Adventures for the Average Woman

Newsstand price: $8.00 Nov – Dec 2006 Volume 2, Issue 1

IDEAGEMS ® PUBLICATIONS

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

Bigger, Better, Bi-monthly!

Something old; something new -- you’d think we were having a winter wedding. Instead, we are celebrating a full year in publication. Welcome to year two with our new look, new stories, new authors and artists – all displayed in 50 pages of lush color and text. Why 50? Well, we’re going full figured in celebration of our coming of age. Besides, our managing editor is turning 50 before the end of the year, so we thought, “What the hell? Let’s make it more work for her with one page for each year of her life to edit!”

The big difference from our previous publications is that we are going bi-monthly with a bigger, better production: more pages, more articles, more fiction from more writers, and more artwork from more artists.

So why the change? Well, I could wax philosophic about change being the one thing that we cannot change, or some such doggerel. In truth, what with the increased volume of submissions, adjusting to our new location, battling computer glitches, hustling for funding, and choking on a limited budget, on top of juggling a regular work schedule, we didn’t have much of a choice.

Unchanged is our annual subscription price of $18.50 for 6 double issues mailed to your home or $15.00 a year if you prefer emailed PDF versions. Such a great deal for so much great, creative, entertaining, and ORIGINAL stuff!

In this issue we welcome the talents of Rebecca Barossa, Kay Cavanaugh, Howard Yeilding, Penny Davidsen, Margaret Damele Elam, Sandra Eastman, Virginia McClean, Sharon McGregor, Simone A. Angelin, Karen Logan, Porcupine Smith, Racheal Doyle, Rev. Juliet Nightingale, and Laurie Notch complemented with artwork by Dave Digre, Im Sook Kim, Ozlem Silverstein, Jamie Studebaker, and photography by Bruce Buchanan, Ron Cameron, and Rachael Gaskin.

Be sure to check out our photo essays on tippling the “Green Fairy” in Prague and the magic of gates in “Heavenly Metal.” Enter the world of Indigenous art with an interview at Earth & Soul, and follow along with an article on the dos and don’ts of casual dating.

Of course, fiction is our forte with short stories and flash fiction. However, our serial stories of yore are yet on hiatus, including the graphic novel “Kaite Madigan and the Errant Knight,” for they have aspirations of becoming full-grown books! We hope to see their continuation in future.

Bigger, Better, Bi-monthly

1

Contests

3

Guidelines

4

Christmas Greetings (a Poem)

6

Poetry & Painting

8

The Marker

10

Cost of Vanity

15

Happy Freakin’ Holidays

18

Anatomy of a Kidnapping

19

Average Woman’s Adventure

21

Flash Fiction

22

Earth & Soul

23

Please Feel My Pain

25

Playback Theater

35

Casual Dating

36

Heavenly Metal

38

Temporal Lobe Epilepsy

39

Lollipop Art

39

Building a New Economy

40

Sisters of Monte Cristo

41

Prague & The Green Fairy

49

We hope you feast on this anniversary-cum-holiday fiesta of literature to while away those weary winter spells.

-- Cytheria Howell, Author, Editor-in-chief, and Incurable Romantic Page 1

S

eeking your own adventure

but too bogged down to go out and live one?

Let us write one for you using your name and specific details of your life.

Just send a letter or email with the adventure tale you’ve chosen from our repertoire.

Your personal “novelette” will be creatively printed and bound with your portrait on the cover. Illustrations are optional and cost extra.

Prices start at $150 for basic nameinsert in vanilla cover and vary depending on amount of personal detail you wish to include in the story.

We also write memoirs (see book cover and illustration below] with digitally-enhanced family photos.

For more information, please contact Fantom Scrivner at ideagems@aol.com or call (202) -746 - 5160.

Illustration from “Boundary Waters” © 2005

BOILERPLATE SPECIALS for your personal novelette: Magic Quest - Wizards and dragons are not just for children. You too can fly across leagues and conjure spells in order to solve the mystery of a lost child who harbors a powerful secret.

Fantasy Cruise - you’ve won a fantasy cruise with the movie hunk of your dreams. The adventure begins when you are shipwrecked in a storm on the jungle coast of a war-torn banana republic. Only you can save the day and lead the way to safety.

Willing Spirits - you live in a haunted house and seek the help of professional paranormal investigators.

What will you do with all the ghosts and the sexy ghost hunter hired to chase them?

Let us know any special requests for stories — even “saucy” ones. We’re not shy!

Contact Fantom Scrivner at ideagems@aol.com or mail in your request to: IDEAGEMS P.O. Box 4748 Portland, ME 04112-4748

IDEAGEMS ® PUBLICATIONS

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Makes for a fantastic Valentine’s Day gift for that special someone!

Adventures for the Average Woman

TELL US YOUR REAL-LIFE ADVENTURES! Are you a woman or a man who likes to write about a woman (in the present or the past) who has experienced a rip-roaring, jaw-clenching, nail-biting, real-life adventure? Well, write it up, send it in to get it featured in our book version of Adventures for the Average Woman, and possibly win a cash prize to boot! Well, you’ll be happy to know that we are extended our entry dates. Sound good? Here’s how it works.

THE RULES ARE SIMPLE: 1) There’s a $25 initial entry fee with your first submission, $10 for each additional submission, which you can submit by check or money order made out to IDEAGEMS PUBLICATIONS to be enclosed along with a Self Addressed Stamped Envelope (if you want your materials returned) with your mailed in submission to: IdeaGems Publications, P. O. Box 4748, Portland, ME 04112-4748 or by PayPal (ideagems@aol.com) with your electronic submission sent to ideagems@aol.com.

Be sure to Indicate that your story is for the AFTAW BOOK CONTEST and include all contact information.

2) Stories must be TRUE although you may want to change the names of all person involved to protect the innocent, not to mention the guilty. Be our guest and embellish a bit to make your tale taller, and if there’s a lesson to be learned, relate it but without being heavy-handed. We want this collection to be both fun and enlightening.

3) Stories should be short -- anywhere from 500 to 2,500 words -- and extremely well written with proper syntax, grammar, and punctuation. (And if you should go over the limit a bit, no worries. we’ll still take a good long gander.) You might even be talented enough to illustrate your tale comic-book style! Hey! We’re fairly flexible!

4) Stories can be about a dramatic event incurred during a trip or a life-threatening situation or a major life change or even a really bad blind date. Just be sure that your heroine (which might even be you) is totally kick-ass when it comes to facing risk and extricating herself from danger. No passive Patties or benign Betsies here!

5) You send in your written or illustrated materials along with your respective fee(s) no later than March 31, 2007. Our editing staff will then pour through each and every submission and decide on the top twenty picks to be published in an anthology for summer 2007.

6) Out of the twenty stories chosen, three will be selected for prizes. First Prize will be $250 with a free copy of the book; Second Prize will be $100 and a free copy of the book (due out by Fall 2007 if not sooner); Third Prize will be $50 and a free copy of the book. The rest get the glory of having their claim to literary fame by getting their name in print.

7) The winners will be notified by July 31, 2007.

8) The contest is open to anyone over the age of 18 and who is NOT an employee or member of the editing staff at IdeaGems Publications -- which means pretty much anyone on the planet.

9) In the event we should have missed out on some other c.y.a. (cover your ass) legal technicality here, PLEASE ADVISE! We’re real new at this.

DISCLAIMER: In order for us to make good on our promises of the above-listed prizes, we require a minimum of 50 more entries. All entry fees are final. There are no refunds. In the event we fall short of our goal (heaven forbid) we will still come up with a viable option to honor our contest winners.

Volume 2, Issue 1

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BEFORE YOU SEND IN SUBMISSIONS, READ OUR GUIDELINES! 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: 150 to 500 words Article: 500 to 2,500 words

Short story: 1,500 to 5,000 words Poem: 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! Page 4

Adventures for the Average Woman

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!

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: We are currently courting new sponsors and running contests to garner funds for our publishing operation. New compensatory rates will be made available by end of first quarter 2007. 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, Managing Editor December 12, 2006

THIS ISSUE PROUDLY BROUGHT TO YOU BY THESE FINE SPONSORS

pghosh@remax.net

Volume 2, Issue 1

www.mainetimebanks.org

www.1110bonifant.com

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Girlhood chums and more, That was Ruthie and me.

She was younger.

I was older, Just a year between.

I walked with her to kindergarten.

Her little fingers clung to mine.

She smiled sweet for high-placed friends.

I was in first grade.

Her father died of cancer When we were eleven and twelve.

She cried and I felt guilty For a sadness I didn't share.

In high school they expelled us For smoking in the Johnny.

Ruthie was embarrassed.

I didn't have a care.

Ruthie was an honor student.

I made D's in Health.

Ruthie went to college.

New York for me and work.

Ruthie came East to visit And stayed all summer long.

She met a West Virginia bum In front of the U N. I tried like hell to stop her, But she up and married him.

She and the bum moved in with me 'Til they could find their own place.

Six months later, they were still there.

The bum got fired Because he was drunk on the job.

Ruthie got pregnant Because she forgot the pill.

I moved to Indianapolis Because I couldn't kill the bum.

I started writing ads For a local Indy paper.

Ruthie wrote she'd lost the baby.

The bum called to borrow money.

I hung up on him.

The bum went to prison For screwing up a robbery.

Ruthie divorced him and felt like a failure.

I went home for Christmas that year.

Ruthie was staying with her mother.

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Her mother was remarried That very Christmas Eve. I went home to Indy, And Ruthie went with me.

I was promoted to writing The Entertainment page.

Ruthie found a job in credit At a big department store.

My press pass got us in To all the fancy shows.

Ruthie's fifteen percent discount Saved us money at Sears.

One week we were broke And ate popcorn 'til pay day.

We spent a lot of time laughing.

Our apartment had one bedroom.

We sold my double and bought twins.

I worked late three nights a week.

Ruthie started sleeping around.

She brought her paramours home.

I grew stiff and crinkled From sleeping on the couch.

Ruthie huddled with her current love All warm and snug and cozy.

I was fed-up and tired.

Ruthie was happy and satiated.

I doused them in ice water One night at the midnight hour.

Ruthie was mad as hell.

I laughed like the devil.

Ruthie slept out after that.

Ruthie was a Baptist When she cared to be.

I wasn't much of anything But times felt good and full.

I met a Jew in springtime Who looked like Errol Flynn.

We rode his motorcycle to Canada And lived three weeks in a tent.

We made mad passion in the woods, And life was glorious.

Ruthie said I'd go to Hell For sleeping with a Jew. I told her he was worth it.

The Jew talked of marriage,

Margaret Damele Elam, a graduate of Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, is a teacher who now devotes her days to a life long dream, writing. She lives with her husband, two cats, and a demanding little Pug named Li Chan, in a small Southwestern Ohio village she likes to refer to as “Mayberry” because of its quaint atmosphere. She loves creating fantasy worlds filled with adventure, romance, magic, and wondrous creatures. She is currently at work on a novel, entitled “Daughter of Ascalla.” You can visit Margaret at http://www.wolfetales.com/ .

And we made plans.

Ruthie got religion But not in the sack.

I bought a wedding dress And met his mother.

She sided with Ruthie And condemned us to the fire.

I didn't care.

My Jew didn't either.

A week before the wedding, The Jew was mugged and died.

I sat and held his hand Until he closed his eyes.

His family held a service.

They asked me not to come.

I cried a bit because of that.

Ruthie never left my side.

Ruthie met a good man But didn't fall in love.

I fell in love and married Ruthie's good man.

Ruthie moved to San Francisco And lived with an Indian.

I wrote and said she'd go to Hell For fooling with a heathen.

Ruthie said she couldn't get to Hell By way of San Francisco.

The good man bought a house for me.

Ruthie married the heathen.

My father died the following year, And Ruthie lost her mother.

Two years went by.

I didn't write.

Ruthie didn't either.

Adventures for the Average Woman

Then Christmas came and I got her card.

I smiled when I saw she'd signed the thing, "Ruthie and that old Heathen."

Ruthie had children.

So did I. We checked in each Christmas.

The years went by, and our kids grew up But never saw each other.

My youngest daughter asked one day, "Who's Ruthie and that old Heathen?"

I smiled and told her, "Mother's Friends," But it didn't seem to matter.

The words grew fewer on those cards.

My kids were married and gone.

And finally that good man and I Were living all alone.

We sold the house and bought a dog.

We traveled off to Europe.

We were always home by Christmas, And the card was always there.

We got older.

My hair went gray.

That good man lost his.

He retired.

I joined a club.

And then that Christmas came.

The Young Woman by Dave Digre © 1995 The card was ten or so days late When I saw it in the mail.

I slit the envelope apart And looked inside the page.

No letter bringing Yuletide cheer Accompanied the card. `CHRISTMAS GREETINGS' read the print, And then below he'd signed, "Just me now, that old Heathen."

Artist’s Statement

http://www.mnartists.org/Dave_Digre July 2000

The images in this series of paintings developed slowly and organically from various beginnings until they reached a point of resolution.

I then continued to incrementally fine tune the shapes, colours, and tones, to a point as close to perfection as I could find. No expense was spared in terms of time and effort, and sometimes I spent as much as four to five hundred hours on a single painting. I was willing to do this simply because I desired to see what the results would be when I pushed an image absolutely as far as I knew how.

The titles are derived from shapes within each picture that suggest a lyrical content to me, and are usually discovered near the end of the painting process.

Our Ruthie'd gone to Hell.

Proteus Gowanus has now launched its new, improved website, which includes the Proteus Store, featuring rotating selections from The Artistsbook Library: http://proteusgowanus.com/storeindex.html • Check out the latest print (Number 11) in the Purgatory Pie Press Purgasquare Postcard series. The series can be seen at Proteus Gowanus and at the Purgatory Pie Press open studios this Saturday, December 9, 12-4pm: 19 Hudson St. #403, New York, NY 10013, (212) 274-8228 information@purgatorypiepress.com • A reminder, as well, for the upcoming exhibition Sheer Beauty at Flushing Town Hall, from December 10- February 25. Details to follow. http://flushingtownhall.org/events/exhibitions.php • And ongoing, until February 4, The Book as Art: Twenty Years of Artists’ Books from the National Museum of Women in the Arts in Washington, DC. http://nmwa.org/exhibition For more information, contact Maddy Rosenberg at www.maddyrosenberg.com Greetings of the season to all and best wishes for the coming year!

Volume 2, Issue 1

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DO NOT WEEP From the first day I saw him Flowers grew inside my heart And he became the torment of my days.

Something in his soul unleashed my love within, The place I kept defended, covered, and preserved, Safeguarded from my own raw nerve, A haven I let no one reach.

Yet he became the torment of my days When flowers grew inside my heart Because the blooms increase in number Crowding out the dying space.

They give me life, More than any blood imparts.

Yet I cannot reach them, touch them, Breathe their smell, hold them in my arms, Their loving torture is a hell, But one that I accept, Or think I do, Until the flowers themselves die From lack of care and weep.

TORMENT OF TANTALUS This music rips my soul, and my limbs go weak With unspent fever hoarded against my will.

I move and circle around my beating heart, tom From me as it lies upon the floor Pounding out the rhythm that gives it life.

My core trembles in its meditation and This music, in its sensuous, smoldering, And relentless desire, cries in passion.

Yearning, Longing, That its cry be heard, It becomes the spell that glides and Binds this torment to my broken heart.

Melancholy, Searching, To move as one Is almost more than can be endured.

In sorrow, I rise and dance.

Simone A. Angelin DO NOT WEEP and TORMENT OF TANTALUS are two of fifty-one poems from the book LOVE POEMS LIFE DANCE of TANTALUS by Simone A. Angelin.

It may be ordered from Xlibris at www.Xlibris.com or by calling 1-888-7954274. If you liked this poem you will love the book COMING IN SPRING 2007.

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Abu Grahib -- Solitude

by Ozlem Silverstein Ozlem Silverstein was born in Istanbul. She is a student at the University of Arizona. Some of the galleries which have showed her work are: CCAC, Barnsdall Art Center, LA Art Core, Studio M521 and Space Gallery. LA Art Core Brewery Annex, Art Murmur Gallery in LA, San Marino Gallery in LA, Orange Cat In Tucson and Dinnerware Contemporary Arts Gallery in Tucson. Her statement: “Growing up in Istanbul, I was imbued with hybrid sensibilities of Eastern form and Western perspective and composition. Turkey was the seat of the Ottoman Empire, but also carries the traces of ancient Greek, Byzantine and Armenian histories and cultures. Middle Eastern motifs in art, architecture, design, literature, clothing and lifestyles, have been re-examined from new perspectives and in new frameworks. It seems that my subjectivity embodies this rather unique environment, and a concern with crosscultural understanding is at the heart of the work I am doing as a painter. I am trying to produce socially critical work that contributes to a diagnosis and analysis of our current circumstances, with an aim to contributing to a greater sensitivity towards the humanity of others. I am attempting in my painting to critique some commonplace assumptions about the normal and abnormal, and the workings of hierarchies and power. I am particularly hoping to contribute to discussions and debates about the effects of our power, for it is only by attempting to ascertain what effects we are having on others, disproportionately to their effects on our lives, that we can have any hope of exercising our power responsibly.�

Adventures for the Average Woman

Abu Grahib

by Ozlem Silverstein

I would to be a clown and naught but a clown would I be… alas life invariably requires a more sullen moment…

And so I suffered And so I suffered at the hand of the Philistine, the fool and the proletariat dogs that predicated my existence in the early stages of my life. Finally after a thousand years I broke away, I moved to a mountain but the mountain turned metropolis, still the mountain retained its majesty and it provided power and I became again the poet that I had once purposed to be.

Still I suffer… for the atrociousness of society, sociopaths surround and batter my soul, tear me to and fro… and yet a glimmer of hope remains and wherein is the hope but in God alas… the human secularist, the agnostic of this age, the skeptics of this world; would to nullify God but I would to not, for to nullify God is to nullify ones self and forsake hope.

And the trichotomy looms large; man… verses nature… verses God… and yet they are one for the hand of God is nature therefore the trichotomy becomes a dichotomy and the dichotomy can become unity and harmony but only to those who will stop, only to those who will cease for a moment, take a step back and hear the quiet ones; the subtle voice of the meek.

Yes I have suffered; I have suffered in times past and even now great torment, pain and vexation of soul. Indeed I have one day of joy for a hundred in agony yet that one day is some how enough. Emerson said: “give me health and a day and I will make the pomp of emperors look ridiculous” I say give me a day with the knowledge of God and I will consider my pain as naught; moreover it is not vain suffering but rather to arrive at my present position at the apex of knowledge, the apical meristem of life which is the utmost growing point of man, the pure untainted point that offers optimal motility, clarity and potential.

But I regress for I have the mountain on my left hand and God on my right; betwixt is the gap, the great cavern where society gyrates and gesticulates in all manor of social mores and folkways; facades of truth and false premise, presumptions and prevarications.

I regress for with great pain I have attained moments of peace and with great tumult tranquility and to you my friend whoever you may be I make these exhortations for I would that all of mankind find freedom and veracity in their comings and goings as I have yet I would have all know that the road to truth is a trying, arduous; even excruciating trek made possible only by continued faith in God above. © Porcupine Smith 2006 Porcupine Smith is a poet-comedian-philosopher living in Northern Arizona

Volume 2, Issue 1

To see more of Ozlem’s work. go to: http://www.ideagems.com/index.html

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Howard Yeilding is an Information Systems Analyst in San Jose, CA. He has been writing short stories since he was young. It was only in January of this year when he became serious about his craft. Two of his stories have already been accepted for publication.

AFTAW is very proud to feature this story about which he states, “THE MARKER is a true story about my greatgrandmother that has been passed down through the last four generations of our family. I have embellished enough in this version that it qualifies as fiction, but the essence of the tale has remained unchanged. It is about a small girl’s snap decision to kill a man, and the events in her life that led her to do so.”

Alone Photo courtesy of Ron Cameron © 2006

You can contact Howard with your comments at howard.yeilding@sbcglobal.net

It had been four days since the Oklahoma Land Run, and the dreams of hundreds of settlers had begun to take small steps toward realization. One wagon, its white shroud a beacon in the open prairie, was parked alone in the center of a field that seemed to have no clear beginning or end. Two figures stood near the wagon — a tall, thin man with a week’s worth of stubble on his face, and a little girl in a white, cotton dress that went all the way down to her ankles.

Any tracks betraying the impression that the wagon and its owners had materialized out of thin air were scrubbed away by the hands of the wind and the sun.

The same would surely happen to the little girl and her father if they couldn’t build a home for themselves before winter.

“The market’s just on the other side of that plateau, so I won’t be gone long, kitten. I’m pretty sure they’ll have what we need to get started,” the father was saying. “There’s a chance that the Marshal could come while I’m away, though, so be on the lookout. If he does show up today, he’ll pull out his badge, and then he’ll tell you that he’s here for the County Registration. Can you remember that, sweetie?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. Good girl. Then you just tell him our names, and that should be it. He won’t ask you to give him the marker. He’ll probably ask to see it, just to make sure that we aren’t squattin’ on somebody else’s land, but he’ll never ask you to give it to him. If anyone shows up and tells you to hand it over, don’t listen to ‘em. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“There’s some bad folks out there; not a lot of ‘em, but they’re out there. If somebody comes along and you think they’re up to no good, you don’t take no chances, you hear me? You know where the gun is?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you remember everything I taught you?”

She looked at him cockeyed. He smiled, seeing the frustration in her eyes, then held up his hands and said, “All right… all right… I didn’t mean anything by it, I just had to ask.”

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Adventures for the Average Woman

“I shot the bulls-eye four times last week, daddy,” she said, exasperated, with her tiny fists resting on her hips.

“I know, kitten, I know,” he said, still smiling. “I was proud of you then, and I’m proud of you now. Just be sure you don’t take any chances with strangers.

Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you, kitten, and I’ll be right back.”

She tucked the marker under the sash around her waist, and looked up at her father, trying to impress him with her steely resolve.

“I know. I love you too, daddy,” she said.

“Hold onto this no matter what,” her father said. “It’s our whole life until the Marshal comes around.”

She nodded, and replied, “I will, daddy, don’t worry!”

He smiled and kissed her on the forehead before passing the marker into her little hands. She stared at it for a moment. It was such a simple thing: a red flag with three seemingly random black stripes and the numbers 14 x 26. She didn’t know what any of it meant, but the Marshal would understand the significance of those marks and that was all that mattered.

She tucked the marker under the sash around her waist, and looked up at her father, trying to impress him with her steely resolve. He kissed her one more time, then climbed into the saddle of their only horse and road off to the east, leaving the little girl with the monumental responsibility of protecting their dream until he returned later that afternoon.

She got to work right after her father left, cleaning up the morning’s dishes and straightening the camp so that it would be tidy when he returned. An hour later, the work finished, she sat down for a rest on the tree stump that her father had been calling “the cornerstone of our new ranch.” She wasn’t sure what he had meant by that, since it was just a stump, but she supposed that he was being dramatic again. Ever since they had decided to enter the land run, he’d become dreamy and speculative about their future. Maybe he thought of the stump as a symbol of their new life. She would ask him when he got back, but until then she decided it was just going to be a chair.

At her feet, the soil had a reddish-orange color, and she could see grasshoppers perched on the stalks of dry weeds, sunning themselves and calling to one another with their curious language of buzzing and yammering. A dusty wind created alternating lines of brown and marigold that drifted across an endless sea of wheat grass. In the middle of this ocean of grain, the little girl stood on her tiptoes and watched as the waves flew at her from out of the west. They were moving with breathtaking speed, and she felt like she would be swept off of her feet and carried across the plains into Indian Territory, or maybe even Arkansas.

She wondered what life would be like as a rancher. For starters, where would the cows come from? She understood that they would buy them, but from who? There wasn’t another person within twenty miles so far as she could tell. Well, she thought, that’s not right. The store must be closer than twenty miles if her father could make it back home before dark. Were there other folks around that she didn’t know about? Hopefully, once the Marshal had registered them as the owners of this parcel, she could go with her father on these errands and meet their neighbors.

Oklahoma, the place that was to be her new home, was almost completely untouched by settlers and she liked that. She felt as though the whole territory was hers to explore, and she wanted to start right away. She wanted to feel the place in her soul, to make it a part of her so that she would never be an outsider again. Everyone in the Territory was an outsider right now, she guessed, so when she did go to school she would just be another territory kid, and that thought made her happy.

She stood on top of the tree stump and peered out towards the west, tying back her unruly hair with a ribbon that she pulled from her pocket. The waves were still there, and she was trying to follow them with her eyes, but they always disappeared when they got close to her. If she turned around and looked to the east, she could see the waves forming up again and moving off towards the horizon. She wondered how far they would go, and if they ever stopped at all. The plains seemed to go on forever.

Only God goes on forever, she reminded herself, and hoped that he hadn’t been listening just then. She wasn’t sure of her current standing with God, although she and her father had gone to church as regularly as they could. Instead of feeling peaceful and harmonious, she usually left church brimming with anxiety because she wasn’t sure if she was going to heaven or hell.

Her uncertainty was mostly due to the number of times she had wished vengeful cruelties upon those three boys in Texas. She tried not to think bad thoughts about them, tried to forgive them, but it was hard. She didn’t like them. Sometimes she thought she hated them, even though her father had always Volume 2, Issue 1

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said that you weren’t supposed to hate people. He said you should “dislike” them, so she disliked the three boys with an intensity that she hoped would not land her in hell. It was the best she could do. She was only eight, after all, and not very good at controlling her emotions.

Staring down at the windblown wheat stalks, she saw the faces of William, James, and Theodore. She would never forget their names as long as she lived.

When the incident occurred, she and her father had only been living in town for a month, and it was her first day of school. The three boys approached her on the playground innocently enough, introducing themselves and offering to show her around.

After some small-talk, James picked off the crown of a wheat stalk and told her that if she could place it on her tongue and say the She was going to like it here. She knew it like she knew the sun Lord’s Prayer, then she would become the “yard leader”. William would rise in the east. It was a truth that did not require thought, so nodded, as if to say that it was a great idea, and they should have much as acceptance, and at that very moment, standing on the oak thought of it sooner. Everyone in the school had to respect the stump facing into a strong wind with her eyes closed, she accepted yard leader, he added, so they would all want to be friends with her new life, welcoming it with an open heart. This, she thought, her. There was a pause when they were all looking at her intently, with smiles on their faces. She could not tell if the smiles were feels like home. genuine, but she knew there was something about their eyes that she didn’t like. They seemed shiny, and reminded her of the way a rattlesnake looked just before it struck at you.

Wary, but more concerned with making friends than with trusting her intuition, she placed the crown, with all its seed pods and all their little stems, in her mouth and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Even before she’d spoken the first word, the movement of her tongue had started pushing the wheat crown down into her throat. The seed pods acted as barbs, propelling the thing inward and, although she stopped speaking immediately, she could not spit it out. It had lodged itself between her nasal cavity and her esophagus, its tough little stems digging into the soft tissues in the back of her mouth and nose. She gagged, and before she could reach in to pull the prickly invader out, she vomited onto the front of her clean, white dress.

Even after emptying the contents of her stomach, the seed pod was still in her throat, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. All three of the boys cackled like hyenas, and did nothing to help her. They pointed and howled, yelling for the other kids come look at the new girl, and then danced around her when they weren’t doubled over with laughter. One of them said she was dumber than a cow, and probably shouldn’t be in school at all. Then they pointed at her dress and, from behind shiny, limpid eyes, told her to “go home and put on another sheet, dumb prairie girl!” All the while she was reaching as far into her throat as she could, grasping for the fowl thing and trying, unsuccessfully, to control the spasmodic retching of her diaphragm. She threw up on herself twice more before she was able to pull out the seed pod.

Two years later, she thought that she could still see the brownish-yellow stain on the front of her dress, even though the one she was wearing had only been purchased six months ago. She closed her eyes, intending to make the imaginary stain disappear from her mind.

Instead of opening them right away, she stood perfectly still, leaning against the wind with her eyes closed; the white dress like a flag of surrender in the breeze. Everything about the Oklahoma Territory was different, and she was beginning to fall in love with it. The air was thicker with humidity, giving the place a distinctive feel like the one she got when curling up in her favorite blanket. The sounds were new to her ears — wilder somehow — but the chirps, buzzes, and croaks were already beginning to feel like old friends that greeted her in the morning and sang her to sleep at night. Her father was more contented as well; she saw it happen to him just like she’d felt it happening to her. He had been a kind and trustworthy man his entire life, but in the recent past he’d seemed resolved to a life of mediocre drudgery in Texas. The Territory had changed him, given him newfound hope for their future, and because of that she loved the place even more. A burst of emotion swept over her. It was as pleasantly shocking as the gunshot she’d heard four days ago that told her and her father, and hundreds like them, that they could begin their journey across the border to a new life.

She was going to like it here. She knew it like she knew the sun would rise in the east. It was a truth that did not require thought, so much as acceptance, and at that very moment, standing on the oak stump facing into a strong wind with her eyes closed, she accepted her new life, welcoming it with an open heart. This, she thought, feels like home.

She opened her eyes, and it was with a peculiar dread that she noticed a man heading towards her from the south, perhaps a half-mile distant. She could tell that it wasn’t her father; he had been on horseback, and this man was walking by himself. She couldn’t see much more than his hat, bouncing up and down with each step, occasionally disappearing as he stumbled on an unseen rut or gopher track.

She told herself that she was not afraid. Maybe she was a little bit nervous, but that was different. She walked over to the wagon and pulled her father’s .38 caliber Winchester 1892 from its case. A box of cartridges was in the case as well. She took five rounds out of the box and pushed them into the loading gate of the rifle. Then she jerked the lever forward and back again, forcing a cartridge into the chamber. It hurt her fingers a little, but she thought she must have looked just like her father did when he had shown her how to handle the gun. She held it tightly in both hands, the barrel pointed at the ground to her left.

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Now that she was ready, she tried to remember everything that her father had told her, and the memory of that conversation gave her confidence and no small measure of determination and pride. Her daddy was counting on her. She brought herself back to the present when, a few minutes later, she heard the stranger’s footsteps in the dry grass. He had fallen several times, and it seemed that even the grasshoppers were aware of his approach, since they were now silent. When he finally made it to her little camp, he stopped when he was perhaps twenty feet away and smiled. He was dressed for the country, with a saddlebag draped across one shoulder. She noticed that several of his teeth were missing.

“Hello,” she said. She greeted him with respect because he was an adult and she had been taught that children were always supposed to treat adults with respect.

“Well, hi there little missy,” he said, taking instant notice of the rifle. His hands were held above his head, as if to say, “I give up!” Then he raised his eyebrows inquisitively. When she made no response, he removed his black, wide-brimmed hat and dusted it off. There was a salty ring around the rim where it had been in contact with his head. His hair was brown, and matted down with several days of dirt and sweat; like a dog that needs a bath, she thought. He looked up at the wagon, and then all around the area that she was beginning to call home. He was inspecting everything visually, almost like he was taking inventory, and it added another layer of concern to her already nervous heart.

“Are you here all alone?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“No, sir!” she said with adamancy. ‘Sooners’ were people who left to stake their claim sooner than the law allowed. “We went right after they fired the gun, same as everybody else.”

“Now who would go and leave a little girl all alone in the Territory? This is a dangerous place for a grown man, much less a tiny thing like yourself.” He put the hat back onto his head, and placed his hands on his hips.

Ignoring the underhanded jab at her father’s parenting skills, the girl said, “My daddy had to get some things so that we could start building our house.”

“I see,” he said, eyeing the Winchester again. “Well young lady, I’m Marshal Chatworth, and I’m here to collect the markers. There’s no need for that,” he nodded toward the gun, “so you can put it back in the wagon. And I’ll need you to hand me that flag, of course. I’m taking all of them back to the County Magistrate.” He patted the leather bag hanging at his side. “Been doing it for two days now, and I’d like to finish up so that I can get back home.”

He took a few steps forward, but when she stood her ground, and even raised the rifle a bit, he stopped in his tracks.

She took the marker out of her sash with her left hand, letting the barrel of the Winchester drop to the ground. Even with both hands, the gun was starting to get heavy. She held the little red flag up so that it was in plain view. “You can see it fine from over there, can’t you? My daddy says that you don’t need to take it with you, just get a look at it.” She noticed that his belt was frayed, and his boots were in a poor state of repair. A gust of wind came up from his direction and she wrinkled her nose at the stench of him. Her eyes narrowed. She tucked the marker safely away so that she could get both hands on the gun. “Where’s your star?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have my star with me. No guns either. See?” He pointed toward his hips. “I’m not on duty, just doing some extra work for the magistrate, and we don’t carry our badges if we’re volunteering. Didn’t your daddy tell you that?”

“No, sir.”

“Besides, I didn’t expect to need my badge or my gun, because I didn’t think I’d see anybody. I’m wondering what you folks are doing out here at all. Don’t you know that this is still Indian Country?”

Genuine concern shown on the girl’s face. “Huh?” “That’s right, little lady. This all belongs to the Comanche. The Department of Indian Affairs came by the day of the land run and told everybody to stay east of Fort Sill. You and your daddy didn’t hear about that?”

“No, sir, I suppose we didn’t.” She cast her eyes down a bit, and a tone of respect had crept back into her voice.

“I’m not out here to look for settlers, just going around pulling markers out of the ground,” the man said. “They’re useless now. The Government made a last minute deal with the Comanche and these parcels are no longer available to settlers. You should have known that.” He paused for a moment, and then asked, “You folks aren’t Sooners, are you?”

“No, sir!” she said with adamancy. ‘Sooners’ were people who left to stake their claim sooner than the law allowed. “We went right after they fired the gun, same as everybody else.”

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“Well, it sounds a little fishy to me young lady,” he said. His demeanor had changed from neighborly to accusatory. He pointed his index finger at her, saying, “You should’ve known about the change if you left the border when you were supposed to. Do you know what they do to Sooners?”

“No, sir.” Her voice was shaking a little now.

Her bottom lip was quivering. The man took one more step, and smiled thinly. He was about ten feet away now, reaching toward her with his right hand. His left was out of sight, at the small of his back. With his final step forward, he got close enough that she could see his eyes.

“They take ‘em back to Wichita Falls and put ‘em in front of a firing squad.” He leaned forward, looking annoyed. “I’m not on duty, so I can’t arrest you right now, but I will have to report you to the authorities if you don’t point your wagon east and roll outta here pronto. I understand you’ll need to wait until your daddy gets back before you can go, so I won’t say anything unless you’re still here when I come back tomorrow morning. But I do need to collect all the markers in this area, so you just hand that one over to me before you get yourself, and your daddy, into a lot of trouble.”

The little girl was confused. This was not what she had steeled herself against. Their new life, their new home; she felt it all slipping away. They couldn’t have gone the wrong direction, could they? She didn’t remember any announcement about changes. This was wrong. She couldn’t just hand everything over to this man. They had to stay! If they went east there wouldn’t be any more land available. Suddenly, her mind jumped to a vision of herself and her father being placed against a wall that was splattered with the blood of other criminals. Fear welled up inside her, and her hands began to shake noticeably.

Then she thought of going back to school with William, James, and Theodore, and the man in front of her split into two men, and then three, as tears began to form in the corners of her eyes. He took a few more steps toward her.

“Stop!” she cried. She raised the rifle, pointing it at the man, but without any real certainty. There were wet, salty lines down both sides of her face now.

He stared at her coldly. “You need to point that gun someplace else young lady! You wanna get your daddy shot like a dog? That’s what’ll happen if you don’t do what I tell you. Now put the gun down, and give me that marker!”

Her bottom lip was quivering. The man took one more step, and smiled thinly. He was about ten feet away now, reaching toward her with his right hand.

His left was out of sight, at the small of his back. With his final step forward, he got close enough that she could see his eyes. They were dark brown, with small pupils and a shiny film that made them glisten like bacon grease in a frying pan. “Like a rattlesnake,” she said to herself.

He flinched just as she pulled the trigger. The Winchester roared in a way that it never had when she was shooting at tin cans. The shot seemed to echo off the air around her, fading away like thunder in the spring.

She didn’t hear the man hit the ground; didn’t hear his initial scream. Her hand pulled the lever forward again instantly, and her ears were still ringing when she saw the gun in his hand, and fired a second time. The thunder faded away once more, and this time the man did not move.

She walked closer to him. Her first shot had struck him high in the chest, knocking him onto his back. The second shot seemed to have gone through his heart. There was a lot of blood, and he wasn’t breathing.

The pistol was no longer in his hand. It lay on the ground several feet away from him. She had never seen it, and now she knew why. Pressed between his body and the ground, slung behind him in a way that foretold treachery was an empty holster. There were no markers in his pouch, nor were there any in his belt. Somehow that fact, and not the existence of the gun, brought home the reality that he would have killed her if she hadn’t given him the little red flag tucked in her sash. He was a thief of lives, and he had coveted hers.

“Snake!” she screamed at the dead man, and spat in his wicked, lying face. She picked up his gun and put it in the wagon, but kept her own, propping it against the tree stump. Then she sat down to wait for her father in a pensive, hair-trigger silence. No one was going to make her go back to Texas. Twice, she broke the delicate stillness by jumping up in a rage and kicking the thief repeatedly in his unresponsive torso.

It was not until later that afternoon, when she could see her father approaching, that she allowed herself to cry.

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Experienced federal government contractor Professional abstract writing Accurate fact checking

Adventures for the Average Woman

Kay Cavanaugh is a retired nursing educator. She spends time volunteering in community, taking classes, traveling, and writing.

You can contact Kay with your comments at kfcav@bellsouth.net

"Doctor, I want to look younger. Can you fix this saggy face of mine? And maybe take a whack at my butt? I don't want to step on it when I dance," Janet said.

"Janet, not only can I make you look years younger but I can guarantee you will have the body of a woman 20 years your junior," Dr. Daniels said.

Nebulous Hope by Im Sook Kim Š 2005

Janet Brown an aging 70-year-old wealthy Houston socialite was born into money and married well. Years of cigarette smoking and lounging in the Caribbean sun left her face looking like a prune. Not one for exercise Janet also had flabby flesh around her buttocks and abdomen. "No one wants a broad with a sagging butt," she told her maid, Martha. "I want to snag me a young buckaroo who'll spoil me. I'm too young to wither up like an anchovy and die."

"Yes Ms. Janet you are too young to let life pass you by."

Janet checked with her friend Mary Belle Stevenson who told her about her plastic surgeon. "He's brilliant. Good looking and very discreet. Charges an arm and a leg but you want to drive off in a Mercedes and not a VW, don’t you?"

Dr. Rene Daniels, age 35, a well-trained plastic surgeon studied in Europe and the U.S. under well-known plastic surgeons. He was confident, vain, and INCREDIBLY expensive. The doctor examined Janet. God, these old biddies are willing to pay any amount of money to erase a few years off their lives.

Don't they realize they are aging inside as well as on the outside? "Yes, Janet I see clearly what you want done. I'll do a butt lift that will also tighten your abdominal lines. We'll go with a modified face-lift to include brow, jaw line, eyelids. I'll inject you today with Botox. That will iron out creases in your forehead.

I can schedule you for the rest of the work next Thursday morning?"

"Thursday will be fine. Now how much is this tune up going to cost me? Not that money is a problem."

"The visit today for the consult, exam, and Botox injections is $900.00. The lump sum for the remainder is $125,000." He didn't blink when he said the dollar amount.

Neither did Janet. "Fine. Go ahead and level the wrinkles on my forehead."

With skill he injected the poisonous Botox into Janet's forehead. "You should see results immediately."

Thursday morning Janet was admitted to the Daniels Outpatient Clinic for surgery. Janet was wheeled into the operating room at 9 a.m. "Good morning Janet. Are you pleased with the results of the Botox?"

"Oh yes. No lines on my forehead. Too bad you can't tell if you are smiling or not, but at least the wrinkles are gone." As she smiled there was no movement of the muscles in her forehead. They were paralyzed giving her the look of someone with a sagging face but a flawless forehead.

Dr. Daniels smiled, proud of his work. "After the surgery today and you are fully awake, I'll send you home with a nurse and pain medication so you'll be comfortable. You are going to have some bruising and swelling. That will go away in a few weeks."

"I plan to market this old body afterwards. Do your best chiseling."

Dr. Daniels worked rapidly sculpting Janet's face. He made incisions in strategic lines on her face and neck to avoid obvious scars. He suctioned out excess fat, trimmed extra skin, and pulled the skin tight to draw the skin up towards her hairline. He turned her over and performed the butt lift.

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Janet awakened. "Is it over? Am I absolutely beautiful?"

Dr. Daniels arrived at Janet's mansion. He was used to demanding spoiled socialites. He knew they responded well to charm AND Morphine.

"Your operation is over Ms. Janet. Your face is a little swollen. I'm going to medicate you for pain. We want you to be comfy," the nurse said. Janet looked forward to the buzz the pain medicine would provide.

For the next four days she relied on Dilaudid tablets to keep her happy. On day 5 post operatively Janet awakened with a headache. Not one to tolerate discomfort she took a Dilaudid. The pain persisted so she took 2 more. Groggy from the medication she called Dr. Daniels. "Doctor I have a horrible headache. I've taken more than enough Dilaudid and still no relief. What is causing this terrible pain?"

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. I did a lot of work to get the results you wanted. I'll come by and check you. We don't want to have you developing worry lines on that new face, do we?"

"Please hurry."

Dr. Daniels arrived at Janet's mansion. He was used to demanding spoiled socialites. He knew they responded well to charm AND Morphine. At first glance he thought her face looked asymmetrical. It was beyond his ego to consider that he may have botched the surgery. "Janet, let's have a look and see what is going on to cause a headache." He took a penlight and examined the suture lines. A feeling of anxiety slipped in like fog around him. It appeared that all of the suture lines had failed causing her face to sag and come apart at the suture line. It looked like a poorly stitched hem that was separating and as a result was exposing bone and soft tissue. "Have you been using the antibiotic ointment I ordered?"

"I couldn't see all that good because of the swelling but I managed to get it on all right."

His mind raced trying to think of what to do or tell his patient. Her face was literally falling off and there wasn't anything he could do. He had pulled the skin too tight, cut off the excess so there wasn't anything to reattach. Horrified and knowing he would face a large lawsuit over this he stalled for time. "Janet, I'll wrap your face with medicated gauze. Come see me in the morning. In the meantime I'll give you Morphine to take." He knew why she was having so much pain. The frontal head bone and nerves was exposed around the surgical incisions in her face and head. Room air directly on the nerves and bone was causing the excruciating pain. He had to figure out a way to repair the damage before she saw it. Janet took the Morphine and fell asleep.

The next morning she arrived at the clinic. The nurse slowly removed the dressing per the doctor's orders. She had to control her expression of horror at what she saw. There was a 2-inch wide opening in Janet's forehead and dull white frontal bone was exposed. With this gap it caused her eyes, eyelids, and cheeks to droop noticeably.

The nurse went immediately to the doctor's office. "Dr. Daniels there is something terribly wrong with Ms. Janet. Her incision line is gaping open and bone is exposed."

Without showing any emotion he replied, "I'll take care of it. She must have done something wrong to mess up my work."

"Good morning Janet. Did the Morphine take care of that nasty pain?"

"Yes. What caused that terrible pain?"

"There seems to be a slight problem with your suture line. It appears to have pulled away from the sutures."

"What do you mean a slight problem? You guaranteed I'd be beautiful. I paid you handsomely. Let me see my face."

"I'd rather you didn't look right now. It would be confusing and upset you needlessly."

Janet saw a mirror on the table picked it up and looked at her face. She paled and screamed, "You've made me look like a freaking monster! I'll have your hide for this. You'll never operate on another patient again. EVER!" "Janet calm down. I can fix this."

"How can it be fixed?"

"I'll do a skin graft. I'll take some skin from your thighs and graft it to your forehead and re-suture the area."

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"Then I'll have scars on my thighs. I wouldn't be able to wear my bikini. No I'll never have that done!"

"All right, I can cut into your scalp higher up and use that skin to pull the forehead up and then tack that into your hairline. That will cover the separation you see now. I can do that under a twilight sleep so you won't feel anything."

"When can it be done?"

"I'll cancel my appointments tomorrow and do it first thing in the morning."

He knew what had caused it. He had removed too much skin and left the suture line vulnerable to failure. And the Botox added to the problem. He had another plan.

Janet was readmitted to the clinic the next morning.

Dr. Daniels instructed his staff to take the day off with the exception of one nurse. "Janet this will work. Trust me. And you won't be in the pain you were."

"She seemed so happy with the work that Dr. Daniels did. Dana added. What a price she paid for vanity -- her life."

"You better fix it OR you can kiss your practice goodbye."

"Dana, lets get started." Slowly he injected the Versed and Demerol into her I.V. line and she became sleepy but remained conscious. The doctor made a small incision into her scalp and began stretching the skin to tack it up. He knew it wouldn't hold but it would appear as if it did. No one would be able to see his error. Janet moaned. "I'm going to give her a little more Demerol. She's in pain. Get me a few more sponges please." When Dana left for the sponges Dr. Daniels took a syringe from the pocket of his scrub pants. Quickly he injected the medicine into Janet's I.V. Suddenly Janet had a seizure and stopped breathing. "Get the Ambu and bag her," Dr. Daniels said. He listened for a heartbeat. "No heartbeat. Call 911. I'll start CPR." While Dana called for the ambulance he stopped CPR. The Emergency Technicians arrived and hooked her to an EKG monitor and continued with the CPR. "I'm afraid she's gone, Doc. EKG's flat lined. Pupils fixed and dilated. What happened?"

"I was doing a minor cosmetic procedure. She may have overdosed on Morphine. If they do an autopsy they'll find an excess of Morphine in her blood."

"Must not have known what her body tolerance to medicine was."

"Yes it troubles me. I've never lost a patient before."

"She seemed so happy with the work that Dr. Daniels did. Dana added. What a price she paid for vanity -- her life."

"I'm sure it wasn't anything you did, Doc." After they left Dr. Daniels spoke to Dana. "I want you to know you didn't do anything to cause Janet's death. Sometimes we caretakers blame ourselves.

Take the rest of the week off and rest. I'll clean up the room."

Dana accepted the doctor's generous offer.

Dr. Daniels cleaned up the instrument tray and discarded all disposable items. He took the clear plastic syringe out of his pocket and tapped it. "No, Janet, there will be no lawsuit, no ruined career, and no ugly rumors. When they post you they'll find extra Morphine. What they won't find is the Potassium Chloride I added to the mix. That's what stopped your heart." *

*

*

"Doctor, I want to look younger," 69-year-old Emily said.

Dr. Daniels patted her hand. "Not only can I make you look years younger, I guarantee you that your body will look 20 years your junior."

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Penelope Davidsen is a writer who hails from Boston. She now resides in Camarillo, CA. You can contact Penelope with your comments at pandorasbox@hotmail.com

“I hope he likes it, I hope he loves it!” I can hear the words in my head, over and over again. I make my step-dad sit down next to me on the couch while my sister and my mom bring the oversized present into the room. We misjudged the space of my sister’s living room, and he and I have to get up and go into the other room for him to unwrap the perfect present that I was so excited to give to him.

Anticipation grows and I can feel the butterflies swooping in my tummy. Forget for a moment that I am a 28-year-old woman that still gets up at five in the morning to open the mound of presents that my mom stacks in front of me. Forget for a minute that I am the only adult I know that still believes in Santa.

Forget for a second that I could care less what I get for Christmas. Seeing the joy and the happiness on my friends and families faces when they open a present from me is the best feeling. I have always put thought into buying gifts. That’s right, I really do think about it. True it is last minute shopping; however what people don’t know is that I have been looking and thinking about what to buy them since last Christmas.

So here it comes, the laughter, the smile, the, “HEY, P.B. got me a snow blower!!! This is GREAT!!” Then the huge hug and the “Thanks baby, I love it.”

Then the, “So, how does this freakin’ thing work anyway?” O.K. here it comes, 1, 2, 3, … “HUH?” Is this really a snow blower?” Then the look. You know the one, the one that I always hid from the ex when he would completely f#@&! up a present. The one you get on your face that says, “Oh god, this present sucks.” The look of complete horror that comes over you when you when it hits that everyone just saw the reaction from getting the worst present in the world. YA, that one! I got that look from a present I bought. OH, I don’t think so. Did he really just make a face that says I bought a present that someone didn’t like?

See, amazing Christmas presents were my trademark. No one could ever top me. I was a goddess at gift buying. When someone opened one of my presents there was a party after just to celebrate the superb package that had laid in wait for them to cry and sniffle over. There is no better feeling then having your close ones cry over the box that you have just handed to them. And trust me, I have made many a men cry at my skills.

So what’s the problem? Where are the tears? Where’s the hug? Where’s the smile? Come on!!! Show me the smile! I’m waiting. A snow blower. Did you see the writing on the box? Isn’t it big enough? A snow blower. IT’S A FREAKIN’ SNOWBLOWER!!

Nothing. Nothing but a comparison to his two ex-wives. Then the, “Why would I need a snow blower? I’m moving south.” (This was news to my mom by the way.) “I don’t need a snow blower. You wasted your money.”

After I come out of shock I gather my thoughts and walk over to the man that is fuming in the chair next to the Christmas tree. I very nicely say as I sit beside him, “It’s O.K. We can return it. Then I will just have you buy something you like. On me of course.”

Then the real complaining starts. “NO, NO, NO, I don’t want anything. I don’t need anything.”

Then the matriarch steps up to bat. “W.P. (that is the step-dad’s name) now you know you need one, and Penny put so much effort into getting you this gift.

I think it is a really nice gift. Umm did she just say a “nice” gift?”

By this time, my sister, brother-in-law and I are heading for the door. Trying to go have a cigarette to calm the shatter confidence in gift buying brings up problem number 2: I CAN’T SMOKE IN HER FREAKIN’ HOUSE!!! So I make a beeline for the back porch where the step-#@*!hole at this point, is heading so he can start to bitch louder and not be heard by the three-year old that is repeating the “f” words coming out of W.P.’s mouth. Behind him you can hear the 5’1” matriarch waddling after him, also bitching. After about 20 minutes of this it dawns on me that I am actually 28, have my own car, and my own apartment. I just can’t seem to load my car fast enough. As I head down I-93 South, I think about how this whole event is going to cost me at least one more visit to the therapist.

HAPPY FREAKIN’ HOLIDAYS!!!

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Rebeca Barroso is a Mexican writer living in Philadelphia. Here’s what she has to say about this story: “This was a real story. The levels of violence in Mexico City escalated rapidly through the '90s, from urban-myth-like ‘I heard it happened to a friend of a friend’ to ‘This just happened to someone I know.’ And one day, it happened to me, too. Twice. I remember when my dad visited Colombia in the '80s under heavy warnings of crime, and told me all about the suggested curfews, the news of kidnappings and disappearances, criminals running rampant with impunity, and I thought to myself, ‘How can people live in such a place, in such fear? Why do they put up with such horrors?’

My question was answered slowly as Mexico turned into a similar place.

Things turned really ugly somewhat fast, but people were unmoved and nobody packed their stuff or left. We all, just... adjusted. We were those frogs in a pot of water heating gradually until it boiled.”

Stress 2 by Im Sook Kim © 2005

You can contact Rebecca with your comments at bequibar@gmail.com

When my mom answered the phone I calmly told her, “Mom, don’t worry.” This, of course, had the exact opposite effect on the spot, but I really had no time for niceties. A choked up “What’s going on?” came back through the line as I nervously sped through busy intersections, intermittently eyeing the rearview mirror trying to memorize the license plate of the car tailing me, and careening around vehicles as if I was playing Pole Position.

Despite my clammy palms and my blood sugar crashing, I asked in the most zen-like tone I could muster, “Mom, grab a pen and paper... I’m driving through Avenida de los Bosques… en route to Ahuehuetes… I’m driving to your house. A white guarro car has been following me since I left the University, even through off roads I took to try to shake it off. Write this license plate down because if I’m not home in under 10 minutes or for any reason we get disconnected, you need to call the police and report my kidnapping”.

Getting on a cell phone when you’re being followed is Basic Safety 101. In the best case scenario, they assume you’re reporting them and making an ID of their car and faces, so they’ll move on to the next target and pretend they weren’t after you at all. If you fail to lose them by the mere sight of the phone, you need to call someone you know to inform them of the attempt and relay the details to the authorities. It is always better to call a friend or family rather than directly calling the authorities, because a loved one is less likely to put you on hold with the theme of The Sting annoyingly looped as you’re being pursued, caught, tied up and thrown into the trunk of your own car.

When you report a kidnapping attempt on the spot, with a description of the cars involved and the location or the streets it’s happening in, there’s a slight chance a patrolling officer might find you while this is going on. Another good advice when it is imminent that you’re about to get caught, is to crash into another car (preferably a police car if you can find one) in a very busy avenue, because the last thing the kidnappers want is a crowd gathering around, and the authorities involved. The car crash, no matter how serious, will always be less expensive and less harmful than the alternative. The alternative being they catch up with you, beat you senseless, and take you away. You can be gone for days, weeks, months… nobody knows. You disappear into a parallel dimension where nobody can find you and from where not many people come back. Some parts do come back though, or, one part does, I should say. One part consistently does. Your family receives an ear that used to be attached to you, in an envelope, with the ransom request. At that point it really doesn’t matter if your family can actually afford to pay the ransom and indeed pays it. Like I said, not many people come back.

I remember when crime slowly started rising. I remember hearing stories, the stuff of urban legends, where someone heard something happened to a friend of a friend. I remember starting to receive public service mass emails instructing people on basic safety for this new lifestyle: avoid this intersection, hide your jewelry, keep your windows up, don’t linger in parking lots, don’t stop for anyone... I used to think they were surely as useless as the chain letters that promise a piano will fall on your head if you don’t forward it to 7 people in under a minute. Then, gradually, the urban legends started to hit closer to home.

The local supermarket, where I took my baby daughter shopping, warned of child abductions: babies and toddlers snatched from the carts’ seats while their mothers picked groceries. Friends started telling horrible stories in the first person. And then they hit home. My sister and my mother were robbed at gunpoint in a mall’s stairway during Christmas shopping. My car was broken into six times, once while I was actually in it, waiting for a red light to turn green.

My purse was stolen three times in public places. I started paying attention to the mass emails.

Volume 2, Issue 1

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I adopted many of the suggestions and changed my habits: <Always have your keys in your hand, never fish for them absent-mindedly. Unlock your car just in time to reach the door handle and lock it immediately after getting in. Start it up and leave, don’t linger in the seat fixing your hair or adjusting the music, like all women do. You’re an easy target if you’re adjusting your makeup, fishing for a ticket in your bag, chatting on the cell. Hide your purse under the seat and keep the mace on your lap. Beware of the children, gum vendors, fire-eaters, clowns or panhandlers in a stoplight coming to your window for money.

They’re casing you. If they see your purse at arm’s length or if you’re wearing worthy jewelry they will mark your car so their gang members in the next stoplight know to break your window. Don’t open your garage door until it’s within your view and you’re sure there is no one around. They walk into your garage when you open it, hide until you go to bed, and strike.> The emails range from the very obvious for general situations to the very specific for a particular crime, especially for kidnappings. Oh yes, there’s more than one kind of kidnapping. The more frequent ones happen to middle and low income families. The kidnapping, the ransom request and the resolution all happen within an hour or so. These are commonly called “secuestros express”. They abduct someone –typically in a taxi, but it can happen anywhere- and demand a reasonable amount of money to be given to them in cash, say, ten thousand pesos (the equivalent of about a thousand dollars). Although this isn’t pocket money, least of all for low income families, kidnappers find that it’s the kind of money people in distress can muster up fairly quickly in exchange for a loved one. However, when it comes to kidnappings at a higher level in the socioeconomic ladder, things turn much grimmer. I imagine it has to do with envy and resentment issues typical of class differences and centuries-old caste systems. These occurrences are less random and more organized. They case you; they study your home, your office, your routine, your loved ones, your bank statements and even recruit your maid, driver or bodyguard for a cut. They might abduct you on your way to school or work, or even in the comfort of your own home. They may abduct only you, or they might hold your entire family hostage and ask you to give them more than you even own as they rape your wife, mutilate your kids and make you watch.

They drove up to my side, motioned for me to roll down my window, and window-to-window hollered their claim to be cops, pulling me over for speeding, asking me to get out of the car.

My blood boiled immediately.

Not all high-end kidnappings are that convoluted or violent though. There’s a kind of “express kidnapping” among the well-to-do too. These typically happen to teenagers in shopping malls and movie theaters. They’ll be approached by a “casting agent” and asked their height, weight, measurements, name, phone number, address, and parents’ names (for permission to model or to star in a commercial). The kids will then enter a movie and turn off their cell phones for about 2 hours, the length of a film. The kidnappers call the families. They address the parents by their names and tell them they know where they live. Then they demand a hefty reward or their child dies in 2 hours. They have a perfect description of the child, down to their hairstyle and what they’re wearing. The family cannot reach their child and agrees to the requests. By the time the kids get home, oblivious of what’s transpired while Tom Cruise was in a car chase, their families have already grieved them for two long hours, and were robbed of both the price set on their child’s life and their sense of security.

Kidnappings infuriate me. I find brutal the physical pain and emotional suffering someone will cause a fellow human being for a bit of money. I vowed never to fall victim to one of these criminals or add to their idea that this is a good living that pays off. As I glanced at the rearview mirror, certain I was being followed, I almost felt high. I was getting a second chance at outsmarting a gang of lowlifes and I was savoring their humiliation. Mexican men don’t like losing to a woman. And they don’t know that this one is a maniac behind the wheel. The one trait my mother said would kill me as I was growing up is, ironically, the one trait that consistently saved me and got me out of harm’s way.

As I was quietly smirking at their bad driving and how easily I was getting off this time, hopelessly tangling them up in a high-traffic roundabout I happened to master, I thought back on the previous kidnapping attempt a few months earlier in the same neighborhood. I wasn’t smiling then.

They had been following me since I left home, I had noticed from the start. I wasn’t sure if it was a private security guard car or not. It was past midnight and I was driving to my best friend’s house to pick her up and go clubbing. She used to sneak out at midnight and meet me at the curb. I remember minding my speed and my driving to not give them an excuse to pull me over because I was already late. I was all alone and I didn’t have my cell phone on me. Just as I reached my friend’s street I got pulled over. It was an unmarked white car, the kind guarros and federales typically use. Bodyguards and federal ex-cops are the ones you should be terrified of. They have serious guns, have friends on the inside, operate on the outside, are trained to torture, and can get away with murder. So, they do.

They drove up to my side, motioned for me to roll down my window, and window-to-window hollered their claim to be cops, pulling me over for speeding, asking me to get out of the car. My blood boiled immediately. They never stepped out of their car, showed an ID or asked for my license or registration, they wanted me out of the car. This was dangerous and I knew it. While I nodded in agreement to obediently comply, I was also quietly scanning them for badges or anything distinctive that would prove whether they were real cops or the rogue kind. Police usually patrol in pairs, but this car had three of them. They slowly parked their car diagonally in front of mine to block the road ahead, their store-bought strobe light flashing round and round like a pulsar, a quiet metronome adding to my anxiety with every pass. I was hypnotized with every blinding flash. That’s when the guy in the back seat cocked his gun. Clickclack. A cold shiver ran down my spine and I chocked up. I was going to die.

If I’m dead anyway, why not go down making them work for it? I shifted to reverse and floored the gas. I was terrified I’d be shot across the windshield so I would crash in reverse and they would walk over to me, laughing, to finish the job undaunted. I don’t think I breathed while I was driving all the way to the end of the road backwards; my body tense and heavy against the seat, my neck strained from locking my head over my shoulder, trying to see into the night, arms and legs completely outstretched holding the wheel tightly and pressing the pedal to the floor. I remember the bump against the sidewalk where I met the end of the road and the car’s rear crept half-way up against a barren lot, throwing my head towards the windshield, my body stopped by a yank of the seatbelt pressing painfully against my chest. I stepped on the clutch and the break, changed gears to first with an audible grinding resistance and floored the gas again to bring my car down with a thump and sped down the dark avenue.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

My heart was pounding, choking me with every punch. Each beat was painful, forceful against my aching chest. I could hear my blood rushing through my head and feel the adrenaline pumping. I kept checking the rearview mirror, certain they had rushed back into their car to chase me now that I had seen their faces and the gun, but so far they hadn’t caught up with me yet. I had a bitter aftertaste of fear, of bile, of regret and anger and helplessness and cowardice and bravery. I wanted to live. I was choking on my own breathing and fear. I was striving to keep calm and focused to get out of there unharmed, but I wanted to pass out. Focus. Patches of blackness engulfed me and I had to blink them away. Focus! Blank out… Focus!

“Mom, don’t worry,” I calmly told her for the second time today in the same conversation. “I already lost them in a roundabout they couldn’t get out of. I’m coming home.”

I noticed a light coming from a building with a security guard booth, half-way up a side street. In my frantic eagerness I drove up the side street to yell at the guard to help me. It was empty. No guard! I was in the middle of a tiny dead-end street, the only car with lights in a vacuum of darkness and emptiness, what a giveaway. The kidnappers would drive by soon, spot me and block my only way out. I couldn’t chance driving back down to the avenue, they had to be seconds from the corner and I wasn’t sure I could out-drive a bullet if they fired at me. I parallel parked in one movement, right next to the empty security booth and immediately turned off my lights. I turned off the engine and slid to the floor, instantly smelling the burnt tires and brakes realizing this was a mistake. What if they come up the street and smell my breaks? Did they see me turn right? I was a sitting duck now.

Shuddering overtook the tension of my muscles. I was hugging myself in the fetal position trying to suppress the uncontrollable shaking. Tears streamed down my eyes without even a sob or a cry, just water, spilling down. Maybe they’ll drive through, thinking my car was one of the many that had been parked for hours. I could hear my heartbeat inside my brain, deafening like the noise you hear after hours spent in a nightclub, like a pounding headache. It was so loud I couldn’t hear the noise outside, did they drive by?

Fighting the fear, dreading that I might see one of them holding their gun to my head if I surfaced, I slowly crawled up against my seat, only high enough to reach the window and see the side mirror, careful to hide my head with the seat. They were driving slowly on the avenue, peering into the side street… and they disappeared. After a few minutes I was beginning to wonder if it was a good time to start my car and drive away when they leisurely drove back again.

They were like a tiger, certain that the whiff they got was a scent worth sticking with. They continued to pace up and down, driving menacingly back and forth, slowing down at every pass of my tiny side street, sure I had last been seen around there… and then, after a while, they didn’t do it any more.

“Where are you now?” demanded my mother over the phone, pulling me back to this chase, “I have your dad on the other line and he has the police on the speaker.” I smirked when I saw the results in the rearview mirror. “Mom, don’t worry,” I calmly told her for the second time today in the same conversation. “I already lost them in a roundabout they couldn’t get out of. I’m coming home.”

Just graduated? Got loads of loans to pay off? Have a credit card debt that needs to be paid off? Here’s an alternative to debt consolidation plans: Consider teaching English in South Korea. One of the primary reasons why Westerners work in South Korea is to pay off student loans. The cost of living is low and the salary, along with the benefits, is decent. Additionally, you can boost your resume with the cross-cultural experience.

The average teaching contracts pays salary, housing, health insurance, and airfare. Since your housing is covered, most of your salary can go towards savings. Most of the teachers I encounter are working towards paying off their student loans. Usually, their goal is to save $20,000 in one year. Not all of the teachers are recent college grads, however, there are teachers here of all ages and backgrounds.

You are probably wondering, sure, I can save money, but will I like it? Well, that depends. Are you patient? Flexible? Creative? Are you willing to experience another culture? It probably helps if you have been overseas before. I have traveled extensively, but I did find the Korean culture to be one of the toughest.

It’s a culture that is very inclusive, conformist, and patriarchal.

Okay, I think I may like it, but am I qualified? To teach in Korea, you need to have a bachelor’s degree (in any field) and it helps to have a teaching certificate. Most certificates require 4 weeks of instruction and cost approximately $1200-1500. I traveled to Montreal, Canada and received 4 days of instruction, plus some take-home work. There are few other qualifications. Rarely do you need to speak Korean, as the courses are an immersion or may have Korean teaching assistants.

With the rising cost of college, teaching English in Korea can be an interesting and rewarding way to finance your education.

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 continue to travel the world. You can contact Joanie with your comments at joanied@hotmail.com Volume 2, Issue 1

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CAN YOU TELL A TALE IN 200 WORDS OR LESS?

HELP by Canadian writer, Sharon McGregor smcgregor@westman.wave.ca The traffic below seemed farther away than I’d expected, and the wind much stronger. I was so intent that I never saw him approaching along the ledge. He grabbed my arm and pulled me through the open window.

“They’re giving him a medal for bravery, “the nurse said. She looked at me thoughtfully. “You’ll never do it again, you know. They never do, once the moment has passed.”

As I watched the ceremony from the shadows I knew she was right. I pulled out the revolver and carefully took aim at the one who had ruined it all.

Dream by Im Sook Kim © 1995

UNDER CONSTRUCTION by Karen Logan, from Woodlands, Texas klentrepreneur@hotmail.com The women outnumber the men here for the first time this year.

They walk along in Z Cavarichi jeans, worn-out sandals, and baseball caps with ponytails pulled through. Some have lists, most don’t, but all know just what they need, and they use proper names to ask for things. Quarter-inch plywood, drywall screws, a gallon of Spice Island brown (interior-latex-flat), Make that two gallons, a can of Kilz, and extra stirrers, please.

They stuff orange carts with quarter-round trim, linoleum tile, potted monkey grass, and insecticides. They purchase lawnmowers and power tools and attend free ceiling-fanhanging workshops. They make their requests in soft tones, and never seem rushed. Point me to your wheelbarrows please. And which way is the wall paneling? Electric breakers?

Faucet knobs? Drill bits? Fencing?

It’s hard to miss the dust that lingers in the air as their extended-cab pickups peel off through the parking lot. Store associates watch and wonder as the trucks disappear, day after day, hundreds of thousands, all in the same direction.

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Labyrinth by Dave Digre © 2004

Adventures for the Average Woman

Interview with artist and entrepreneur with a global conscience, Sarah Sorenson-Coppi

by Laurie Notch I’ve walked past the small shop with the bright yellow sun painted on the sidewalk in front of the entrance dozens of times over the past six months. It wasn’t until I got caught up in a fundraising effort involving local businesses that I went inside. Once I did, I saw a world of art with a global perspective. I knew I wanted to do an interview.

Tell me about your store. Why is it called Earth & Soul?

Sarah: Because I work in the earth and the shop features the soul of indigenous people from all over the world. The shop always features Guatemala, Costa Rica, and Africa. We change countries every season. In December, we’ll have product from Oaxaca, Mexico -- textiles and shawls and handmade crafts. We do this in conjunction with the nonprofit group the Circle of Women (www.thecircleofwomen.org) Sarah and her handiwork © 2006

What’s that?

Sarah: They are a nonprofit out of Oaxaca, and on December 1, the founder of CW will be here to talk about the women, the weaving, food and music.

What inspired you to start your business?

Sarah: I kind of morphed into this. I first wanted to open a pottery studio and school. But after traveling and seeing all the people get bartered for their goods to the penny, I though I would help give them a fair price for their goods but I only work for nonprofits that support indigenous people. The Passamaquoddy tribe of northern Maine is an example.

Earth © 2006

What inspired you to do this?

Sarah: Traveling and seeing people as they really are in the world. Traveling is the truth of people. Never have I come home from a country and not felt the people were spectacular. The belief that those countries are dangerous and dirty is a myth. To see them haggle for pennies and se the hunger and the kindness. Art in America is so expensive. Art over there is so involved – cut the tree, carve the piece. I support for the compelling feeling that you can help give a poor person a quality of life.

How do you hook up with indigenous artists around the world?

Sarah: I work through a nonprofit organization called Cultural Survival (www.cs.org). They advocate indigenous rights and I advocate their crafts. I connect to different groups through them.

How do you coordinate a show?

Sarah: I travel with CS and sell my pottery to help raise funds through the CS bizarre. There’ll be one the first two weeks in December in Cambridge and Boston. And we usually have one in the summer here in Portland, Maine.

Soul © 2006 Volume 2, Issue 1

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What is your background?

Sarah: My mother is Native American and French from Canada and my father is of Swedish descent. I was a jeweler, a welder, but I burnt too much metal and couldn’t recycle it; so clay just seemed to fit. I couldn’t afford a school so I did apprenticeship at Emerson Umbrella in Concord, MA. I was one of the first to get an apprenticeship, How did you land that?

Sarah: Pounding pavement, knocking on doors, hunting everyday. I hated it but it opened to door to a whole new world of ceramics. I didn’t know where to go. Emerson Umbrella is a nonprofit art school for kids and adults. I started doing grunt work and stayed for 12 years. When the clay coordinator moved to Korea, I took his job.

India Exhibit © 2006

Why pursue pottery and not an MBA? Sarah: I didn’t find this vocation, it found me. I liked jewelry because I liked the stones, but the materials were too hard and too expensive. I always liked rock and the earth. Pottery is just another form of stone, but it is recyclable.

I know you are also a member of the Portland Time Bank. How and why did you join?

Sarah: I opened my business two years ago and heard about The Maine Time Banks at Silly’s Restaurant (which is right next door to my store) There I met a couple of women who wanted to take pottery classes and said I should trade time for time. So I earn time dollars by teaching pottery to use for other services.* What sorts of services do you trade for?

Sarah: Accounting services, mostly. I also gave time dollars to my friend for a massage on her birthday.

You seem to like the idea of trading. Why so?

Sarah: Trading is always better than the actual dollar no matter how you slice it.

For more information about Earth & Soul or to place orders for your holiday list, go to: www.earthandsoulpottery.com or call: (207) 775-1089. Better yet, visit the shop located at 34 Washington Ave., Portland, ME 04101

* (For more information as to how Time Banking works, go to: www.mainetimebanks.org)

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Sandra J. Eastman is a mother of two, proud grandma, pet owner, lives with 4 dogs - 2 Golden Retrievers, one Bischon Frise, and one loving mutt.

She is a freelance writer who has been published since 1992. She has a copywriting business in Minneapolis, MN, and has written a novel as well as her memoirs. Her stories have appeared in Animals' Voice, Pets Part of the Family and Best Friends website.

You can contact Sandy with your comments at Sandy@copyhound.com Minnesota Blues by Dave Digre © 1979 The door to the emergency room whispered an ominous “I told you so as it swished shut behind me. This wasn’t fair to Josh. Acute appendicitis was a terrible way for a fifteen year old boy to spend his birthday. I should have listened to Meggie when she complained how pale Josh looked earlier today.

But then I never paid attention to what Meggie said. Even when she warned me to go easy on Gary after Nam. What did a sister-in-law know anyway? I was Gary’s wife. I thought I knew him better than anyone.

“Mom, why does it hurt so much?” Josh moaned, his cry jarring my thoughts.

“Hold on, honey.” I took his hand in mine. “You’ll feel better soon.”

Josh winced again. “Is Aunt Meggie coming?”

Everyone called Meggie an interfering spinster, but I commended her for giving up her life for Gary. She’d been both Mother and Father to him when their parents were killed in a boating accident thirty years ago. But even Meggie couldn’t predict that Vietnam would change Gary forever.

“Give him some time,” Meggie insisted. “Gary will be his old self once he gets back to Duluth.”

But Meggie was wrong. It was a warm summer day like today when Gary returned home. But the serenity of Duluth didn’t seem to matter. Gary was restless, on edge; the hideous night sweats came again and again. He’d sit alone down at the canal, watching the Aerial Bridge ascend to escort the mammoth ore boats in and out of the harbor. Sometimes he’d walk along the lake until the early hours of the morning.

That was seventeen years ago and today no one, not even Meggie, knew where to find Gary. For the past three years, there had been only letters, each one postmarked from a different state. Meggie claimed Gary had left town without a word because his fourth marriage had crumbled in only a year. Somehow that never made sense to me. It took less than six months for his second and third marriage to fail.

Suddenly I felt myself tremble as my teeth sunk into my bottom lip. I could taste the warm blood oozing from its surface, and I squeezed Josh’s hand like it was my last lifeline.

“I love you, Josh,” I said as they wheeled him away to surgery. “Meggie and I will both be here when you get back to your room.” One little lie wouldn’t hurt. I knew Meggie was the last person I wanted or needed to see today. That old gut feeling kept gnawing at my insides, reminding me of the promise I’d made to myself after Josh was born: he must never find out the truth about his father.

Hours seemed like days before they called to say the surgery was over. Impatiently, I stood shoulder to shoulder in an elevator with six strangers, each of them headed for a different floor of St. Mary’s Hospital. I stared at the numbered button panel, its perpetual light a taunting reminder that we would stop on almost every floor before I would reach my destination. Knowing the flush in my cheeks must be broadcasting my irritation, I breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the fifth floor and only one other man remained alongside me.

Volume 2, Issue 1

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Out of the corner of my eye I glanced at him. I didn’t know if it was my imagination working overtime or if he were studying me, almost in a clinical way. He wore wire rimmed glasses and was dressed impeccably in a navy suit - definitely Armani. His warm brown hair was speckled with gray and slightly receded the hairline; evidence he was probably forty or fifty, yet his slim physique was minus the paunch usually predominant in a man his age. From where I stood, I could tell he was shorter than Gary’s six feet, but his stature didn’t deter my fascination.

Unexpectedly, the elevator came to a grinding stop, and my mouth gaped open as I tried to steady my footing. Now what? Was I trapped in an elevator?

As if he sensed my frustration, the man spoke, “Don’t worry, this elevator stops quite frequently. It’ll start up in a minute.”

I turned towards him and his eyes met mine. I couldn’t tell if they were green or blue as they seemed to change like a chameleon as they focused intently in my direction. An overwhelming charisma locked my eyes to his and instinctively my tongue rolled across my lips. I was mortified when my imagination began to play tricks with my mind, flooding it with fantasies unlike those I’d experienced for many years. The flush in my face slowly sprinkled down my neck as a trickle of sweat seeped between my breasts.

Humor lit his eyes, and he cupped his chin in his hand as if he were trying to hide a smile.

With those eyes I should have guessed he was a shrink! My God, he can probably read my mind!

Was I so transparent? I swallowed hard and cleared my throat to speak, but only Gary’s words sprang from my subconscious. You’re not worth making love to, Renee. No man will ever desire you. Gary had left me ten years ago so why was I still allowing him to torment me?

The stranger picked up the elevator phone. “This is Dr. Kyle. Number two elevator is stuck again and there’s a nervous young woman on board.”

I giggled inside. Who ever said a great haircut didn’t make a new woman of you? Perhaps my friends were right when they said my new pixie haircut was a positive compliment to my red hair and blue eyes. They even said I bore a slight resemblance to Shirley MacLlaine -- a young Shirley, of course.

I was careful to avoid his eyes when I spoke. “Thanks for your help.”

He extended his hand. “Marshall Kyle.”

It was odd that I suddenly didn’t know what had become of my hands. There were cemented, like stone, tightly to my sides. Like a bumbling idiot, I blurted out, “You’re a doctor?”

His straight white teeth sparkled when he laughed and I noticed a soft dimple in his chin.

“A psychiatrist, actually,” he said, crossing his arms to defuse the obvious fact that I hadn’t returned his gesture.

With those eyes I should have guessed he was a shrink! My God, he can probably read my mind! By this time I was nervously chewing on the side of my mouth and took a deep breath before speaking. “I’m Renee Walker. My son’s a patient on seven.”

His brow arched as he nodded his head towards me. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

The moisture I was hiding had suddenly spread like a disease and was seeping onto my shirt. I have to get out of this elevator. “Appendix,” I replied curtly He was about to speak when the elevator jolted and began its ascent. When it reached the seventh floor, I flew through the door without even a backward glance at my rescuer.

My nerves were still on edge two hours later when I sat in the hospital cafeteria with Meggie glaring at me from across the table.

“It’s Josh’s birthday, Renee. At least you could have called me before the surgery.”

Once again I was expected to calm the troubled waters. “Look, Meggie, there just wasn’t time. Anyway, Josh is fine now and that’s all that counts.”

Meggie abruptly slid back her chair and stood up. “I know Gary would have wanted me to be here.” Poor Meggie. The years had added thirty pounds to her once slender frame, and her coal black hair was now streaked with silver. They were such a contrast, she and Gary. With his blond hair and blue eyes and her dark olive skin, people often marveled that they were brother and sister.

I stood up to join her by the side of the table. “Josh hasn’t seen his father in three years, Meggie. Why would you think it mattered?”

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He casually crossed his leg over his knee and began to finger the cuff of his pants leg. “Sometimes when there is a crisis emotions get out of hand.”

“Sometimes I think you blame me for the breakup of your marriage just because Gary was my brother!”

She was right. I did blame her at first, at least for forcing me to visit Gary in Hawaii for his R&R. Rest and Recuperation was what the army called it, but it yielded only horror stories about soldiers seeing their wives for a few short days and then being hurled back to a senseless war, knowing they could soon face eternity. Gary had been sullen and withdrawn before he left for Nam, but when I saw him in Hawaii, his beautiful blond curls gone, his six foot frame so gaunt, I almost didn’t recognize him. The nightmare grew worse when we were forced to spend the night in a roach invested army barracks. We had sex several times during those two days, but Gary never made love to me. No words of tenderness passed his lips; his silence was only broken by moaning as my body brought the physical release he needed. I was so young I had no idea what agony he was going through and all I could do was question why he couldn’t be the man I married.

“Renee? You look a million miles away.”

Meggie’s voice bought my thoughts back to the present. I put my arm around her shoulder. “They gave Josh a lot of pain medication so he'll sleep through the night. Why don’t you go see him before visiting hours are over?”

Hot tears stung my eyes as Meggie walked from the cafeteria without a word of thanks. Wearily, I slumped down in the chair. Why do I let her get to me like that? She had no idea how Gary’s letters changed after Hawaii, after I rejected him. I thought his transfer to Saigon shortly before the end of the war would change everything. But his letters were more distant. When he came home I finally faced the truth: the man I loved had died in Vietnam and a different man had returned in his place. It had to be a different man. I couldn’t have loved a man capable of -“Mrs. Walker, is there anything I can do for you?”

I looked up to see Dr. Kyle standing by the table. The same aura of magnetism flooded through me, but this time I refused to behave like a school“Just worn out,” I said, forcing a smile.

girl.

“And how is your son?”

“Josh is feeling much better thanks, but I’m afraid his Aunt Meggie is furious with me.”

He said nothing as if waiting for me to continue. I tried my best to avoid his eyes, but at the same time I wanted to talk to him. “That was a dumb thing to say. I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps it was something you needed to say,” he said softly. “May I?” He gestured towards the vacant chair at the table and I nodded my consent for him to sit.

He casually crossed his leg over his knee and began to finger the cuff of his pants leg. “Sometimes when there is a crisis emotions get out of hand.”

Determined to avoid his eyes, I stared at my clenched hands. “I shouldn’t bore you with my family problems.”

He grinned. “Problems are my specialty.”

I laughed then, realizing what a ninny I was sounding like. “It’s just that Meggie is the only part of Gary that Josh has left.”

“Gary?”

“My ex-husband,” I volunteered. “We’ve been divorced for ten years. Meggie is his sister.”

He leaned back in his chair and his eyes narrowed as if he were contemplating his next statement.

But it was I who spoke. “Gary left town about three years ago and we don’t know where he is now.”

He nodded as if he understood everything about me from our brief exchange. I could feel myself flushing and decided to end the conversation before I made a fool of myself once again.

“You’re an awfully good listener.”

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His eyes twinkled at my admission, and I responded with a smile, “I know, I know, it comes with the territory.”

He let out a robust laugh after which I felt myself relax. Why was I telling this total stranger everything about my life? Was it because he was so kind or because he was trained to manipulate people?

“Tell me, doctor, how many of your patients are victims of failed marriages?”

“It’s the feeling of failure in oneself that usually brings a person into therapy, Mrs. Walker.”

His simple statement had stripped me naked, exposed me for the fraud I was. I’d pushed and pushed until the night Gary broke . . . .

“What makes you think you can understand how it feels to watch someone be blown to bits in front of you, Renee? Have you every held a dying man in your arms and listened to his screams of agony, listened to him beg you to kill him, to put him out of his misery? Have you ever been so scared that you wanted to die to escape your own panic inside?

“You keep begging me to talk, but you don’t like what you hear, do you? Well, it isn’t important anyway, because I’ve met a woman who accepts me for what I am now. She never questions me or pushes me. She takes me for me.”

I buried my face in my hands, so lost in the past; I’d forgotten Dr. Kyle was there. When I looked at him again, I saw an intense compassion in his eyes. My lip was quivering when I finally spoke, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to---“ He leaned towards me. “I’m a good listener, remember?” he whispered.

An involuntary smile tugged at the corner of my mouth and I swallowed hard. “It’s really not an uncommon story. My husband was in Vietnam, and came home a different person. I couldn’t accept that person. End of story.”

“My family was originally from Minnesota, and we vacationed here when I was a boy.

Lake Superior always had a calming effect on me, so I decided this would be the perfect place to set up practice.” He hesitated before adding, “My wife was killed in an automobile accident about a year ago. Sometimes we all need to forget.”

“It would be nice if it were that simple,” he replied. “I was a surgeon over in Nam myself. After seeing what war did to the lives of those young men, I returned home and changed the direction of my career. I married shortly after the war, and after finishing my education, I opened a free clinic for Vietnam Veterans in Los Angeles.”

When he spoke about the war, I saw the same sadness in his eyes that I’d seen in Gary’s, but this man’s eyes held the pain of hundreds.

“What prompted you to move to a small town like Duluth?”

“My family was originally from Minnesota, and we vacationed here when I was a boy. Lake Superior always had a calming effect on me, so I decided this would be the perfect place to set up practice.” He hesitated before adding, “My wife was killed in an automobile accident about a year ago. Sometimes we all need to forget.”

I was so wrapped up in myself I didn’t even think the conversation could open another’s wounds. “I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t mean to pry.”

He acknowledged my statement with a nod. “If you think Duluth is so small, why do you stay here?”

I shivered as memories of Gary’s words flooded my thoughts. “So you have a boyfriend even before the ink is dry on our divorce papers. I gave you a divorce on the condition that you would raise Josh in my family home in Duluth. Now I want your little affair over tonight or I’ll fix you up with another baby.

Then we’ll see how anxious your boyfriend will be to have you.”

“Josh is -- Josh is happy in Duluth,” I stammered, suddenly realizing I was visibly trembling.

Dr. Kyle reached for my hand. His touch was gentle; his hand warm.

Instinctively, I wanted to reach out to him, but instead I made light of the moment. “Do you always give free therapy sessions to strangers, doctor?”

His brow furrowed. “I’d like to think of us as more than strangers.”

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And I would like nothing more than to be in your arms at this very moment, so why do I keep building a wall between us? I swallowed the large lump in my throat and forced a smile.

“Besides, if you were my patient, I couldn’t ask you to dinner,” he said grinning.

“I think I’d like that, doctor.”

He stood up and once more extended his hand. “By the way, my friends call me Mickey.”

Mickey was a man of few words, formal but gentle, yet with a confidence almost bordering on arrogance. He always looked directly into my eyes when we spoke and sometimes his accurate perception of my thoughts was unnerving. Only six months passed and I knew I had fallen deeply in love with him. He and Josh became fast friends, and Mickey seemed to fill the void in my son’s life.

In January, Josh left for the high school ski trip and I looked forward to spending the weekend alone with Mickey. He arrived late Friday afternoon as I was preparing dinner. I thought he was busy reading the paper when I noticed him staring at an unopened letter from Gary. It was postmarked Montana.

“Does Josh miss his father?”

I quickly tossed the letter in a drawer. “Gary doesn’t stay in one place very long, and Josh has accepted the possibility his father may never return.”

My heart was pounding so hard I thought my chest would explode. The strange power he had over me was uncanny, and I instinctively did as he said.

Mickey frowned but said nothing.

Later that evening, we sat on the floor before a roaring fire, an Afghan draped over our shoulders. Mickey seemed deep in thought as I shivered and moved closer to him. He turned and kissed me, his warm tongue mingling with mine. I’d dreamed about being with him from that first day in the elevator, but I was haunted by the memories of the past that refused to die.

At the beginning of our relationship, Mickey seemed to sense my hesitation, often becoming aroused then forcing himself to back away. But tonight he seemed different, as if he had made a decision; as he took me into his arms I knew he would have his long awaited fulfillment.

As his fingertips brushed my cheeks, the past became shadowed and I only knew his touch. He loved me tenderly and slowly, his lips caressing my skin, his tongue enjoying every part of my body, bringing me pleasure after pleasure before taking his own. Afterward as I lay in his arms, he sighed. “I’m sorry I waited so long to make love to you. I’ve wasted so much precious time.”

I didn’t understand what he meant. It was as if he knew something I couldn’t begin to see. In the months that followed, I grew to know him as I had no other man, satisfying his every need, longing to be with him at the slightest touch or glance. As our love became stronger, he seemed to know just when I needed him most. It was as if he knew me body and soul.

When the doorbell rang, I thought Mickey had forgotten his key. I was so glad the medical conference was over. Duluth was especially beautiful in September, and I hated it when Mickey was away. Everything seemed so perfect; even Mickey and Josh had come to love one another.

I rushed to open the door but froze inside when I came face to face with Gary. As if only days had passed, he smiled at me. “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?”

My heart was pounding so hard I thought my chest would explode. The strange power he had over me was uncanny, and I instinctively did as he said.

He touched his hand to my cheek. “Aren’t you glad to see me, pretty Mama?”

All the anger I’d smothered, all the memories I’d buried, suddenly surfaced and I erupted, “How dare you come back after four years and think you can enter our lives as if nothing has happened!” Then noticing how tired and pale he looked, I softened my voice. “How could you abandon your son, Gary? It tore Josh apart when you left.”

For a moment I thought I saw a flicker of remorse in his eyes, but he recovered with biting sarcasm. “I saw Josh after school and he turned down my dinner invitation. He says he’s having dinner with you and your new boyfriend. Says he’s a doctor even. A little out of your class, aren't you?”

“My life is none of your business anymore, Gary.”

Suddenly, I felt his hand slip around my waist. “Has he replaced me in your bed too, pretty Mama?”

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I always hated that stupid pet name and tonight it seemed worse than ever. Heat surged into my face as I struggled to wrestle free of his hands.

He threw back his head, howling in mocking laughter. “Maybe I should stay for dinner and fill in your boyfriend about our past together.”

I won’t let you destroy everything Mickey and I have built together!

“Hi, I’m home.” Mickey’s voice came from the foyer.

Gary dropped his hands, his face flooding with jealous rage as he turned towards the door.

Mickey walked up the stairs, never taking his eyes from Gary.

Gary extended his hand. “Gary Walker. Nice ta meet ya, Doc.”

“…I quickly pulled the curtain to cover my fear. I turned on the faucet, taking a deep breath as the warm water flooded over my body. Closing my eyes, I rolled my shoulders to release the tension. It was then I heard the rustling of plastic.”

Beads of perspiration peppered my mouth. “Mickey, this is Josh’s father.”

Mickey reached for Gary’s hand but Gary instead swerved around to face me. “Josh’s father, huh. Is that all I am to you, pretty Mama?”

“Gary, I want you to leave before-“Before what? Before I spill everything to your fancy boyfriend?”

“Stop it, Gary!”

“Renee,” Mickey interrupted. His voice was calm and he looked directly into Gary’s eyes. “I know everything I need to know about Renee.”

Gary sneered. “I doubt it, Doc.” Before Mickey could speak again, the door opened and Josh bounded in. His excitement at seeing Mickey was obvious.

As Josh left to wash for dinner, Gary scowled at Mickey. “Guess you’ve replaced me with more than one person around here, Doc.” I cringed as Gary slammed out the door. No longer able to control my fear, I began to tremble.

Mickey voice was subdued. “Renee, I think it’s time you tell me everything about Gary Walker.”

Later that night we sat in silence as I searched for words to tell him of my life with Gary. “Gary had his first affair not long after his return from Vietnam. Time went by and he claimed the affair was over, but I couldn’t stop doubting him. Finally I insisted on a divorce. Gary refused. He wanted a child . . . . “‘A child is out of the question. I can’t stand living like this any longer,’ I told him. “‘Living like what? You accusing me every minute of having another affair. I told you it was over. Maybe if you’d given me some time after Nam.’ “I stopped brushing my hair and turned from the mirror. ‘Time? Time for what? Maybe two or three women to understand you? You make me sick! Go to bed, Gary. I’m tired and I need a shower.’

“I started to close the door but Gary blocked it with his hand. ‘Don’t you ever shut me out! I’m still your husband.’

“I ignored his ranting, but my hands shook as I disrobed and stepped into the shower. My legs felt like rubber and I thought they would buckle beneath me, but I quickly pulled the curtain to cover my fear. I turned on the faucet, taking a deep breath as the warm water flooded over my body. Closing my eyes, I rolled my shoulders to release the tension. It was then I heard the rustling of plastic. I opened my eyes as Gary’s hand came from around the edge of the curtain. His face was contorted with rage, like nothing I’d ever seen before. I lost all control when he fisted the curtain and yanked it from the rod. I was screaming and slapping at his hands as he groped for me through the pounding water.

“Gary was like an animal, seizing my hair and forcing me to my knees. ‘I told you I wanted a baby and you’ll have my baby. Then we’ll see how quickly you get your divorce!’ He muffled my cries with one hand while his other hand slipped over my wet skin. He pulled me from the shower and into the bedroom. By Page 30

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the time he pushed me down on the bed, I was hysterical. I screamed every foul word I knew, kicking my feet into the air to defend myself. The more I fought, the angrier he became. Suddenly has hand smashed across my face stunning me into tearful silence.

“I watched him peel off his wet clothes, all the while willing my body to get up, to run, to hide, but not even the smallest muscle was at my command.

Paralyzed with fear, I opened my mouth yet only silent screams echoed in my mind. I knew I was powerless to stop him. Hot tears streamed down my face as he held my arms and licked at my breasts. My sobbing seemed to bring him some sort of sadistic pleasure. The minutes of his satisfaction seemed like hours, and when it was over there was no remorse on his face. I felt betrayed and violated and I hated the animal he had become.

“Gary never touched me again, but that didn’t matter. Josh was conceived that night. As I predicted, the baby didn’t change anything and Gary’s affairs continued. Gary finally agreed to a divorce but made me promise to raise Josh in Duluth in his family home.

“Just before my divorce was final I met Randy and fell in love. Then Gary discovered my affair and threatened to rape me again unless I ended it. When I told Randy the truth about everything, he turned his back on me and walked out of my life forever. I decided it was easier to live my life alone than to put up with Gary’s tantrums. I then had my tubes tied to prevent another pregnancy. I wouldn’t let Gary destroy me again that way.

“By the time Josh was eleven, Gary had been married to his fourth wife for about six months. It was a rainy Saturday morning when I answered the doorbell, and found Gary standing on the step. “‘Why are you here?’ I said, indifferently. ‘Josh is at camp.’

“He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I must have gotten my weekends mixed up. How about a cup of coffee to warm up from this cold rain?’

“Reluctantly and foolishly, I opened the door. We sat on the sofa and talked for about an hour when I began to feel uncomfortable. Gary’s eyes narrowed as he leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. ‘I want to make love to you, Renee.’

“I was trembling inside, but I tried to hide my fear. When I tried to stand up, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back on the sofa. ‘Come on, pretty Mama, you know you’ve never stopped loving me. Let me kiss you, just once.’

“Visions of his last brutal attack flooded my mind and I fought to stay in control. ‘Gary, you’re crazy. We’ve been over for years.’ I struggled to breathe as my every movement brought him closer and closer. The more I tried to disguise my terror, the I blinked back hot tears. “I -- I didn’t know what to do. He came every week and more gratified he became. every week, expecting me to have sex with him, threatening to tell Josh we were

having an affair. It made me sick every time he touched me but I ---“

“He took my face in his hands and began to kiss me. His breathing became heavy, and as each kiss brought more passion, I realized my body was overpowering my mind. I felt him unbutton my blouse and as his lips touched my breast, I knew he was right. I had never stopped loving the man I’d married. But a voice inside me screamed, That man is dead! “‘Please don’t do this to me, Gary,’ I pleaded. ‘Don’t destroy what love I have left for you.’

“He brushed his mouth over my ear as he whispered, ‘It’s been a long time for you hasn’t it, pretty Mama, I can tell. Just relax and let me have you this once and I’ll go away forever.’”

Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, Mickey dropped his head into his hands. The room was a still as a graveyard until finally his voice came out of the silence. “And did he go away forever?”

I turned away to hide my tears.

“Renee,” Mickey prodded. He leaned back on the sofa and placed his hand under my chin, pulling my face towards him. “Did he come back again?”

I blinked back hot tears. “I -- I didn’t know what to do. He came every week and every week, expecting me to have sex with him, threatening to tell Josh we were having an affair. It made me sick every time he touched me but I ---“ “Good God, Renee. What he did to you was nothing short of rape and sexual abuse! Why didn’t you turn him in?”

“I had to protect Josh. I couldn’t let him know what an animal his father had become. I drove him to ---“

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“That’s enough, Renee!” Mickey was on his feet, pacing the room. For the first time since I’d known him, I heard contempt in his voice. “How can you keep making allowances for that bastard?”

“You don’t understand. I rejected him when he came home fro Nam.” “That’s bullshit and you know it. It’s time Gary Walker became accountable for his own actions!”

I burst into shameful tears, burying my face in my hands.

In an instant Mickey was by my side, cupping my hands in his own. “Renee,” he whispered, “you must stop blaming yourself. You are the victim here, not Gary. Vietnam was a brutal and senseless war, but your misplaced guilt has allowed Gary to control you for eighteen years. Don’t let it destroy what we have together.”

“Oh, Mickey, I sobbed. “I love you more than I ever thought possible. How could you think Gary’s return would change that?”

“I could see the fear in your eyes when I left for the medical conference. I saw the same fear tonight when I came home. I suspect you’ve known for a long time that Gary was on his way home.”

I heard the frustration in Mickey’s voice and slowly nodded. “Gary’s recent letters were postmarked South Dakota.”

I could see the doubt in Mickey’s eyes when he spoke. “Renee, you know I love you. You’ve trusted me enough to give yourself to me completely. When you feared Gary would return, why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me?”

Suddenly, Gary grabbed Mickey’s arm and began yelling, “They’re dead because of me, Doc. I killed them.”

I was stammering, fighting to control my gasping sobs. “I... I was afraid you’d... you’d leave me, just like Randy did.”

Sighing, Mickey pulled me into his arms. “I won’t be bullied by Gary Walker or anyone else. I promise he’ll never hurt you again. I’ll see to it.”

After that night, I was pleasantly surprised when Gary never mentioned my relationship with Mickey but only concentrated on seeing Josh.

“Dad wants me to spend the weekend with him. What do you think?”

I could hear the hesitancy in his voice and I tried to be positive. “Look, honey, your dad’s apartment is only a couple of blocks from here, and if anything goes wrong, Mickey and I will be here.”

Gary spoke very little when he picked up Josh about five o’clock. Mickey arrived about seven and we had just sat down to dinner when the phone rang.

From the moment Mickey answered, I could hear the urgency in his voice. “Josh, whatever you do, don’t touch your father. We’ll be right over.”

We arrived to find Gary lying on the bedroom floor covered in vomit and hallucinating. Mickey grabbed a towel and knelt by his side. “Better call an ambulance. Looks like he’s had a seizure.”

Suddenly, Gary grabbed Mickey’s arm and began yelling, “They’re dead because of me, Doc. I killed them.”

Mickey paled. Unable to free his arm from Gary’s grasp, he hollered at me. “Renee, get my bag and take Josh home. Gary’s having a flashback and it isn’t very pretty to watch.”

I could hear Mickey’s voice, but my legs wouldn’t move. I stood transfixed in time as if all the horror Gary had suffered in Vietnam was right before me. It was Mickey’s harsh words that jolted me into reality. “Renee, for God’s sake, don’t let Josh see this. Get him the hell out of here - now!”

I walked slowly towards Gary’s room, each footstep echoing against the gray tile floor, shouting the words: “Cancer! Melanoma! Metastasized!”

“Gary first discovered the melanoma about a year before he left town,” Meggie told me earlier that day. “The treatments seemed to be successful but another tumor resurfaced about a year ago. When Gary finally came home, I couldn’t convince him to tell you the truth. The cancer has metastasized, Renee. It was concentrated in the stomach and has spread to the brain. Gary has refused all treatment.”

I was clutching my arms to stop from shaking. Damn him! How could he keep this from us? I paused at Gary’s door. He sat gazing out the window at Lake Page 32

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Superior, just as I’d seen him do so many times after Nam. Sometimes he’d sit for hours and stare at the restless waters saying they reminded him of his own soul.

He turned towards me. “Come on in, pretty Mama.”

I slowly walked towards him. “How could you keep this from us?”

He shrugged and glanced back towards the window.

I took a deep breath and knelt down by his chair. “Gary, I’ve spoken to the doctor. He says with treatment you ---“ “Can’t do it, baby.”

I choked back the lump in my throat. “Gary, Josh loves you. He just got you back. Please don’t take away what little time that’s left.”

Sadness engulfed his eyes when he spoke. “Can’t live with this pain any longer, pretty Mama.”

I knew in my heart what I had to do, but my resolve was torturing me. “Gary, I... let me help you through this then. We’ll spend the time together as a family for... for whatever time is left.”

His brow rose. "What about, Doc?”

He stroked my hair as he brushed his lips lightly across the top of my head.

“You just can’t stop beating yourself up over him can you?”

“I won’t ask Mickey to watch us together, but please understand, I’ll be there as the mother of your son -- nothing more.”

He nodded and smiled. “The Doc’s been good for you, baby. He’s given you some guts.” He stared silently at me for some time, and then reached for my hand. “Okay, pretty mama. You’ve got a deal. I’ll do it for Josh.”

I walked out of Gary’s room to find Mickey standing in the hall. Unable to speak, I clung to him, wanting to feel his arms around me one last time.

He stroked my hair as he brushed his lips lightly across the top of my head. “You just can’t stop beating yourself up over him can you?”

In silence he held me as I sobbed in his arms. Then gently wiping my tear stained face with his fingertips, he placed his lips on mine. “You know where you can reach me if you need anything, and tell Josh he can come and see me anytime.”

Without another word, Mickey turned and began walking down the corridor. The stabbing pain in my chest was unbearable and I fought the urge to scream for him to come back. His steps slowed as I muffled my weeping and I knew this was tearing him apart too. I could do nothing but watch him walk away, taking with him a piece of my heart. *

*

*

It was like starting over again. Christmas was wonderful, the four of us together as a family. Josh insisted I bake all of Gary’s favorite cookies, and we went to church on Christmas Eve. But all the love in the world couldn’t stop the cancer. By spring the tumor had doubled in size. I held Gary in my arms night after night, his body racked with pain, waiting for the next dose of morphine. We never spoke about the past or Mickey, and Gary kept his promise, never asking for more than I could give.

Gary seemed determined to be with Josh for his birthday in July and it seemed the inevitable would never happen. When the seizures started again, Gary admitted himself to the Hospice Unit at St. Mary’s.

Glassy eyed, I stared at Meggie and Josh. We sat at Gary’s bedside, Josh holding his father’s hand, still hoping his eyes would open. Meggie sat in silence.

She was losing her brother and all she had.

Gary had slipped into a coma but still kept fighting for life. Laying my head on his breast, I whispered, “Gary, you were right. I’ve never stopped loving the man I married, but it’s all right for you to let go. It’s time to rest.”

Soon the minister arrived. He placed his hand on Gary’s forehead and began the Lord’s Prayer. As the prayer ended, a sigh came from Gary’s lips, his Volume 2, Issue 1

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chest heaved, and his soul passed into eternity.

Josh was sobbing as I took him in my arms. “It’s all over. Let’s go home.”

“I can’t leave him yet,” Josh pleaded.

Through her tears Meggie spoke. “It might be easier for you if I stayed, Renee. “I’ll bring Josh home later.”

I had only been in the house a few minutes before the bell rang. Mickey stood at the door. “I asked the hospital to keep me informed and they called me.”

For a moment there was silence, then only my muffled sobs as I rushed into his arms. We stood in the room where we’d first made love, Mickey’s nurturing warmth easing my sorrow. I sensed his hesitation and pulled back. “Mickey, what is it?”

He placed his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Renee. I didn’t want to tell you now, but you know me so well, I can’t lie to you any longer. I’m afraid I demanded honesty of you yet I did not reciprocate. I knew about Gary’s illness the day after “I stopped him cold, my hands gripping his he returned home.”

shirt collar. ‘I know she is a woman you raped! I know she is a woman you sexually abused! I know she is a woman you threatened and are still threatening! Yes, Gary, I know it all!’

“You knew he was dying and you didn’t tell me?” By now I was screaming.

He tightened his grip on my shoulders. “Please try to understand. I didn’t want to keep it from you, but I was bound my professional ethics.”

I felt my face flush as my grief turned to hysterical anger. “Professional ethics! I suppose now you're going to tell me he was your patient?”

Mickey’s eyes said it all.

“Oh God, no!” I was shaking my head and sobbing at the same time. “I don’t want to hear anymore. Please... no more!”

Mickey took a deep breath, pulling me to his breast. “Renee, please let me keep a promise I made to a dying man.”

In a daze I sat down on the sofa. Mickey’s hands were clenched together tightly as he leaned forward resting his elbows on his thighs. “It all began the day after Gary arrived home. He burst into my office unannounced, shouting . . . “‘We need to talk, Doc!’ “Pleasantries were difficult after what you’d told me the previous evening. I could see Gary was furious. “‘I want my wife and son back!’ he demanded.

“Perhaps the tumor was already making him irrational. I tried to speak calmly to him. ‘Renee is not your wife, Gary, but your son I have not taken from you.’

“My composure only intensified his anger and he began to bait me. ‘You think you know everything about her, Doc. Well, she’s not what you --’ “I stopped him cold, my hands gripping his shirt collar. ‘I know she is a woman you raped! I know she is a woman you sexually abused! I know she is a woman you threatened and are still threatening! Yes, Gary, I know it all!’ When my shouting was over, he grew pale and his body went limp attempting to free himself from my grasp. I reasoned his reaction strange as a man his size could easily have fought back. I helped him to a chair and placed a glass of water in his hand. ‘Gary, I spent ten years of my life crying with men like you. Even those of us not in the battlefield suffered from Nam. Why don’t you get help?’

“He refused to look at me. ‘No point now,’ he muttered.

“I knew then that my instinct had served me well. ‘You’re sick aren’t you?’

“His face twisted in pain. ‘Cancer, Doc. A gift from Uncle Sam for risking my neck in Nam. Foliage spray name of Agent Orange poisoned a lot of us.’

“I was stunned, almost wishing he’d kept his secret. When I suggested he tell you the truth, he stormed out the door. I agonized that night about telling you, but my dilemma only increased when I found Gary outside my office the next morning begging for my help. At first I refused, but he insisted. In his Page 34

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mental state I didn’t know what he would do to you, so I struck a bargain with the devil so to speak: he would stay away from you in return for my services.

We spoke several times before his seizure.

“His story was not unlike those I’d heard before. Gary was an excellent squad leader; his men depended on him. When he received the opportunity to be transferred to Saigon and safety, he convinced himself he took the appointment for you. In reality, he was just a motivated by his own fear. When two of his men were killed shortly thereafter, guilt consumed him for abandoning them. His guilt turned into anger which he directed at you, Renee. You became the scapegoat for his fear. Every soldier that survived Vietnam lost a part of himself, but Gary lost his entire soul.”

I reached for Mickey’s hand. “You triggered the flashback the night of the seizure, didn’t you?”

Mickey’s voice quivered, his eyes filling with tears. “For the first time in my professional career, I panicked, afraid you would discover my deception. I saw Gary a few days before he lapsed into the coma. I believe I finally met the real Gary. He wept as he faced his own fears, acknowledging all the humiliation he had caused you. He understood that you couldn’t accept him when he couldn’t accept himself. In spite of everything he’d done, you sacrificed our love to stand by him. It was you who brought him home. He never stopped loving you. My only regret is that he couldn’t tell you himself.

“That last time I saw him he asked me to be here for you and Josh. It was the only thing he had left to give you. I couldn’t tell him his request was unnecessary. Nothing could keep me from you.”

I looked into Mickey’s eyes and knew how much I still loved him. If only I could believe that Gary had really made peace with himself and that he really wanted us together.

Mickey and I stood embracing in silence when the front door opened and Josh walked in. When he saw Mickey his grim look changed to a broad smile.

Josh proudly boasted, “My dad said you’d come.”

By Laurie Notch, Managing Editor and Founder of IdeaGems ® Publications.

Envision a story from your life enacted live on stage. “Impossible,” you say? “Why would anything from my pathetic life ever wind up on stage?” It’s true that we are not talking about Broadway productions here -not even off-Broadway or even off-off Broadway. We’re talking local theater in your local school, church, or neighborhood auditorium with local actors with a strong bent for improvisation.

Playback Theater lets you witness your story and the stories of others in your community on stage. It’s a fun and enlightening way to get to know your neighbors and build community, bring coworkers together and reduce stress in the workplace, or deal with traumatic experiences.

To illustrate to the audience what was expected and to break the ice, one of the five actors, Meg, offered up a story about following your dreams. She told a tale of empowerment at a time in her life when she had doubts about z career. Should she follow her mother’s wishes and go into nursing or follow her heart and go into acting? In spite of the voice of reason and practicality telling her to choose nursing, she chose actor. With that, the performers threw themselves into an improvisational skit where one played Meg; another, the voice of practicality and another, the voice of passion whispering in her ear.

One by one, members of the audience offered up bits and pieces of heir lives. One told about wanting to be a singer. In spite of the daunting odds and fierce competition, she passed her first auction and sang with a band for years. Another person told about going through a bitter divorce. Driving home from a wedding where he had bumped into his ex-wife, he asked God for a sign that his marriage was truly over. At that moment a dove smashed into his windshield.

I offered up an anecdote about urban cynicism (one I believe I’ll serve up at a later date as a fine piece of flash fiction). More came after me telling of love, youth, adventure, birth, and death. After hearing each brief account, the players would retell the tale with lively animation.

I asked Actor Kym Dakin, what drew her to this form of theater. She said that it fit in with her philosophy of community building and valuing people. Kym feels that Playback Theater serves to bring strangers together and gets them to open up to one another. By the end of a performance, people have learned something new about others in their community and as a result become more involved instead of isolated.

Playback Theater is not only a unique and entertaining event to have at fundraisers, retreats, trainings, educational programs, and therapy sessions, it is an international phenomenon. For more information, go to: http://www.playbacknet.org/members/

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Racheal Doyle lives in South Portland and is currently engaged in cultural studies with an interest in deviance. She spends much of her time writing about social issues and sexuality to further an informative and healthy pro-sex attitude.

You can reach Racheal with your comments at: rdoyle1@maine.rr.com

“Let's face it: a date is a job-interview, that lasts all night. The only difference between a date and a job interview is: not many job-interviews is there a chance you'll end up naked at the end of it.”

– Jerry Seinfeld Dating: what a ballbreaker of a subject this one is to broach. To be honest, I don’t like dating, don’t like searching for interesting people, would prefer to be surprised and find them by accident without all the bullshit. Every time you end up dating someone you feel tepidly toward or who has an issue you have to work to ignore, you’re settling, and I don’t settle, wouldn’t recommend others do it either. I’m sorry, but it just isn’t worth it – life’s too *bleep*ing short. Dating is a process of sifting through the masses, trying to avoid the dipshits, and libidinously searching for that right amount of chemistry. You know, the kind of chemistry that requires you go home and masturbate after just meeting someone you’re totally hot for…

Casual relationships can be a bitch. Sexual intimacy within casual relationships can be difficult to navigate without some semblance of exclusivity, even if it is ostensibly short-lived or simple pretense.

Although I’m an advocate of folks defining their own desired relationship forms, having substantial casual relationships can be a balancing act most people cannot effectively accomplish. And I’m not talking about just *bleep*ing around. Any idiot can *bleep*. No, I’m talking about leisurely dating, appreciable relating, and fantastic *bleep*ing.

You see, the truth is that sex complicates things. We all know it. Not everyone can handle an every-other Sunday afternoon date of lunch, beer, the batting cages, and four hours of *bleep*ing with one person, and then a regular Thursday night date of dessert, drinks, and intelligent discourse followed by three hours of *bleep*ing with somebody else.

A gal can dream though, can’t she?

When many folks date and *bleep*, they often end up in each other’s space more and more often, the dating, relating, and *bleep*ing become more entwined, and casual goes right out the window. Many people don’t know how to maintain the necessary boundaries to keep casual relationships casual once sex becomes involved.

For women, sex can have more material consequences than for men, so women are taught that sex must have more meaning than just for the pleasure it provides. Many women also experience the intimacy of getting naked with someone as bonding, requiring that there be feelings of some kind to allow the emotional attachment that legitimates our sexual desire. When the situation involves two women, this dynamic can be intensified, regardless of the nonhetero framework that the relationship exists within. Lesbians do have the highest rates of actual monogamy when in exclusive relationships and could probably teach the breeders a thing or two.

I’m not a dude, and frankly, I don’t know how men create meaning out of sexual intimacy. Its primary purpose for men is allowed to be pleasure. So men arrive at their intimate understanding in a different manner than women do, at least in terms of the social conditioning. Having sex purely for the fun of it is perfectly okay for the guys, but there are a number of ways in which emotional attachment through sex is legitimated for men as well, and it’s often found in the kind of woman (or man) he’s been taught is appropriate to take home to meet the parents in some form or fashion. Men who’ve had long-term exclusive relationships also find that returning to dating can be tricky once they’ve learned how to equate sexual intimacy with love in the manner women are readily taught to experience it.

But either way, sex is a very intimate activity, whether we (male or female) choose to feel that way about it or not, and therefore it necessarily complicates things.

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Were we to have more socially acceptable relationship forms to choose from, navigating casual relationships for those who want them and find them fulfilling might be an easier task to accomplish. People are attracted to different people for varying reasons, fulfilling diverse desires they may have that no other single individual may necessarily be able to encompass. Non-monogamy is made to sound like a bad word, but if practiced in an honest and respectful manner, it can be fruitful, although it isn’t for everyone. It would require being open and upfront about one’s exclusivity intentions, which would give a potential leisurely partner a chance to decide whether they really want to engage a person in that manner. That often effectively reduces the chances that a meaningful casual relationship will even begin, often allows it or the person trying to engage it to not be taken seriously, which is unfortunate. Other times, it can cause problems concerning our perceived responsibility to those we engage in a casual manner. Non-monogamy should not remove a person’s responsibility to one’s lovers, but does necessarily redefine the expectations of a relationship. Defining a relationship as casual does not mean it cannot be substantial, that people cannot still connect on some very personal and satisfying levels. But it can be like maneuvering through a minefield.

An equally important issue also arises from the fact that we aren’t really taught how to create alternative relationship models, so defining boundaries for a form that we may not be able to effectively conceptualize is like wandering off into the woods without even a protein bar to your name, let alone a compass, map, and outdoor survival gear.

There are a number of complications that can manifest during instances of casual dating. For example, the most tenuous (and probably the most common) is when one person’s desires become more than the boundaries of the relationship permit. Sometimes we believe we can do casual, and then we get into the relationship and desire more from it: more time, more activity and attention, more exclusivity, more sex. There are a number of reasons why this can occur, all of them genuinely human responses to intimacy. People have feelings, which they are entitled to, but may not necessarily be reciprocated.

Another common reason complications occur is when engaging more than one person at a time in casual relationships, there is always the possibility that someone will eventually get less attention, will find themselves sitting on the back burner simmering away, being neglected. When one’s focus becomes concentrated primarily on one person that is being casually engaged, impoverishing other relations, then that isn’t really having more than one casual relationship, but is being selfish and not respecting others and the boundaries that have been established for the relationship. This is where honesty and respect become key; respectfully ending relationships that one is no longer presently interested in or willing to spend the time on, and subsequently learning to let people go if you cannot give them what they need from a relationship are obligatory to having integrity. Integrity is an important part of not being an asshole when having sincere and respectful casual relationships. Let me say that once again: integrity is an important part of not being an asshole when having sincere and respectful casual relationships. Got it?

An equally important issue also arises from the fact that we aren’t really taught how to create alternative relationship models, so defining boundaries for a form that we may not be able to effectively conceptualize is like wandering off into the woods without even a protein bar to your name, let alone a compass, map, and outdoor survival gear. One of the things I attempt to do is stick with the areas of common ground, the things that I find exciting and interesting about a person, and not wander off the path. Wandering off the path is shit you do with someone you want to have more than a casual relationship with – you may find yourself up to your neck in a swamp because that person couldn’t really read the map correctly, and you’re going to have to find a way to come to terms with the mess you’re in together, find a way to navigate the pitfalls of exclusivity because you are in it together. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get to know someone (shallow doesn’t really constitute a substantial casual relationship) or be affectionate with them (do it, it’s nice, and it doesn’t have to mean anything more than the affection it is when it manifests, just don’t be a clingy freak about it – if you’re *bleep*ing someone, you should know how to be appropriately affectionate with them), but it’s realistic to do the shit you like with each other. Don’t go grocery shopping together (unless that’s what turns you on, freaks, get your produce on). Don’t do menial day to day shit like married people do. I mean it. Don’t do shit that only one of you likes to do either (they can date someone else for that, as can you). Do what it’s called: dating. Find shit that you like to do together, and do it, have a good time, enjoy each other’s company and compatible features. And make sure you’re having sex. If you don’t want to have sex with someone you are dating, then you are not really dating, you’re hanging out, and they are only your FRIEND. They are not your friend with benefits.

Creating a healthy atmosphere for casual relationships can be difficult. Wanting to eat your cake and then have it too (yes, that’s actually the correct way to say it) can be a dubious position to hold without some relative respect for the subjectivity of others involved in the relationship. It may eventually leave you with nothing because it is usually a surreptitious space to occupy. It generally negates the honesty and responsibility one should have to lovers in a respectful relationship, often requiring deception and indifference to the needs and desires of others, creating an imbalance of power and reciprocity in a relationship. Avoiding this pitfall means being very aware of your conduct and examining your motives, not being afraid to question what you really want out of relating to others, and then deciding what that really means about you and your interpersonal behaviors.

Communication, as always, is integral to maintaining balance in interpersonal relationships, regardless of the form they take. Often it requires the courage to confront issues when they arise with relatively sagacious skills of compromise and emotional intelligence, finding that middle ground between what each desires and what the other can realistically give of themselves. Never said it’d be easy. Relationships never are, after all, regardless of how you name and frame them.

“They keep saying the right person will come along. I think mine got hit by a truck.” - Anonymous

Volume 2, Issue 1

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Bruce Buchanan is a metal sculptor in Bar Mils Maine and a professional studio photographer. He has photographed some of the most beautiful women in the world, including Elizabeth Taylor and Vanna White.

Drive down the Narragansett Trail (Route 202) in Southern Maine and you’ll be greeted by a cheerful celestial pair -- the Sun and Moon - smiling at you from a heavenly metal gate.

By far the most moving gate is the sewing gate. Bruce built it for a woman who wanted to start her own sewing business. She became badly disabled and could not pursue her ambition. He gave her this gate to put in her garden as a reminder to always have hope.

The first gate he built still sits in front of his house located on Route 202, Buxton, Maine. It was completed in 1995 and reflects Bruce’s philosophy that all people have value and that together, we can make a difference!

“The 3rd gate Bruce built was constructed to close off a logging road behind his rural home. It’s made from old steel and wagon wheel rims and was photographed in January 2006 for a Christmas card

Other metalwork that Bruce creates includes these stools made from 19thcentury carriage seats, creamery churns, and various parts from old farm machinery.

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 Page 38

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Jamie Studebaker is a sculptor in Raleigh, North Carolina.

The first in his recent series (left) is called "Entrails" which, as Jamie puts it, “is about the fluidity and interconnectivity of animals.” The second featured (right) is entitled, "Mal-gi."

"Mal-gi" is a Korean term about identity and its relation to astrology.

When asked about where he gets his ideas, he replied, “I don't feel very adept at explaining them... I just make them and they come from somewhere inside of me.”

The third featured here (middle) "Temporal Lobe of perspectives descending from the heavens in a suffered since my motorcycle accident way back whenever it wants though usually only about once functioning, but it does frazzle my sense of time.

Epilepsy" Jamie says, “I tried to show a variety simultaneous manner. It's a condition I've in '91. It has its own agenda and comes a season. It doesn't interfere with my

To inquire about Jamie’s work, you can contact 880-0569 or email: stukoria@yahoo.com

him at home: (919) 838-0457 or at work: (919)

Lori Rae Palumbo is an artist and art space manager from Portland, Maine. She paints nature scenes, vintage cards frenzied felines. Here is Lori in her own words: As I approach my 40th year of life, I have begun to work part-time in my day job to take a leap of faith and put the time and energy that my art needs. I am also part of a tight knit group of Art friends who show annually together in Portland in the Christmas season. We (my art friends and I) have a real great diversity from jewelry to plush lost monster dolls, to homemade soap to paintings and note cards.

The name of Lollipop Art Productions came from my mother. She is quite a character, but also has this heavy Massachusetts accent. She couldn't quite say my name right, as it is "LORI", and it always and still does sound quite a bit like "LAUURRY" when she says it. As a little girl, she called me her "Lollipop pie" (don't ask) and Lollipop sort of sounded like her rendition of my name pronunciation, so it worked. When it came time to name my business, it was an obvious choice, Lollipop it was!

Mary Lou

1958 Nash Metropolitan

Art has always been in my life. My father is an amazing artist and his influence has encouraged me as a youth and also an adult. He encouraged me to show my work at a young age, and I became the recipient of two ribbons by the age of 11. I continued to win other art competitions in my youth, however, unfortunately, I was also an average teenager. Art was always my favorite class in school, but I let it slip away.

Lollipop Art Productions & Wet Paint Studios P.O. Box 250 Portland, ME 04102 207-415-7143 "Original art for Original minds" www.wetpaintstudios.com Visit my NEW website & don't forget to sign the guest book.

Volume 2, Issue 1

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Rev. Juliet Nightingale is a British writer living in Mystic, CT. She is the founder of Toward The Light, an organisation and radio programme that discuss spiritual matters, the near-death phenomena and related topics. As she explains: "Toward The Light is a special organisation that offers an abundance of resources and services that bring nourishment to the soul, inspiration, peace of mind and a true sense of well-being. We offer psychic, spiritual, motivational & grief counselling; near-death studies & support (including a weekly radio show and monthly NDE support and interest group meetings); Reiki & remote healing as well as books on near-death and related topics. We also offer other special products and services for body, mind & spirit. We serve clients worldwide and are available and honoured to accommodate you ... wherever you are! Visit her site at www.towardthelight.org or contact her with your comments at towardthelight @gmail com This year has brought some irreversible and challenging changes — both on personal levels as well as to the global community. The economy, as we’ve known it, is crumbling, because it is based on a lie centred in consumerism and materialism. Hence, many people — who are not driven by the quest for and acquisition of revenue — are being ‘left out’ or ‘disregarded’ and worse... What I'm seeing, as a result, is the need to create a new economy — an economy that's not centred strictly in revenue, but rather, in the mutual sharing of goods and services without necessarily the need to have and be dominated by a 'middle media' — using something external that so-called 'defines the value' of a specific item, product or service. Furthermore, an individual’s worth should never be determined by how much revenue or material possessions one’s got, but, rather, by one’s capacity to love and to share one’s talents and skills.

Think about it: it isn’t really money that we want anyway; it is only something that money can buy—a service or item that we really want to obtain. Money, in and of itself, is meaningless. It's just a piece of paper or an aluminium coin or worse, just a number on a screen! In fact, the New World Order is working on eliminating cash altogether, so we’ll only be left with numbers on a screen! Oh yes, it's a score system ... and some people can get carried away boasting about how many 'points' they've got, but when it comes right down to it, those points mean nothing. You can't actually 'use' them for anything. They're just ... numbers — something totally intangible and unreal!

The exclusive use of revenue as a means of exchange has severely warped our sense of what constitutes true value and worth — denying us the capacity to have a fair and meaningful system of exchange. Why should one be completely disregarded solely on the basis that one lacks revenue? One may have a wealth of goods and services to offer, but simply hasn’t got many ‘numbers on a screen’. So what can one who’s wealthy in the truest sense of the word do, in spite of having precious little revenue?

Let me give you an example: I'm sure this was true for all of us that, when we were kids, we'd be with a friend and admire something the friend had; then we'd offer to give the friend something of ours in exchange for the item of admiration. Money never even entered the conversation. It was 'I'll trade you my [item] for your [item]' and so on; the trade or exchange was made and we were happy!

Therefore, by applying this straightforward means of exchange that we used as children, we can offer something more meaningful, more tangible, more useful and more inspiring. In terms of something of genuine substance, for example, I'm truly wealthy and I want to share my wealth ... but as far as the numbers on the screen go, I haven't got many of those. I've got something far more tangible and real — something that one can actually use. Does this seem familiar? Perhaps you’re one of many who are thinking and feeling the same way.

Now in this day and age, we're having to create a new paradigm in the way in which we share goods and services and it's one that, I believe, will create a lot more harmony and restore us to a more complimentary form of exchange where human contact is implemented and revered. We live too much in a robotic existence where everything is automated and denying us any kind of 'live' human contact or interaction ... but where's the human connection? It only serves to make us feel more alienated and alone — denying us any sense of human dignity.

Everyone came into this life with special skills and talents in tact — something that, however slight or wide-ranging, is of tremendous worth and meaning for serving and contributing to the Whole. All of it is significant and rich with purpose. Once the warped definition of what constitutes true value and worth is eliminated, all of this will become apparent. People can offer so much — a variety of goods and services for which they’re truly qualified — but not necessarily money. I’m sure that many individuals are feeling the same way and are ready to create social and economic change — developing a more enlightened and complimentary system of exchange in which our various talents and skills are honoured as being of true worth. This system will serve in the ability to generate a mutual and meaningful exchange of goods and services — creating a win/win situation where everyone is both pleased and fulfilled.

It is time to create a new economy where we return to the simplicity of sharing and the exchange of goods where we implement genuine human contact and honour the rightful worth that is within everyone — regardless of how much money one may have. The universe is abundant; now it is time to allow that abundance to flow!

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Virginia McClain was born in Washington DC but, since then she has lived in seven different states and three different countries. She currently resides in Massachusetts where she works as a high school Spanish teacher. In her free time Virginia engages in rock climbing, skiing, backpacking, kayaking, hiking and other outdoor activities, and when the weather doesn’t permit said activities, she writes.

You can contact Virginia with your comments at vmcclain@cushing.org Looking in the Shadow by Im Sook Kim © 2005 Christina had been having a shitty day to begin with. The job interview she had just come from hadn’t gone well. They never did for her – probably something to do with the tattoo on the back of her wrist. (They just never seemed to believe you when you said you weren’t part of the Monte Cristo organization anymore.) And the friggin’ taxi driver that was supposed to take her back to her apartment had dumped her in the middle of an abandoned alley because she had discovered that she didn’t have enough money on her to pay for cab fare. The alley was dark even though it was midday, and it was far too quiet for her liking.

So it was no real surprise to her when a hand reached out of the darkness somewhere and wrapped itself around her mouth, pulling her close to someone else’s body. “Well, don’t we look pretty and lost,” a voice hissed from behind her head.

Christina didn’t like that voice. It was low, it was raspy, and it was breathing down her neck. She didn’t know what this guy wanted, but she wasn’t happy that he wanted it from her.

Her captor pushed himself closer, and wrapped his other arm around her. Christina quickly realized what he was after when he placed his other hand on her breast. She also noticed something hard pressed against her right thigh; she was pretty sure it wasn’t a gun (and if it was, it was an awfully sad one). The hand on her breast began fumbling its way towards the buttons on her shirt. It gripped and pulled at them unsuccessfully, too clumsy to actually open them.

This situation needed to change, and change fast. Christina wasn’t one to sit around and wait while someone took advantage of her – or worse -- so she got right down to business.

Her right elbow shot back from its resting place by her hip and made direct contact with her offender’s stomach. Her head simultaneously shot in the same direction as her elbow, and made direct contact with her offender’s nose. As she pulled away, the groping hands clenched her shirt, and tore it open at the chest. She was loose, for a second anyway, but she had to keep moving. She broke away from her attacker and turned around quickly to assess the situation. He was a middle-sized man, about 5’11” with a pale complexion and dark sunken eyes. Oddly, though, he was wearing a suit, a nice suit at that.

He was unarmed. He was going to pay dearly for that.

The tattoo on Christina’s wrist was not just some arbitrary decoration she wore around. If that were the case, it probably wouldn’t have cost her so many job interviews. No, this tattoo was a special mark, a mark that signified something that most people wanted to stay away from. Christina was part of a gang most commonly known as the Monte Cristo organization. This was not your ordinary gang. They did not fight other gangs, they did not vandalize, they did not deal in drugs or in offing random people; they stole. They did not steal cars, or hubcaps, or food or other low-worth items. They stole money, they stole information, and they stole jewels. They were the best – or so it was said -- and they did not hesitate to put a symbol of their prowess right on the back of their members’ wrists because, while they had been involved in many illegal acts over the years, they had never been caught, charged or tried. In fact, they ran under the guise of a registered LLC. Nonetheless, they were rather infamous for their rumored deeds, and they had a hard time finding jobs in the everyday work place. But in such a line of work certain precautions had to be taken. You did not join and work for the Monte Cristo organization for any number of years without learning how to defend yourself. Not to mention how to attack someone when needed. Which is why, my friends, this fellow who had so feebly tried to rape Christina, was in a whole lot of trouble.

Said offender was currently occupied trying to stop his nose from bleeding and trying to breathe after having had the wind knocked out of him. This made things all too easy for Christina. With two swift movements, her leg connected with the backs of his knees and the side of her hand and wrist with the back of his neck. With only these two motions he was on the ground and unconscious.

Christina searched the man and took out his wallet. Driver’s license, credit cards, business cards. He looked like your average Joe, his business card even Volume 2, Issue 1

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A cold smile spread across Monte Cristo’s face as she said this, and her hand went to a silver plated nine millimeter that was visible underneath her suit coat as she stood up to join Christina in walking across the warehouse in order to visit their captive.

claimed he was a lawyer. Frank Potter, Attorney at Law. Christina pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket. She pressed 1 on speed dial. “Hey, is Monte Cristo there?... Yeah, I’ll wait… Hey, Monte Cristo, I need some help. I’m on 34th and F. Well, the back alley behind 34th and F. Can you send a car?... Great, thanks… No, I’m fine. I’ll explain when I get there… Yeah, see you in a bit.” Just as Christina was putting away her cell phone, Frank began to stir. She bent down quickly and hit him over the head with her phone.“No, no, Frank. You’ll wake up when I tell you to.”

A few minutes later a black mini-van pulled up and the driver helped Christina load Frank into the back. A minute later it was gone, the alley left abandoned once more in its wake. *

*

*

When the black mini-van had pulled into the warehouse and stopped, Christina had been the first one to get out. She left the woman driving the van to deal with Frank. While her companion dragged Frank from the back of the van and took him to a place where he could be safely watched, Christina walked quickly over to a set of tables in the far corner of the warehouse.

A tall, lean woman, wearing a charcoal pinstriped business suit, was waiting for Christina behind one of the desks. She was reclined comfortably in a tall, leather, well padded desk chair. A pair of black-rimmed spectacles framed her stern blue eyes, eyes that clashed wildly with her jet black hair. Her face was alive with concern when Christina approached.

“What happened out there? You had me worried.”

“Oh, it’s nothing too serious, nothing that would compromise us,” Christina assured.

“As glad as I am to hear that, I’m more worried about you. You were supposed to have a peaceful interview today. I wasn’t supposed to hear from you again until tomorrow, but then I get a call from you on the emergency line saying you need a pickup. Please do me the favor of explaining how this is nothing serious.”

“Well, it could have been something serious I suppose… I don’t know, Monte Cristo, now that I’ve had time to think about it, and I’m calm again it’s not as bad as it seemed. Adrenaline gone down and whatnot…”

“Get to the point, Christina. Something happened. What was it?”

“Well, some really stupid – and I think drugged up - lawyer attacked me in an alleyway after my interview.”

A sudden flash of anger was visible in Monte Cristo’s eyes. Her jaw muscles tightened, and she restrained herself from jumping out of her chair. Now her face merely looked resolved.

“Tell me the whole story: why were you in an alleyway to begin with and what happened next.”

Christina gave her a play-by-play of the events that afternoon. When Christina described her attacker’s assault, a cloud of hatred crossed Monte Cristo’s eyes, but she did not speak again until Christina had finished.

“So, what’d you do with him?”

“He’s with Jill, she and some of the other girls are keeping an eye on him for me. What do you think we should do with him?”

“You know what I’d really like to do with him. But, since we usually try to avoid killing off more people than necessary, and since he seems to be so inept in his criminal intent perhaps we should just toy with him.”

A cold smile spread across Monte Cristo’s face as she said this, and her hand went to a silver plated nine millimeter that was visible underneath her suit coat as she stood up to join Christina in walking across the warehouse in order to visit their captive. *

*

*

When Frank finally regained consciousness he found himself in a dimly lit room that appeared to be part of an abandoned warehouse. He tried to look around and get a good sense of where he was and who he was surrounded by, but his neck was quite sore and would not allow him the motion that this Page 42

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effort required. So, instead, he fell back and closed his eyes again for a minute in order to try to regain some of his strength. As he did this, he began to recall some of the events leading up to his unconsciousness. He had gone to his usual pick up place to meet his dealer (when rich lawyers get bored, they slip into some of the same nasty habits as everyone else, just for a higher price); he’d taken a pill that he’d bought for the round sum of a hundred dollars.

He’d spent five minutes or so trying to shake off a blistering headache, and then he’d seen her. A very pretty girl had been dropped off in the middle of the alley. She had looked like she didn’t belong there. She had looked like something he wanted to have. He had all of a sudden felt like he could have her if he wanted to. At that moment he had felt like he could easily have anything he wanted. Judging by his current placement, the pain in the back of his neck, and the new headache he had discovered when he had tried to sit up, he had clearly been mistaken.

Just as Christina and Monte Cristo were approaching Frank in his corner of the warehouse, Frank was regaining a little bit of the motion in his neck and trying to get a good look at what was going on around him. He found himself completely surrounded by female sentries. There were three of them, they were all armed. The drug he had taken that had made him feel so blindly invincible had now worn off. So, he felt no urge to tempt fate by trying anything.

Those women looked only too willing to shoot him on the spot. But not, perhaps, as willing as the woman who was walking towards him right now tossing a nine millimeter back and forth between her hands, almost casually.

Deep down, Monte Cristo probably did want to shoot this guy on the spot. She had never had any tolerance for the kind of scum that tried to take advantage of unsuspecting females. Her anger was only slightly lessened by the fact that the attempt had not merely been incompetent, but had been directed at a woman who was neither unsuspecting, nor capable of being taken advantage of. To Monte Cristo that simply meant that this guy was going to get what he deserved, instead of managing to evade the authorities and go on living his life the way he would if he had tried his little stunt on someone else. In her mind, he still might have deserved death, but she was not overly quick to judge, and at this point, she had no intention of killing him. But he didn’t need to know that.

Monte Cristo held up her hand for silence. “Well sir, these

With a few motions to Frank’s guards, Monte Cristo made it clear that ladies seem to think it fit to take away your life. Do you have she wanted him on his feet, and then that she wanted the entire group anything to say in your defense?” summoned for a meeting. She ordered Frank tied to a chair, and had him placed in the center of the warehouse. Within five minutes all 23 of Monte Cristo’s group were gathered around him in a circle. The group of women was comprised of all different nationalities. More than half of them were armed with some sort of weapon. They donned swords, daggers, guns and even crossbows. Monte Cristo and Christina stood in the center of the circle, near Frank. Frank’s wrists were bound behind him on the back side of the grey desk chair in which he had been made to sit.

The circle of women was silent in anticipation, but after only a short pause in order for her to check that everyone was there, Monte Cristo broke that silence.“This man has been brought in by Christina,” she said calmly as if she were introducing an old friend. “He attempted to rape her earlier this afternoon.” She continued to speak with a disconcerting ease in her voice. “Unfortunately for him, Christina had no problem in rendering him unconscious and bringing him here. Now, we’re here to decide what to do with him.” At this point she smiled, and upon seeing that, our friend Frank nearly wet himself.

“Any suggestions, ladies?” She asked coolly.

The reaction from the circle of women up till now had been appropriately horrified but mostly silent. However, upon the request for advice, there was an immediate song of voices. The harmony was: “Shoot him!” The melody: “Kill him!” And the chorus was: “Dump him in the river!”

At this point, good old Frank really did wet himself. This brought on a few calls of disgust, but mainly it brought on laughter.

Monte Cristo held up her hand for silence. “Well sir, these ladies seem to think it fit to take away your life. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Franked stammered and sputtered for a minute, but eventually came up with something to say. “P-p-pl-please don’t kill me.”

Monte Cristo looked on her captive with pity and disgust. “What would you do to keep us from taking your life? What could you do for us that would make your life worth sparing?”

Frank was quivering in his chair. He was clearly racking his brain for something that would be useful to this group of women. Over the course of the last few minutes he had noticed the tattoos that they all bore, and he had eventually put together the fact that he was dealing with the infamous Monte Cristo organization. He had never known that the group consisted entirely of women. It would have perhaps struck him more profoundly were he not in the throes of fearing for his life. Taking into account who they were, and what his talents were, he couldn’t think of anything he could possibly do for them. His head shook with humiliation and fear.

Monte Cristo had been toying with her gun for the last minute or so. She now took it in one hand and placed the tip of the barrel next to Frank’s temple.

“Nothing, huh?” She asked matter-of-factly. “Well, guess we’ll just have to kill you then.” She cocked the gun. Frank let out a high pitched cry, and proceeded to defecate on himself. “Or…” Suddenly she removed the gun from Frank’s temple and released the hammer slowly back into place. “Or, maybe you could just do some research for us.” She stepped back a few paces. Frank started sobbing out of relief. “Now, granted, you wouldn’t be any use to us with our projects. And besides, I would never trust you with one. But perhaps you could do something else.” A sly grin flicked across Monte Cristo’s face.

Christina was smiling too, thinking that she saw where Monte Cristo was headed. A few of the women in the circle began to laugh a bit.

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“You see…” She began slowly. “There’s this age-old question that I’ve always wanted to know the answer to. Well, okay, to be honest, I already know the answer. But I think it would do you some good to figure it out yourself. And just to be nice, I’ll give you one year to do it.”

“Anything, anything!” Frank pleaded. “I’ll find out whatever you want, just don’t kill me.”

“Very well.” Responded Monte Cristo. “It’s a simple matter really. Just one question. What do women desire most?”

Frank looked awfully puzzled, he had been thinking of all the ways that he could disappear in a year’s time and never be seen again, and this question threw him off his train of thought.

Monte Cristo smiled. “Now, before you get too excited about being let off so easily, and before you start thinking of where you’ll be, other than here this time next year, let me warn you. You’ve seen the tattoos on our hands, you know who we are. We can, and will, track you for the next year’s time. And don’t think that you’re actually going to find out how we got you here. You’re going to leave here the same way you came, unconscious, in the back of a van. We’re going to drop you right where we found you. And, don’t think you’ve got any advantage over us by having seen our faces. We’re not in hiding, the authorities know who we are, but they can’t pin anything on us. No, Frank, you’re our servant for the next twelve months, and we will collect you at the end of that time.

You find out what women desire most. We will collect you no matter where you are, exactly one year from now. If you’re right, you can have your life back. If you’re wrong, then these ladies will get their way, and you’ll be dead. Understood?”

Frank nodded. Just after he did so, he was rendered unconscious again, but this time by a drug that was not going to wear off anytime soon. In a few minutes time, the black mini-van was pulling out of the warehouse and headed back towards that alleyway.

“Odd punishment,” said Christina, once all the women had disbanded, Frank was on his way home, and she and Monte Cristo were left alone.

Monte Cristo was silent for a minute. Flickering an ironic smile across her lips, she asked, “Haven’t you ever read Chaucer?”

“Something I should know?” Christina was somewhat puzzled.

“Oh, nothing, just a little scheme I’ve been cooking up.” She fell silent again, as if deep in meditation.

Frank spent the next twelve months doing the most frantic research of his life.

Frank found himself in the middle of our aforementioned alley, only at this point it was truly dark out. He looked around, stood himself up and shook himself off. He had regained consciousness to the less than pleasant warmth of a dog pissing on his leg. He hardly believed what had happened to him. In fact, he wasn’t sure that he did believe what had happened to him. After all, right before he had been rendered unconscious he had been using some mind-altering drug. Perhaps the whole thing had been a dream. Actually, considering the fact that he found himself right back in the same alley where he had purchased the drugs from his dealer, it seemed quite likely that as soon as he took it he had just passed out and begun some violent hallucinations. Then, compulsively his hand went to his nose. Bad idea, it started bleeding again. Well, that didn’t prove anything; he could have done that to himself when he collapsed on the pavement. But his neck was awfully sore. All of a sudden it occurred to him that dream or not, he might very well have been robbed during his periods of unconsciousness. He checked his pockets for his wallet. After a brief scare from not finding it in his back pants pocket, he calmed himself when his hands stumbled across it in his inside jacket pocket. He opened it to be sure of its contents. All of his money, credit cards, and business cards were there. But, there was one new business card in front of all the others. It had a small round symbol off to the left, and just two small words on the right: “Monte Cristo.” *

*

*

Frank spent the next twelve months doing the most frantic research of his life. He took a year’s leave from his firm on the claim of health reasons (which I suppose is true when you consider the consequences of failing at his task), and he began his quest for the answer.

He started with the most obvious thing he could think of -- the Internet. He did hundreds of Web searches in all kinds of languages, trying all kinds of different phrases pertaining to “what women desire most of all.” Unfortunately, no matter how he reworded the phrase; “what women want most,” “what women desire,” “desires of women,” “how to please women,” etc. all he turned up were porn sites. At best, he found Web sites regarding feminine Viagra, or other sexual stimulants. After a month of this he gave up, having decided that either the answer was better sex, or else he needed to find a different medium.

He would have considered sex an appropriate answer, but he somehow figured that if that were the case, then he probably wouldn’t have been in trouble with this group of femi-nazis to begin with.

So, he took the next step, and began library research. He checked out every feminist text he could find. In two months he had done thorough research on all the most prominent feminist texts from the last two centuries (or all those that have been designated as feminist since then). But, all that he could come up with after that was that there were a lot of women who wanted the male half of the species either executed or castrated. For simple reasons of science and procreation he dismissed this as a suicidal ultimate desire, and he was desperately hoping to give women more credit than that, especially since he would be presenting this answer to a group of women that would have the power to do either one of those things to him with ease. No, books, he decided, were not going to provide the answer he was looking for.

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Next he tried movies. Surely, he thought, in the last 20 years, someone has produced a film that has addressed the absolute most desires of women. After all, this was the defining age for women, they were taking over everything: the business sphere, the entertainment field, research, law, medicine. They had the incomes now, and therefore they should be a huge marketing target for the movie industry. And what better than a movie that gave them or told them, exactly what they wanted? He watched every chick-flick he could find. He spent two more months renting flick after flick, trying to find a movie that clearly captured what women wanted. He put it off till last, thinking that it was too obvious to be at all plausible, but he even watched “What Women Want” with Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt. At first he laughed at himself thinking: “Well that’s easy -- women want Mel Gibson.” Then, as he watched the film, he became engrossed. There was something there. He watched it again. There was definitely something there. The change that Mel Gibson’s character undergoes in the movie, the final scene with Helen Hunt. There was something there that was important. But Frank couldn’t put it into words. He thought about showing his judges this movie and explaining that he thought the answer was there but couldn’t place it exactly. Upon closer reflection he decided that this would merely look like the world’s cheapest cop-out: “Here you go ladies, here’s a movie that has your question as the title, I think the answer’s in here somewhere, but I’m not sure where.” They would kill him in a heartbeat.

He went to his last resource: people. He began with his close friends and his family, vaguely questioning them about women’s desires under the precept of relationship problems he was having with his – unbeknownst to them - nonexistent girlfriend. He asked everyone he knew: men, women, even children. He had heard people say that sometimes children have an enormous insight into questions that frequently baffle adults. One month went by. No luck.

He was running out of family and friends. He moved on to vague acquaintances, people he’d met only one or two times at parties and such. Another month, no luck.

He began going through ex-girlfriends. This was not the world’s longest list, but between finding them again, and then convincing them to talk to him again, he used up another month quite quickly. He tried asking them what he had done wrong, what he could have done better in each relationship. Their answer was far from helpful -- “EVERYTHING!” He was nearing his wit’s end. He started asking random people he saw in the street. Looking panicked, most of them hurried away from him. Others stood and bantered with him briefly until they realized he had no hidden camera with him and had no association with the Tonight Show or Leno. He got a few people to stop and talk to him, without apprehension and without the lure of a photo-op. Unfortunately, these people were actually as crazy as the people who ran away from Frank suspected him of being. No help. He wandered the city talking to strangers for three whole months.

Actually, the take-out had become particularly intriguing lately.

With one month left, he locked himself in his penthouse apartment and began poring over his notes from the last eleven months. The answer had to be in there somewhere, and he was going to find it if it was the last thing he did. Of course, if he didn’t find it in the next 30 days, it would be the last thing he did.

“How’s our boy doing?” Monte Cristo asked, looking over Christina’s shoulder at he computer monitor. “Has he tried to skip town yet?”

“No. Oddly enough, he hasn’t. And it doesn’t look like he’s likely to either. At this point he’s locked himself in his apartment and is doing god knows what.

Well, okay, so we know, but it looks like he’s just reviewing his notes. All he does in a day is read notes and order take-out. I guess he’s just waiting for an epiphany.”

A smirk was present somewhere on Monte Cristo’s face -- not on her lips, not in her cheeks but somewhere in her eyes. “Shall we give him one?” she asked, coldly. *

*

*

Frank’s luck hadn’t changed in the last 20 days. He continued to examine his notes with the most scrutinizing detail, but nothing had come of it. He had reread some of the feminist texts. He had tried once more, in vain, for a non-pornographic Web site concerning women’s desires. He had even watched “What Women Want” five more times, hoping for some sudden glimmer of clarity. No good. He spent his days racking his brains with silly answers he’d come up with along the way: World peace, true love, faithful men, higher paying jobs, men with good senses of humor, to never age, to never gain weight, to live happily ever after… He was lost. He had begun to focus more on the take-out he kept ordering rather than his unending research, since the take-out was much easier to contemplate and didn’t leave him feeling lacking.

Actually, the take-out had become particularly intriguing lately. He had been ordering from the same pizza place every night for the last three weeks. But three days ago he had noticed a new pizza delivery girl. Well, pizza delivery whale would be a more appropriate term if he were really to be honest. This girl must have weighed about three hundred pounds. He couldn’t figure out how she managed to fit into the elevator with the pizza boxes at the same time. He certainly couldn’t see her driving a delivery truck all around town. But, somehow, she managed it. And every night for the last three days she’d brought him his pizza. The truth is that he was so preoccupied that he had barely noticed at first. Once his attention had been caught though, he had a hard time ridding himself of the image of that bloated pizza girl.

One week later, three days away from his judgment but no nearer the answer that was to spare him his life, his doorbell rang. It was nine o’clock, pizza time.

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It was the same extra large pizza girl that had delivered his pizza to him for the last week. But this time as he was paying her, he couldn’t help catching her eye, and then he was caught staring at her for a minute. It struck him that her face was pleasant, that it seemed to show that thin girl that is supposedly trapped inside all fat girls struggling to get free. Then he took in her body. She was simply huge. She looked as though she had lined herself with sandbags before she got dressed in the mornings. Her hands were still delicate and refined, and her feet seemed disproportionately small. All of which simply reinforced the thin-girl-trapped-in-fat-one theory in Frank’s opinion.

Frank was startled out of his less than complimentary stupor by the sound of the girl’s voice. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t mean to intrude on your personal business, but I couldn’t help but notice that you seem a little, well… distracted, let’s say. Are you all right? You seem like you’ve got something awfully important on your mind.”

“Huh?” Frank quickly tried to re-grip his senses and stop staring at the blob of woman in front of him. “Oh, yes… yes. I’m doing some very important research. I need to answer a very important question. It’s very important to me.”

“I can tell sir, you seem to be going about it as if your life depended on it.”

Frank caught an odd glance from the pizza girl when she said it. It was funny. Her voice was quiet and respectful, but nothing like he had expected from a three-hundred-pound Domino’s employee.

She began to explain herself. “I mean to say… well, with you studying so late and seemingly not leaving your apartment. I’ve delivered the same pizza to you at the same time for the last week straight. Whatever it is must be very important to keep a man like yourself locked up for over a week. That’s all.” She shifted uncomfortably as if worried that she had offended him.

“You’re right,” he said. “It is important. Would you believe me if I told you that it was a matter of life or death?”

The girl looked slightly taken aback, and yet curious, perhaps with a trace of pity. “Your life, sir?” she asked timidly.

Just then Frank had an idea. “Yes, mine.” He pondered for a moment longer. Then he decided. After all, he thought, I’ve only got three more days, and my luck seems to be fresh out. It can’t hurt to ask. He leaned towards the pizza girl conspiratorially. “I don’t suppose you would want to help me would you?”

“Me, sir? How on earth could I help you?”

“Well you see, that’s just it. I’m not sure, but what I need to know, directly concerns women, and I don’t see why you won’t do as well as any other.”

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.” Her eyes flickered with sarcasm, but her voice remained steady and Frank didn’t notice.

“Do you think you could answer a question for me?”

“What do women desire more than anything?”

“Certainly, sir, in so far as I know the answer. What’s the question?”

Frank paused to add some drama to the moment. “What do women desire more than anything?”

The pizza girl began to chuckle softly. Her eyes filled with humor and her hand shot up to cover her mouth from Frank’s view.

“What?” Frank insisted. “What’s so funny? This question has been controlling my life since, since… well since this time last year!”

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that, well, you were clearly never an English major, were you?” She stifled another laugh.

“What has that got to do with anything?!?” Frank was somewhat less than amused at the moment. The idea that someone found his last twelve months of torment to be some kind of practical joke didn’t sit well with him.

The pizza girl thought for a minute, clearly considering something important.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” she said. “You promise me that you’ll do me one favor. Just one. But any favor that I ask of you that is in your power to do. We’ll write up a contract, and we’ll both sign it. Then, I’ll tell you the answer to your question. If the answer is the right one, the one you need, then you owe me my favor. If I give you the wrong answer, then you’re free of any obligation to me and the contract becomes null and void. What do you think?”

Frank thought about this for a moment. If he didn’t come up with something in 72 hours he was a dead man. If he took this girl’s answer and it was right then he only owed her a favor. How much could a three hundred pound pizza driver in her mid-twenties want? Shit, plastic surgery probably, maybe some lypo – Page 46

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nothing he couldn’t afford. Certainly worth living long enough to do anyone a favor again anyway, right? Sure.

“All right, you’ve got yourself a deal. Where do I sign?”

But then a strangely familiar voice broke in from behind where Frank was standing.

Frank stood in front of his judges yet again, this time freely, and without having urinated all over his clothing, but with a similar sense of awe and fear. He stood facing Monte Cristo and Christina, with the other 23 women encircling him.

They had come to get him at his apartment. They had actually broken in while he was sleeping, drugged him and then brought him in from there. (Or at least that’s what he assumed had happened since he had gone to sleep in his apartment the night before and woken up in their secret lair this morning.)

Monte Cristo looked at him with a stern face. Everyone was gathered. It was time. “Well, Frank,” she said, “you’ve had a year now. We’ve been monitoring you, and it seems you’ve dedicated some serious time to your quandary. Have you come up with a response?”

“Yes I have.” He tried to answer with confidence, but something about his memory of Monte Cristo brandishing that silver nine millimeter made it difficult.

“And?” Asked Monte Cristo, expectantly.

“Well, I spent a lot of time working this out, and I think you’ll all agree with me when I say that what women want most is sovereignty.” He tried smiling triumphantly for a moment but failed miserably. There was silence in the room.

“You’re going to have to translate that one out of Middle English if you want it to count, Frank.” Said Monte Cristo, with half of her mouth raised in a coercing smile.

“Oh, right.” Frank stumbled. “Well, that is to say, women want control. Control of what goes on in their own lives, control of the situation at hand.” He smiled again, he’d been able to remember the words he’d so painfully memorized over the last three days.

“Well ladies,” Monte Cristo panned the room. “Any objections? Does that sound about right to everyone?”

A general murmur of consent filled the room. It seemed to sound good to everyone.

Monte Cristo began to speak. “Frank, I’d say you’ve done it. You’re free to--” But then a strangely familiar voice broke in from behind where Frank was standing.

“Miss Monte Cristo, I have a request please.”

“What is it Beatrice?” asked Monte Cristo.

Frank turned around slowly. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be. But, as he rotated the rest of the 180 degrees to look behind him, he saw that indeed it was: the pizza delivery blimp. She waddled up to Monte Cristo and Christina. She had a piece of paper in her hand. She presented it to Monte Cristo.

“I want this contract honored, if you please,” she said, triumphantly.

At first Frank’s heart sank, thinking that this girl had some diabolical scheme to keep him from leaving that room alive. But then he calmed himself as he realized that she would simply be asking him for money or some other material effect, and then he could be done with this whole ordeal.

As this went through Frank’s head, Monte Cristo was carefully reading over the contract. “Very well,” she said. “What favor will you ask of this man?”

“Oh a very simple one, Miss.”

Franks eyes brightened at the prospect of this solution being simple.

“Well, Beatrice?” asked Monte Cristo.

“I want him to marry me.”

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“Your problem is that I’m fat? Heh, that’s easily taken care of. I can turn myself into a playboy bunny for you if you like.

This time when Frank regained consciousness he was in a tuxedo. He wondered if he had been drugged again, but then he remembered what had happened right before he blacked out and realized that he must have fainted. There were three sentries posted at his door when he awoke. After a few moments one of them disappeared for a bit and then reappeared with a boutonniere for his tux. “The wedding’s in five minutes, now that you’ve got your strength back,” she said. “We’re just trying to get the bride into her dress.”

Picture a king size feather pillow stuffed into a white pillow case half the appropriate size. Now picture that oddly deformed pillow standing next to a penguin and in front of a judge. That’s what it looked like. That’s all you need to know. Let’s move on to the wedding night.

Frank didn’t even try to carry his bride over the threshold. First of all, he would have killed himself trying and, second of all, it wasn’t a tradition he was feeling very open to at the moment. They walked in side by side, not even touching each other, and as soon as they were in the door he shut it and stalked off to the kitchen.

“You don’t seem happy darling.” Beatrice was all aglow with something, although Frank couldn’t figure out what. She seemed to simply be flourishing her keen ability to state the obvious.

Frank scoffed. He pulled his stainless steel fridge door open and stared blankly into the empty cold of it for a moment.

“What’s troubling you dear?” Beatrice was peppering her speech with as many synonyms for ‘man I love’ as she could think of.

“What’s troubling me? What’s troubling me?!?” Frank glared at Beatrice with an immense hatred. “I’ve just married a two-ton whale who delivers pizza for a living, and you have the nerve to ask me what’s troubling me?!? Look at you! You must be a size 50. I’m surprised they even make clothes big enough for you! And you’re an uncultured, cheaply educated, piece of white trash as far as I can tell. I have just thrown my social standing at the firm down the toilet, and you have the nerve to ask me what’s troubling me?!?”

Beatrice’s face turned from that of pure innocence to one of bitter vindictiveness. When she finally spoke, her voice was much calmer and more composed than Frank had imagined it capable of being.

“Your problem is that I’m fat? Heh, that’s easily taken care of. I can turn myself into a playboy bunny for you if you like. Fat is easy. As far as my being uncultured, uneducated, white trash… well, I did know the answer to your little riddle, an answer that I might add, saved your life (which, by the way, you should be immensely grateful for). But that aside, it’s people’s decisions and actions that make them, not their so called ‘social standing.’ You’re worried about saving face with the firm? You haven’t even tried me out as a hostess. Who knows, I might be the world’s best trophy wife. But you wouldn’t even bother to find out before denouncing me in front of the entire world.” At this point a shimmer of ironic triumph passed over Beatrice’s face.“I’ll make a deal with you,” she continued. “I promise you that I can make myself as slim and beautiful as a playboy bunny as fast as Clark Kent can change into Superman, but I’m not going to tell you how. Just trust me on that part. That being the case, you have two options. Option one: I turn into the beautiful playboy bunny and you can trot me around as your trophy wife in front of all of your lawyer friends. However, that comes with all the dangers that it normally does. The cute little bunny likes to play around. There are lots of lawyers to play with in any one given firm, and rabbits aren’t the most loyal mates. If you keep me as the trophy wife, you take on all the risks of all the scandal that come with that. Your second option, however, is that I remain as this three hundred pound monster you so despise, but I will be the most faithful, brilliant, tactful and presentable wife you could ever ask for. Those are your options. You must choose one or the other.”

Frank thought for a minute, and he was about to make the obvious choice for the playboy bunny because at least that could be explained to other people.

But something about the past year’s events struck him, and he remembered the words that he himself had uttered to a crowd of women earlier that day. He made his decision. “You choose dear.” He put forth in the least condescending voice he could muster. “I leave it to you to decide what kind of wife you wish to be to me. After all, it’s your life.”

Beatrice’s smile went from sarcastic to sadistic, but Frank was so proud of himself for the moment that he didn’t even notice. “So you did learn something today then?” She was all too pleased with this response from him. “Very well then, since you leave it to me, I choose both. I will be both the honest, loyal wife, and the beautiful vixen, never straying from your side.”

With that, she began stripping. At first Frank was horrified, thinking he was about to get the worlds most disturbing nudie show, but then he realized that what he was seeing under Beatrice’s clothing wasn’t actually flesh. It was more like, well, sandbags. It was a series of flesh colored pillows sewn together into a body suit. After she had peeled off her clothes, she began to peel off her faux flesh. By undoing a series of zippers she was able to loosen and then pull off the oversized body suit. Underneath it, she was wearing a skin tight black spandex body suit, and it became incredibly clear to Frank where the playboy bunny image had come from in Beatrice’s description of herself. In a few seconds, Beatrice pulled off a bit of latex face make-up that had made her face seem somewhat close to proportional to her body. Then she let her hair down. Frank almost fainted for the second time that day, but this time for entirely different reasons.

And so they lived happily together, with Beatrice as the good honest house wife, always loyal, always loving. Frank was able to parade her around in front all of his friends from the firm and he never had to worry about her faithfulness to him. It was the picture of a 1950’s business marriage. For a time.

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*

*

*

One day Frank came back from the office, to find a note on the kitchen counter. Upon reading it, he collapsed in a heap on his kitchen floor, having fainted yet again.

The note read like this: Dear Frank, Three years ago today we were married at the Monte Cristo organization’s warehouse. Earlier that afternoon you had explained what sovereignty was and that it was what women wanted most in life. That night, you granted me sovereignty and let me choose my own fate. And I did.

I have spent the last three years slowly undermining all of your investments. All of the stock you own will be rendered worthless with one phone call from an anonymous investor. I have negotiated an agreement with a very good lawyer who plans on getting you for about 80 percent of what you’re worth.

I am a member of the Monte Cristo organization (which I’m amazed you didn’t work out on your own) and you have just been robbed blind. I’m filing for a divorce (that is to say I have already filed for a divorce and it is currently in the works) and the aforementioned lawyer will be sure to meet with you about it.

Sovereignty is what women want most in life. But, it’s not given to us by men. We’ve already got it. Thanks for the ride.

Beatrice

Rachael Gaskin is a native Londoner who works as Human Resources expert. She has traveled all over the world, including Korea, Japan, Nepal, India, Cyprus, Egypt, and the U. S. A. On this tour, she is in the Czech Republic on the hunt for the infamous Green fairy.

Absinthe is a green-colored liqueur made from wormwood. It has the charming appellation, “The Green Fairy” for its alleged hallucinogenic effects. But in truth, absinthe is no different from any other aperitif Hippocrates was one of the first to extol the drink’s curative powers. In the Middle Ages, it was used to curb flatulence. In 1792, the first commercial brand of Swiss absinthe was brewed with the Pernod distilleries launching its famous line of the liqueur in 1797. The Czechs have been making high-quality Absinthe for centuries as it was never outlawed as in France, England, and the U. S.

The photo-essayist and world traveler, Rachael Gaskin (on right) with friend, Karen, tippling Absinth and Beckerovka- who says after a few you can't see the fairy?

The drink of artists, writers, and philosophers (Van Gogh, Picasso, Wilde, Crowley, and Baudelaire, next time you are in Prague, sample this bittersweet elixir and dance down the streets with the green fairies!

Real puppets from Czech fairy tales - plenty of fairies here!!!

Do you have a photo-essay travelogue you’d like to show to the world about your worldly ways? If so, submit it to ideagems@aol.com and we’ll consider it for publication in a future issue.

Volume 2, Issue 1

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Adventures for the Average Woman