet room. The warm fire crackling nearby eased the tension from her as she softly hummed a sweet melody to lull him into sleep. He turned over on the mat of soft hides and smiled at her once before closing his eyes. A few moments later, she heard his quiet breathing.

"At last," she thought. "His wounds will not pain him in the land of dreams. Taranee's magic will protect him there."

Her slender fingers brushed across his forehead and the furrowed, worried look disappeared. She sat long that night remembering the events of the journey.

The hour was late when they boarded the great ship, Storm Witch, and watched the deep emerald green of the Tiraverde Mountains disappear. Before long, the horizon was only the meeting of sky and sea. Endless waves crashed against her bow as the ship plunged head long through the Sea of Sorrows. They stood together on the deck, and the fresh salt air of the sea washed over them. Evangileen put out her tongue tasting the salty spray. Timber took her hand. They did not speak. There was no need. Each knew the thoughts of the other. They were bound for Crooked Spine Cove and a journey into darkness.

Evangileen did not like Crooked Spine, corrupt, dirty place. One could not trust the guards for many were a shady, evil lot themselves. Still, the quest lay ahead, and Crooked Spine Cove stood between them and the run for the Eleman Plains. She studied Timber closely as he gazed out across the sea. She loved the look of him, the gentle curve of his ears extending to soft points that identified his half-elven heritage, his gentleness, and his strength. She knew he was thinking, planning how to proceed. Ever since he learned of the Dagger of Elsmir, he was intent upon the quest. But Evangileen knew the reward of the famous jeweled dagger was not the reason. Capturing Plecto Mortus the Death Messenger, a filthy thing that carried certain documents consumed him. The document contained information that might, one-day banish the undead from Silvanora Forest, documents that the lord of the land, Elsmir Foxfern, needed desperately. The more Elsmir could learn of the plotting and planning of the undead, the better the chance of freeing the old forest from the evil stench that held her. He always gave a special jeweled dagger in thanks for any information Plecto Mortus carried. Although he never voiced discontent, Evan knew acceptance was the only thanks Timber ever sought. Acceptance in the world and an end to the shunning he suffered for his mixed blood.

The Sea Witch approached the dock in Crooked Spine Cove, and Evangileen knew that soon they would face death. Both of them had trained feverishly for the mission. A week more, two perhaps, and their skills might be honed sharply enough to stand a chance. But the evil in Silvanora grew worse and Timber was intent upon breaking the line of communication between the undead camps. Because of her deep love for him, Evangileen would not consider Timber going alone. So in the end he gave up trying to talk her out of it.

They left the ship in silence and hurried quickly through the streets of Crooked Spine toward the West Gate to meet an old friend of Evan’s, Sir Crystals, High Justice, and disciple of Taranee. Sir Crystals would outfit Timber with enchanted arrows to help him bring down Plecto Mortus. They reached the West Gate without mishap, and a short time later Sir Crystals arrived. They shared warm greetings all around.

Timber had never met Crystals and many seasons had come and gone since Evangileen studied beside him in the Great Library in Kamatu.

Still, when word traveled across the land about Evan and Timber's intent to slay the Death Messenger, Crystals stepped forward.

"I shall come with you. If you will allow me, I will add my magic to that of Evangileen, and with your ranger skill and strength, we will bring the dark creature to its knees."

"I would be proud to have you beside us.” Timber smiled and gave Sir Crystals his hand.

When he accepted the offer a bit of the anxiety inside Evangileen eased. Crystals was highly skilled. The odds of all of them surviving were now even.

Timber set out immediately leading them expertly across the open plain that bordered Crooked Spine. Soon they would reach the entrance to Silvanora Forest. Here Evangileen and Crystals would leave Timber. She knew it was safer for him to run through the forest alone. She and Crystals would only slow him down. An hour remained before daylight and the time when the undead that roamed the old forest would hide away from the sun. If Timber stayed on the brightest paths, he would be safe. They waited until the shadows of night disappeared, and then Evangileen cast her finest magic over Timber. The magic would carry him swiftly to the other side with the heart and speed of a great panther in his chest. She kissed him tenderly, cast the spell, and watched him disappear, shrouded in his own forest spell.

"I will see you on the other side, love. Be safe," he whispered in the soft language shared only by the two of them. And then he was gone into the silent forest where not even bird song broke the evil stillness.

"We must go, Evan. We must be there to meet him. I shall find you at the Ring of Stones and show you the way across the bridge to Elaman Plain."

"Yes," said Evangileen. "We must be there to greet him when he arrives. He will arrive safely won't he, my friend?"

"Of course he will," said Crystals.

Evangileen waited a moment more. Timber knows I am thinking of him, she thought. I could speak to his mind but I must not. He needs all of his concentration and stamina for the run. I must not distract him. She turned away from where the heavy growth of trees signaled the edge of the forest.

"I’ll meet you on the other side, Sir Crystals, and thank you for coming with us."

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She raised her arms to summon Taranee's hand.

"Take me Taranee, Mother of All... Carry me to the Eleman Ring of Stones."

She felt the power of the Mother around her, lifting her, carrying her, spinning farther and farther across the land. Briefly, she was mindless without vision or thought, and then gently Taranee brought her safely to ground. Evangileen opened her eyes to the lands of East Eleman. She whispered a quiet prayer of thanks to Taranee.

Mere hours later, the three of them were together once more. Timber stood quietly sensing the stillness around them, scenting the air and seeking with his mind the creature of darkness. No one made a sound to break his concentration. And then with a burst of speed he began to run across the open plain.

"He has it," shouted Crystals.

They were off to follow him as he tracked Plecto Mortus. They twisted and turned as they ran through the jagged hillocks. All about them, the creatures of Eleman foraged across the immense grasslands. On and on they ran.

"I can go no further. I am spent. My speed has washed from me," Crystals shouted on the wind.

For a moment, Evangileen thought Timber had not heard, but then he abandoned the chase and returned to her side. Together they searched until they found Crystals where he rested on the side of a hill. Evangileen touched Crystals shoulder concentrating upon restoring his strength. She coated his skin and Timber's in Taranee’s light to protect them and then paused in prayer to thank the Mother.

Still in deep meditation when the first blows fell, they caught her off guard. She thought a tremendous clap of thunder had sounded because of the power of the force. Then inside her head, she heard Timber shout above the din.

"Run! A barrus, giant of the plains has us."

She came to her feet in time to see Sir Crystals turn to face the huge beast. Heavily furred the barrus rose up to stand erect and towered over Crystals. Its eyes captured the sun and began to glow with angry fire. The horrid open mouth dripped iridescent, acid-filled saliva that on contact could strip flesh down to the bone. She marveled at the speed of so large an animal. The barrus, she knew, was a solitary creature that avoided confrontation and never attacked unless provoked. Why then should it want to attack them? She cast around for a reason. Of course, a small replica of the barrus stood close by.

“Crystals, run. She protects her young.”

Evan’s warning came too late. The creature turned, all of its concentration focused upon Crystals. He faced the giant swaying to avoid its dripping mouth. Blow after blow crashed down on Sir Crystals. Evangileen saw him fall to the ground. She knew she could not help him. The barrus turned toward her, and she began to run. A solid blow caught her across the shoulders, and pain seared through her. She knew she could not stop to find Timber. She could only run as he told her, run and run and run. At last, she sensed that barrus gave up the chase.

Gasping, she stopped.

She knew Timber was still alive and safe somewhere behind her. But she could not sense Crystals. She knew his act of valor bought the time for them to escape. Slowly she began to trace her steps back toward the place she last saw them. Finally, she heard Timber whisper on the wind.

"I am safe for now, love. My forest coat has made the barrus blind to me. But the offspring remains close, and I fear movement will reveal my position."

"Thank Taranee. I sense you there in the distance. Where is Crystals?"

"I could not save him, Evan. I fear he has perished," said Timber.

"No, wait. I hear his spirit. It speaks," said Evan.

Crystals was not dead. Before the barrus could take his life, Taranee answered Evan’s prayers. The Mother shifted his spirit force and lifted him safely from harm. Timber set out to find him and bring him back to the place where she waited for them.

“My love, Taranee does surely answer your prayers, but could you arrange with the Mother to pick locations more readily accessible? Poor Crystals stood shivering and isolated atop yonder peak.”

“Aye, Evan, I am grateful, but should the need arise again, perhaps a cozy inn might be my destination. I hate to admit it but I do dread heights and winter snow.”

“Perhaps the barrus’s den would suit you better,” Evan laughed.

“Given that choice, I will take the mountain top,” said Crystals.

With all restored to them, Timber set out again to track Plecto Mortus. False start after false start brought them up wanting. But finally, Timber ran straight and true, and they knew the Death Messenger ran before him. They crossed the open grasslands and ran on. They approached the more rugged foothills and still Timber ran. They crested another hill and ran headlong down into the valley plain below.

Timber pulled up short and raised his mighty bow. Crystals stopped and prepared to cast a spell of weakness. The evil stench of rotting flesh blew foul all around them. Plecto Mortus turned. Before Timber could aim and loose a single arrow the evil thing cast a dark hold over him. His legs sank into the ground nearly to the knees. Evan knew he would not be able to move from the spot. Hideous laughter surrounded them, and

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Adventures for the Average Woman

the Death Messenger converged on Timber, intent upon bludgeoning him to death. Already bleeding from a dozen deep wounds, Timber started to lose ground.

"You shall not take him from me, evil cur," shouted Evangileen. “Mother of the Earth, I pray, give to me your healing magic that I may cast it forth over Timber.”

Near her Crystals began his wondrous magic. Between them and the powerful blows from Timber's weapons, Plecto Mortus began to falter.

Weaker and weaker it grew until at last it lay dead at Timber's feet. No one spoke as Timber bent to examine the body. He searched methodically. Finally, he stood and looked at them.

"I have them," he whispered. Elsmir Foxfern shall know of the plot among the undead in Silvanora Forest. We have broken their lines of communication. It will be weeks before they can train another Death Messenger. Perhaps Elsmir can take what he learns from the documents and begin to salvage the forest’s beauty."

Elated he grabbed Evangileen and began to dance with her across the soft waving grasses of the Eleman Plain.

And perhaps Elsmir will no longer shun the ranger who gained the advantage for him just because he is half-elven. She masked the thought and kept it deep inside. He was so happy just now; she did not want to ruin the moment for him.

They bid Crystals farewell and thanked him over and over for his aid. A few minutes later, they sought a quiet place near the Ring of Stones to rest. Finally, Evangileen opened a portal that bore them home. She tended Timber's wounds and brewed a healing drink. She knew he wanted to set off to find Lord Elsmir with the message right away. But not tonight, she was firmly resolved. Timber must rest. Tomorrow would be plenty of time. *

*

*

“And that,” said Evan, “is the tale of how the Dagger of Elsmir came to a place of honor in our little cottage.”

“She’s asleep, Evan. Nodded off just after the battle with the barrus.”

“So just who wanted to hear the tale more?”

Timber smiled.

Dave Emery has been an itinerate photographer since 1976 doing historical renderings of all things. Dave lives, breathes, and envisions all things MAINE. A native of the state, he enjoys waxing nostalgic about those days gone by when folks would sit on the porch or in the yard and swap wild yarns, local gossip, and tall tales.

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Genita Hill of North Carolina returns with her last, rib-gripping installment of Don’t Make Me Go Postal. She is fulfilling her dreams of writing, something she he has done since she was 11 years old. She has written a children's story on being mentally challenged and poetry on various subjects. Keep your eyes peeled for future stories from her upcoming book. Send your fan mail to: jlhill16@yahoo.com FOREWORD Like many of you, I played "Post Office" when I was a young child. No, not that kind! I actually rode my tricycle throughout the house and pretended to pick up and deliver mail. I was the "pretend mail carrier" in our house. I, like you, thought delivering mail was simply going to the Post Office, getting the mail and hitting the streets to deliver it. Now that I have obtained that goal and became a "re~ mail carrier", I want to be the first to admit that I was wrong~ There is a lot more to just hitting the streets with the mail. Sometimes you want to hit more than the streets. "Sometimes you want to hit whatever may be in that next mailbox or that next yard; especially if you are a scary mail carrier like me. Be kind to your mail carrier. Your mailbox may be the last one he/she may ever service.

THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT? First let me start off by saying, I have some of the nicest people in the world living on my mail route. Notice I said "some". No seriously, most of my patrons are some of the nicest people you would ever want to meet. They always make sure I am fed well and have a lot of cold beverages and popsicles in the scorching hot summer months. I never feel alone when I am on the route, because someone is always watching out for me.

I must admit however, that I have had some real "humdingers" on my route. They come and go quicker than you can sneeze at them. I will never forget the "Flasher". He was an older gentleman who loved flashing people as they went down his street. Since I had to turn around in his driveway, he always made sure my heart got a jumpstart every so often. I was never prepared for all of the wrinkled flesh that would be sticking to the windowpane and it would scare the "beejeezus" out of me. I often thought the Blob had come into existence. I tried to do as my Mom taught me when I was younger, just ignore it and it will go away. Eventually, it did.

I will never forget Willie. Willie got upset one day and came to the post office and left a message for me. He said if the name had one "1"it was his and not to put anything in his mailbox with two "l's" in it. He also told them to tell me if I felt I couldn't abide by that, I could put that mail where the sun didn't shine. Can someone please tell me why I am going to look at his mail to distinguish one or two "l's"? I have over 500 mailboxes and over 5,000 pieces of mail a day to sort. Do you think I have all day to dwell on '1's"? I bet he is wondering why he gets all kinds of magazines with 1,2, and 3 "l's" now. Things that make you go hmmmmmmmm!!!!!

A lot of times I really try to go above and beyond and people still don't appreciate it. I remember once there was a package for a patron that would not fit in her mailbox. I didn't know if she would get home before the post office closed, and I wanted to save her the trouble of having to rush to the post office. There was a slight chance of rain, so I put the package in two plastic bags, and put it as close to her door as possible under the eaves. That afternoon after she got home, she called the post office and complained. She said I laid the plastic bags over her package and it got wet. I explained to her that I put her package in plastic bags and that I was trying to do her a favor. She told me to do her a favor and not do her any favors. OKAY! I'll tell you the truth. Before she moved away, she had to come to the post office for every package. Big or small she had to come in and pick it up. I did exactly as she asked. Never can it be said that I don't aim to please my customers.

INSECTS MAKE YOU INSPECT Throughout the years, I have learned that no matter how airtight a mailbox may be, insects can still get in them. A mailbox is built to keep your mail safe and dry. Can someone please tell me how a mailbox repells a tiny raindrop, but it will allow all kinds of bugs to enter? Somebody needs to go back to the drawing board.

Wasps love to build their nest in mailboxes. As soon as you open the door of a mailbox they come zooming at you. I have almost mastered the fine art of slamming whatever comes zooming out in between the lid and the edge of the door. It's just a natural reflex to protect me from some of the things that can live in a mailbox. What really amazes me is that if they zoom at me, do they not zoom at the people that own the mailboxes? If so it would seem that the owners would try to rid their mailboxes of unwanted critters. You know some bug spray would work wonders. That's why I carry my own. If I can just remember to point it in the right direction in the moment of a crisis, it would really get the job done... on the insects. Trust me it worked on me too. I was able to give up smoking after spraying myself a couple of times with a lit cigarette in my mouth.

Not only do insects build nest in the mailboxes, but birds do too. Have you ever opened a mailbox expecting to reach in and get mail and a bird flies in your face? That's not a pretty sight; especially if you are sitting in a car with one foot hovering near the gas pedal. When the flight syndrome kicks in, you do not take time to see if a vehicle or person is in your path of escape. I am so sorry, I am getting ahead of myself; that's the next chapter.

I will never forget the summer of 1991. I was delivering mail and it was so hot. I had on a pair of shorts with loose leg fitting, so the air will circulate. I pulled up to a larger than average mailbox. I must admit I love those mailboxes because almost everything will fit into them. As rural carriers, we use our own vehicles and we have to sit in the middle so we can reach the mailboxes. Therefore we are straddling our consoles like we are riding on a horse Anyway as I pulled up to this particular mailbox, I pull the door open and the lid of the mailbox rests on the window ledge of my car. Lo and behold, the biggest, blackest, ugliest spider comes rolling down that mailbox lid. Before I could slam the lid shut, the spider pops over the lid and into my car. It landed right on my shirt. My first instinct told me to smack it off of me; so I did and it landed right on the seat in between my straddled legs. Before I could get up off the seat, it had rolled up into those big legged shorts. Needless to say, I am quite sure the residents of that street had a lot to talk about that day. They probably wondered why I was delivering mail half dressed. To this day that spider has never been found, but I did give birth to a healthy little boy five years later. He has long arms and legs. Things that make you say hmmmm!

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Adventures for the Average Woman

EVEN BIRDS HAVE NESTS The first horror movie that I ever remember seeing was Alfred Hitchcock's movie "The Birds." Maybe that is why I am so frightened of birds.

Believe it or not we have two pet birds and we have had them for at least six years. I can honestly tell you, I have never touched them. I give them water and seeds, but I have never touched them. As long as they remain in their cage, they will always be my friends. Once, Tweety Bird and I remained locked up in my bedroom until my neighbor came over and captured him.

There are also some very unfriendly birds. These are the birds that lurk in and around mailboxes that I deliver to. These birds seem to stake these mailboxes as their homes and they do not wish to be disturbed. My first encounter with a "mailbird" was in 1993. I was driving down a road delivering mail and was straddled across a seat. Sitting on the seat to the right of me was a big plastic tub full of mail. As I was going from mailbox to mailbox, I felt something whiz past my ear. It was an unusual breeze, so of course I was curious. I looked in my rearview mirror and there perched on my back seat was a bird. EEEEEEERRRRRRRRK !!!!! My car came to a complete stop within 1/8th of a second. My first thought was to reach over and open driver's door and get out. Can't… bird just flew up and landed on armrest on driver's side. Only option left. ... go out of window on passenger's side. Plastic tub is in the way, but no problem. I broke a world's record for quickest exit out of a vehicle without using the doors. Then I opened every door on that car. Remember – my vehicle was still sitting in the middle of the road. However, I was able to get the bird to flyaway and then I scraped my skin off the windowsill and placed it back on my side. Old wives’ tales should be taken seriously. My son that I gave birth to in 1996, three years later, has a birthmark on his right side. It looks as if someone scraped the color out of his skin. Things that really make you go hmmmmm!

I have truly enjoyed reminiscing on some of the funny things that happened on my route. Most of these are true occurrences; however, some I added just a little flavor to keep you reading and laughing. I do enjoy my job and I must admit I have some of the best customers in the world.

They are my extended family. We laugh together, cry together and pray together. To be totally truthful, they aren't my customers; they are my friends. So remember to follow the rules below and your mail carrier will never go postal on you.

1. Don't pretend that you're not home when the mail carrier has something for you to sign for. Doors open and the television is on and most of the time you are sitting right there on the couch.

2. Don't call the post office every third day of the month with a plea to pick up your mail. The excuse is always you are going out of town. Most of the time you are going to town.

3. Don't ask the mail carrier to throwaway your junk mail. We can't! We would love to but we can't.

4. Do try to figure out how much money your stamps are going to cost before we get there. At the middle and the end of the route, our brains go slack, too.

5. Do give out your correct address. If you don't know where you live, 9 times out of 10, we don't either. Sometimes we do make good guesses.

6. If you are moving in or out, let us know. We can only read a few minds and usually we get it backwards.

Whatever you do or don't do, just don't make us go postal!

Original Ceramics by Jamie Studebaker 1201 W. Lenoir St. Raleigh NC 27603 (919) 417-2986 www.jamiestudebaker.com

H a l B e h Salt Boy

Volume 2, Issue 4

Do As You Are Told!

45

Mike Pittaway resides in the desert of Southern California. When not writing or working, Michael spends his time online playing text-based adventure games, such as his current obsession Miriani, which can be found at http://www.toastsoft.net. He can be contacted at mikepittaway@aol.com.

A Kiss

Wilted

Together

We gaze deep into each other's eyes,

She was my beautiful flower,

Like the sparkling sun shimmering in the sky,

And our heart beats begin to rise.

A lovely blooming crimson rose,

Your bountiful love has lividly lit my eye.

We move closer together in our trance,

She was so lovely and lively,

I no longer walk wandering in this world,

And our eyes remain locked as we advance.

She was the one that I chose.

Since I saw you, my sights have been swirled.

Your hand reaches out to grasp mine,

Crimson lips, sapphire eyes,

Even if I tried to think of how to escape,

And our fingers slowly meet and intertwine.

Auburn hair, blushed cheeks,

My mouth would mind itself and gape.

I can feel your breath upon my face,

She was once a lovely flower,

My legs would linger and lay still,

As we move closer together in our embrace.

But she's been wilting for weeks.

My emotions would wonderously warp and spill.

In an instant our lips press together,

And it's all because of him,

I love your lips, your legs, your laughter,

And the touch is as soft as a feather.

He crept in our garden like a weed,

A love like this I've long searched after.

In this moment we feel each other's soul,

He started tainting her lovely soul,

Each tender touch I try to take tonight,

And our minds race out of control.

Off her emotions he would feed.

Our slender shadows slithering against the light.

Our love races back and forth on our lips,

He tore her heart from mine,

Our lips lingering together lightly,

And the world dims around us in an eclipse.

Left her uprooted for his pleasure,

Our hands hanging onto each other tightly,

And each other is all that we can see,

And slowly she started to wilt,

My soul dancing, searching through the skies,

And our hearts meet in a jubilee.

And he left her after a measure.

Your emotions eternally show in your emerald eyes.

We can feel each other's passion ignite,

Her love is now lost to me,

And our minds are cleared of any fright.

And lost to herself, her soul.

And our souls are bared for each other to see,

She can no longer look at me,

And we hold on not wanting to flee.

And the instant is over and we separate, And our deep lust we for now abate.

A moment in time so quickly passed, But the love and the passion shall last.

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And I stand here like a fool.

She once was my lovely rose, Now that is now not to be.

She still holds some beauty, though, But not for her, and not for me.

We dare to dance in the darkened night, We chance to caress in the creamy moonlight.

We stand, we sit, we slink, we crawl, We kiss, contort, clamber, and fall.

The silence slips into peaceful sleep, On green grass we lay where willows weep.

Our natural bodies blanket the ground, Our broken breathing becomes the only sound.

Adventures for the Average Woman

Bruce Buchanan is a former deep-sea diver and underwater welder and professional photographer with an illustrious career in glamorous Hollywood. He now resides in Bar Mills, Maine where he plies his talents doing metal sculpting, photography and eBay. (See his work on our back page.) Bruce is a sensitive guy with an uncanny understanding and passion for women.

I was living a day-to-day existence on the West Coast. To alleviate the boredom, I took off for northeastern Arizona with a couple hundred dollars in my pocket. I wanted a first-hand look at the Hopi Indians, and I was hoping to buy a reasonably-priced turquoise bracelet, the likes of which were selling at astronomical prices in San Francisco at the time.

My knowledge of the Hopis was limited. I knew that they were once a proud, powerful, and peaceful tribe; I'd read that they were very spiritual. My curiosity urged me to explore further.

After a hard and steady drive with a few hitch-hikers in my battered VW bus, I arrived, alone, in Old Qraibi, the oldest village in the U.S. (it dates back to 15(0). The chief was an old woman. She was reluctant to reveal much information about the Hopi nation, and I distinctly felt some resentment because I was white.

I spent a couple of days driving around and looked at jewelry at various trading posts. I camped at Kearn's Canyon. I awoke late one night to the ringing reverberation of electric guitars, and followed the sound to a small village where an Indian revival session was taking place. I felt as if I'd walked into a time warp; there was a lot of foot stompin', wailing, and dancing. A few of the older women were going into what seemed to be drug-induced trances; they were speaking in tongues.

I spent the remainder of the night in my sleeping bag, under the stars. Early the next morning, the bus died on me. Not being the greatest mechanic, I worked half the day, guided by my trusty Idiot's VW Repair Manual. During the remainder of the afternoon I got help from Jake Poleulyuma, a twenty-nine year old Hopi mechanic who happened by. He was on his way home from jail on a drunkenness charge. We couldn't get the old whore running but, for his help, I offered him a pint of whiskey I had stashed in the bus. It was illegal to have any alcohol on the reservation, and the nearest place to buy any was in Winslow, sixty-five miles away. He was very appreciative. And offered to let me stay in his village overnight and suggested that we could work on the bus more the following day. Two cops gave us a lift for twenty-three miles to Second Mesa Shungopavy Village where Jake lived.

We pulled in shortly after a Katchina Dance (a ceremonial tribute to the gods) had ended during which tourists had been allowed in their village. His family's home was just a small hut, constructed of stone and adobe. We sat at a long, wooden table with his cousins, grandparents, brothers, and sisters. Serving ourselves with our fingers, we "feasted" on a large pot of mutton and potatoes, some "paper bread,� and hot tea.

Jake's relatives were "traditionalists"; they wore the old, colorful Hopi dress and spoke only in Hopi. Jake explained my presence and in English, gave me insight into the Hopi's plight. They lived in real poverty-squalor, almost-with no plumbing (there was a whole row of outhouses placed strategically above crevices on the edge of a cliff).

They were bitter not only towards the government, who took away several million acres of their land and divided it unevenly with the Navajos (a traditionally war-like tribe) in surrounding territories, but also towards many of their own people. The object of their bitterness was those people, considered "progressives," who "sold out" to the Bureau of Indian Affairs. The resentment ran deep towards some of those same people who formed the Hopi Tribal Council, which had legal negotiating powers, but who too often failed to consult with the people on planned "improvements". There was an even bigger split between the Hopis and Navajos-several on both sides had been killed in the preceding few weeks in disputes over grazing lands.

It had been a long day. I was physically drained, although exuberant over our chance meeting earlier in the day. Jake led me to a small hut near the center of the village, where he and his 18-year old brother stayed. There were two small, rickety spring frames, excuses for beds, each just barely big enough for one person. Jake insisted that I take his bed and said he'd sleep with his brother. As it was, he stayed out ‘til 4:30 in the morning, getting high, flirting, and carrying on with different girls near a Kiva (there were five in the village-monuments, most of which were underground, and used for religious ceremonies and rites).

The following day we went back and fixed the bus with the help of Rudy, one of Jake's cousins, who stole a fuel pump from a nearby abandoned bus.

For several days the two of us drove around, visiting Chinle and other Navajo towns and trading posts, and spending time with many of Jake's friends and relatives. I finally found a turquoise bracelet in a pawn shop, which I immediately fell in love with; it was an old Zuni sand-cast sterling piece with one large stone etched with natural copper veins. The proprietor wanted $150 for it, much more than I could afford, but I, stopped back almost every day for a week to admire it and hammer tactfully at his patience. He finally got tired of seeing me and sold it to me for $52! I was thrilled, and still am, whenever I occasionally look at it.

At one point, Jake and I made a couple of trips to Winslow, and bootlegged back many cases of beer and wine, which we sold at a handsome profit to people he knew. I didn't want to be so mercenary about it, but he explained that they had set prices, and I'd be a fool not to take it. I even had offers to trade wine for custom-made silver jewelry (the government supplied the silver), but I refused them.

After I'd been visiting for about a week, Jake and I went drinking one afternoon in 110° heat in a desolate field with a few young Hopi girls. I got very drunk, and blew it after one girl got sick and threw up in the back of my bus. Two of the girls started stumbling tearfully back to the village (about a three-hour walk), and I started sobbing uncontrollably, pitifully. I wasn't sure exactly what it was all about, but I think it had something to do with the combination of the whiskey, the heat, and the poverty. My jeans and cowboy boots were caked with dirt, and my hair and skin were matted with dust and sweat. I was unable to cope with it all at that point. We picked the girls up and drove back to Shungopavy, where we all cried a little more, embraced, and kissed. I told them I had to leave, and probably wouldn't be coming back.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

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One of the main reasons for the rejection of a submitted manuscript by any publisher is the writer’s fundamental lack of attention to detail. We know spelling, punctuation, and grammar are a drag, but please be mindful!

IdeaGems ® Publications is a very small press that is still mostly a one-woman show (i.e., as managing editor, I do all the reviewing, editing, layout, printing, assembly, promotion, and distribution of our materials) but that is picking up momentum with its feature publication, Adventures for the Average Woman, a monthly periodical devoted to tales of fact and fiction focusing on mystery and adventure with a little schmaltzy romance sandwiched between the pages.

We are particularly dedicated to promoting the written and visual work of unpublished authors and unknown artists whose focus is on women.

Granted, we prefer women contributors; however, men are not excluded. Currently, we run serialized mystery and adventure stories (from novels and novellas), serialized true life stories, serialized graphic novels, poetry (any theme), flash fiction, articles (on pretty much any subject as long as it sounds adventurous), and a music review column. In the way of visual arts, we accept digital images of paintings and sculptures.

We also have a photo essay page about women on the job or on the road.

We do not generally publish articles on women’s issues as we feel there is a plethora of press on these in abundance. IdeaGems ® is more concerned with imagined creativity. Yet we have done the occasional life story on women who have led unusual and extraordinary lives.

IdeaGems ® Publications produces the following forms of literary expression: Adventures for the Average Woman – a monthly hardcopy periodical containing serial stories (fact and fiction), serial graphic novels, poetry, flash fiction, articles, and artwork on women-centered experiences and adventures.

TorquedTales – an on-line publication of dark fiction and erotica with occasional nonfiction articles exploring human sexuality and counter culture. (Keep in mind: this is mature material and not pornography.)

Our submission guidelines are as follow: We will accept any story or article that suits the theme of either publication, Adventures for the Average Woman or TorquedTales. (For sample issues, peruse the web sites or order issues from us at ideagems@aol.com) The key element to any and all submissions is woman-centered adventure. This means the heroines in the story must be dynamic and proactive -- not passive and brooding (well, they can be but as long as they still kick butt and do something about their plight).

Acceptable word count is as follows: Flash Fiction: Article: Novel excerpt: Short story: Poem:

100 to 300 words 500 to 2,500 words up to 3 chapters 1,500 to 5,000 words 3 to 50 lines

We are not able to review any full-length novels or graphic novels at this time, but you can always send a query and a sample chapter for us to consider.

You can submit your complete manuscript with a cover page containing personal contact information (including e-mail address) and word count.

Make sure to indicate the publication for which your submission is intended. E-mailed submissions are preferred.

If you should send in your manuscript in hardcopy, it should be in a double-spaced word processor or typewriter format printed on one side only.

Otherwise, electronic submissions (on disk, CD, or via e-mail) can be single-spaced. Always, always, always, check your grammar and RUN A SPELL CHECK! Don’t forget to comply with these submission standards for snail-mail submissions: a) Double-space. b) Use left-hand page alignment and not the “justify” setting. c) Number all pages and put your last name or your manuscript's title across the top of each page. d) Use white paper and any easily read font. (Avoid fancy script fonts, please.) e) Enclose a Self Addressed Stamped Envelope if you would like your manuscript returned.

Keep in mind that our editors have the creative license to alter content to a certain extent in order to make your work (if accepted) fit into the publication format. IdeaGems ® Publications always reserves the right to refuse any manuscript based on content we deem unsuited for our publications.

The really good news is: there is absolutely no charge for reading your manuscript. Woo-hoo!

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Given that we are a small, struggling press whose earnings come from paid subscriptions, some advertising, and our investors’ private bank accounts, we can only accept a limited number of submissions for which we hope to scrape up the dough to pay. Thankfully, many of our authors and artists have been generous to donate their work in return for the free publicity.

Update: As always, we are seeking new sponsors and running contests to garner funds for our publishing operation. Once we have a budget to pay folks, we’ll shout it from the rafters! In the meantime, we thank you for your patience and understanding.

Oh, yeah, and multiple submissions are accepted. Plus, we do have a release form available so that you can feel secure that you own your work to submit to other publishers or publish yourself. If your work should be accepted, remind us to issue you one!

Any questions or comments? E-mail us at ideagems@aol.com or call us at 202-746-5160. (Sorry, no toll free service yet, but we’ll get there one day.)

PRIVACY POLICY: IdeaGems ® Publications respects your privacy and will never ever send, sell, or release your e-mail address or other private, personal information to anyone. All data will be used solely by IdeaGems ® Publications for the exclusive purposes of showcasing your talents by publishing your terrific stories and fantastic artwork.

Laurie Notch, President and Managing Editor Jul 1, 2007

Time to have yet another word to our readers. Didjya notice how more and more men are submitting material to our ‘zine about women and their adventures? I wonder why? Could it be that more and more men want to strut their creative stuff for the ladies? Or is it that women are timid about showing off their creative side? Now, we don’t mind the gentlemen folk wanting to add to our pages. We are an equal opportunity publication. Still, we are a ‘zine designed to aid and abet burgeoning women writers and artists who need to believe in their talents and build up their creds. If you haven’t figured that out yet, here’s a reminder for those of you who know us and an introduction to those who are new of what we are about.

IdeaGems® is an imprint for unknown artists and writers contributing artwork, photography, articles, stories, time, and yes, even MONEY in support of this publication. We further salute and thank the many talented writers and artists who have so generously donated their work to make this dream of a women’s adventure magazine come true!

IdeaGems® hunts for gems of publishing ideas (hence the name, “IdeaGems® “). We are building a platform for struggling writers – especially women writers -- to showcase their treasure-troves of talent. Our mission is to open up hidden veins deep beneath the strata of mainstream, commercial publishing and seek glimmering creativity. We will take most any literary gem – no matter how rough-hewn — shine it up and put it on display in our ‘zine and on our site (www.ideagems.com).

Unlike other niche and the clique markets within the publishing industry that snub talent and kick expressive content to the curb, we embrace most submitted works in order to give new writers a chance. Our only real criteria is that the literature be female-centered and kick ass! We try to avoid the same old fare of over-sentimental Chick Lit. (Although a dose of schmaltz now and again is good for the female soul.) We are certainly NOT a woman’s rag expostulating on shopping, beauty aids, fashion, and diet fads! Instead, we produce a periodical that promotes women as go-get-‘em adventurers, world travelers, crime fighters, vampire killers (and lovers), or die-hard survivors of breast cancer, domestic abuse, job discrimination, and lost love – all because we know how every woman — no matter how average — has an adventure to tell.

We hope you enjoy this issue and encourage you to subscribe, send a submission, and lend your support.

— Laurie Notch, President and Managing Editor

Fill out and send in the insert with your check for $24 for a full year of issues and enjoy the eclectic selection of woman-centered adventure stories, real and surreal.

Call or email us to inquire about our reasonable advertising rates! ideagems@aol.com (202) 746-5160 Volume 2, Issue 4

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Thanks for subscribing! As we need more & more support to keep going, please pass this copy on to family & friends! If you’re a business owner looking to advertise with us, PLEASE DO! Artist Bruce Buchanan makes “heavenly metal” gates and sculptures from antique farm implements perfect for your yard, garden, or even interior space.

VOLUNTEER STAFF Hell, we can’t pay anyone, but at least we can put their names in glitzy print: LAURIE NOTCH Super Managing Editor, faster than a speeding deadline, more powerful than crashing hard drives, and who can leap tall production orders with a single bound!

CYTHERIA HOWELL Ethereal Editor-in-chief, Incurable Romantic, and ultimate alter-ego NADIA SEDUISANTE Melchizedek Priestess, spiritual guide and creative consultant from the City of Old Souls, New Orleans

Bruce also has a wide collection of rural antiques and collectibles for sale which can be purchased directly or through

Sewing machine gate

LINDA KENT Bostonian artist, writer, and contributing editor with a wickedly sharp political wit KIM KYUNG SOON Asian art coordinator, photo-essayist, and persistent promoter of AFTAW KUMAR GHOSH Writer, international publisher, and microfinancier of women’s programs in India

Wheel gate

For more information or to make a purchase or order for your own heavenly metalwork, contact Bruce at: bbuchananbigcity@sacoriver.net or call (207) 929-3968

DAN MEDSNIK Music-review maven and percussive publications expert from the “beat” streets of DC MARY REGAN 

Decorative stools

Our born-and-raised “Maine-iac” copywriter and assistant editor torn between media and All rights reserved. The duplication or publication of any of the articles, artwork, or stories featured in this production without the express permission by the author(s) and/or artist(s) is strictly prohibited.

Ideagems is a registered trade name whose publications “Adventures for the Average Woman” (AFTAW), “Torqued Tales,” and “Cube Ghouls” are the brain children of Laurie E. Notch who is the sole proprietor.

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Adventures for The Average Woma man IDEAGEMS ® PUBLICATIONS

www.ideagems.com

Torqued Tales

New England —

www.torquedtales.com

P.O. Box 4748

Cube Ghouls

Portland, ME 04112-4748 Metro Washington,, D.C. —

www.cubeghouls.com

1110 Bonifant Street, Suite 600 Silver Spring, MD 20910

www.ectomist.com

Adventures for the Average Woman