Adventures for the Average Woman by Laurie Notch

Newsstand price: $8.00 Inside this Issue

Boldly go wherever your imagination takes you!

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

IDEAGEMS ® PUBLICATIONS

Scar painting by Im Sook Kim © 2007 poem by Kyung Soon Kim (translated by Laurie Notch) rowing back in time and space i sail upon your beloved face a primordial goddess the color of peach as i draw near your horizon moves far away into the distance of youth my ship is filled with sea shedding tears for its woeful antiquity your tide sinks to the deep to weep before reaching to the rainbow to wash away the ravages of time but your scar is there forever

Volume 2, Issue 3

April-May 2007 Volume 2, Issue 3

Scar

Ah, Mother Earth – One Hot and Cool Babe

Utterly Incredible Uganda: A Photographic Essay

A Feminist’s Pledge

Nutritional Supplements: A Crucial Part of Our Health Equation

After All These Years

A Sudden Drop

Flash Fiction: A Salem Story

The Beauty and Beast E

The Breeze

A Gypsy’s Life

The Other Me

Snakes Give Me the Shakes

Holding Hands with the Accused

The Scarlet Flame of Amsterdam

Attitude in Life

Story Time

Woman Invincible

Nomad’s Daughter

Stolen

Fighting Polar Bears in Indiana

The Good Husband

Getting Your freak On

The Guardian

Undeadly Sinful

Exam Room One

The Secret Within the Diary

House of Plenty

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Ah, Mother Earth - One Hot and Cool Babe! “It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature,” says the margarine ad from the 1970s. But did she ever fool the folks of New England in a last gasp of a wintry blast. (Notice the April Fool wearing shorts below.) Even more foolish was our Managing Editor, Laurie Notch, driving through the raging nor’easter on a promotional tour only to return to no heat, no power, and no phone for 3 days. So as it was with the roads and the power company, the message reads for this issue of AFTAW: Expect Delays! Earth is a tempestuous beauty queen, from her frosted tips in of her polar cap to her lava-painted nails dipping into the cool Pacific (below right) as she lounges in the bubbling hot springs of Uganda (below left) with ribbons and oxbows of rivers flowing across her life-giving form. We pay homage with photo-essays and stories from around the world in praise of our planet From lands exotic to the mildly erotic, sit back and enjoy the wild scenes within these pages while you sit under the springtime sun and watch the floral blazes. -- Cytheria Howell, Author, Editor-in-Chief and Foolish Romantic

This issue is dedicated to William Anderson Caldwell (1941 -2007) whose magical mentoring, endless encouragement, and faith in the creative process pushed us onwards and upwards.

With much thanks to this fine sponsor…. Page 2

Adventures for the Average Woman

Utterly Incredible Uganda: a Photographic Essay Photos submitted by Simon Peter of TYHRX Tours & Travel. Not even a thousand words would suffice to convey what these stunning pictures have to show and say about a part of the world less traveled by most and a fragile ecosystem imperiled by encroaching development. Photos like these may be some of the last we ever see of Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unparalleled beauty and majesty.

TYHRX Tours & Travel will provide you with a game viewing and birding experience of exceptional quality in a pristine natural wilderness that is unsurpassed. Our professional and well trained guides will endeavour to optimise and enhance your adventure by offering extensive knowledge and expertise while exploring the best game viewing and bird watching sites E. Africa has to offer. You will be travelling through some of Africa's greatest and most prolific wildlife area. â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Simon Peter

Volume 2, Issue 3

TYHRX TOURS & TRAVEL LTD P.O Box 5279 Kampala Uganda TEL: +256782841772 +256752640943 simonpeterkayongo@yahoo.com

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A Feminist’s Pledge Joan Dawson works as an educator in South Korea. She is a world explorer aware of the plight of women worldwide and a regular contributor. You can email your comments to Joan at: joanied@hotmail.com While there is not a country in the world that has achieved equality, it is always fun to imagine what it would be like if we did. I’ve always been an idealist as well as a feminist. I’d like to think that if women achieved equality, there would be more balance and fairness in this world. Liberation would dissolve degradation, exploitation and injustice. Not only women, but also families and communities would improve. So in my optimism, I started to write a pledge: a feminist’s pledge. Now, I’ve heard some men voice concerns that women would seek revenge or worse, women would treat men the same way that they treated us: an eye for an eye. Well, as Gandhi said, “An eye for an eye will make the whole world go blind.” Therefore, being the idealist that I am, I hope things will be different. I know there are many people who fear change. I know there are many people who believe in tradition, especially in regard to the roles of men and women. I know there are ingrained beliefs about what it is like to be masculine or feminine. However, I would also ask, like Dr. Phil, “Is this working for us?” Women earn less, get promoted less, and face harassment in the workplace. At home, we do a second shift. Our unpaid work there is often taken for granted. It doesn’t come with benefits or a retirement package. We still encounter violence in our homes and communities. Our family and intimate partners are often the perpetuators of that violence. The media further creates a culture of disrespect. Men don’t fare much better in the media, either. Whether you’re pro-feminist or not, it is true that feminism has made improvements in our lives. Gains have been made in women’s ability to go to college, play in sports, go to work and have friendships with males. No longer are we (for many countries, anyway) living gender-segregated lifestyles. But, we still haven’t attained equality, even in lands of ‘freedom and democracy.’ If you’d like to see how your country fares, click here: (http://www.weforum.org/pdf/gendergap/rankings.xls). We will achieve equality one day. In the history of humankind, the fight for freedom and equality will never come to an end until it is achieved. A feminist’s pledge: We will never, ever say you’re whining simply because you are voicing concerns. We will not silence or censor you with humiliation, belittlement or aggression. We will listen to you respectfully and respond with compassion. Repressing feelings, retaliating or being defensive will not help us progress. Communication and respect will. Roles should be based on interests, not chromosomes. There will be no limitations placed on human potential based on the chromosomes they possess. We will call a truce and find methods to resolve our conflicts peacefully. Violent crimes do not belong in our homes, nor do they belong in our schools or communities. If rapists or serial killers or school shootings targeted men, we promise to treat it as misandry. We will try to change the culture of misandry that would create such circumstances. If the media gave too much attention to all the missing white men in the country, we promise to tackle the problem with compassion and not contempt. We promise to provide equal coverage to missing black men as to missing white men. We will make porn that respects men and human sexuality. We would never subject you to degrading actions. We will refuse to incorporate violence, drug use or unprotected sex for commercial profit over humane concerns. We will not subject you to “show us your dick” slogans for cheap beads or corporate profits. We will not allow you to get intoxicated before doing something you would later regret or before signing a legal consent form. We will respect your bodies and your rights. We don’t send cameras to nude beaches, nor should we do so to Spring Break events. We will not call you names that are not only demeaning to you as an individual but also degrading to sexuality and the human body. We will not refer to your body by their parts alone: (gratuitous) d & b. We will not use negative epitaphs such as whore, ho, slut, bitch or the “c” word in music or media. In fact, I don’t believe so many such epitaphs exist for men, so we would be limited already. We will not call women boyish or manly to represent the harshest criticism we can muster. We won’t say women throw a ball ‘boyishly’ to insult them. We won’t call politicians ‘boyish’ to sling mud. Both feminine and masculine traits will be respected. If men have some feminine traits and women have some masculine traits, that’s okay. Gender roles that divide traits into two divisions are far too limiting and unimaginative anyway. Page 4

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We will not make laws that affect your medical care and rights to govern your own body. We will cover your prescriptions in health insurance and treat you with respect when you come to the pharmacy to fill your prescriptions. We will not turn you away or humiliate you. We will include you in medical research to see if our biological differences result in different health outcomes, just like researchers found that males and females suffer differently in heart attacks. We won’t consider you freakishly strange for being single or childless. Your choices will be respected. We can’t all be married with 2.2 children, a house and a dog. We will ask that you take more responsibility for reproductive choices. Ask if our health insurance plans cover the pill, be willing to get a vasectomy—so much easier and cheaper than a tubal ligation, and be willing to accompany us on an abortion, if needed. Just going to a family planning clinic can be dangerous. We will not blame you for causing divorce, gaining profits from divorce, marrying for money, being a bad single parent, or smoking around children or pregnant women. We must find the roots of problems and work on potential solutions together. We will not have scientists, educators or philosophers find reasons for your supposed inferiority. We will not abuse our public role to insult you like Socrates, Freud, John Belushi, Bobby Riggs, William Noer, Lawrence Summers, et al have done. We will seek answers, not justifications. We won’t spend a fortune on marketing that targets you and then turn around and call you materialistic. We won’t blame you for being consumers because you take on the majority of shopping responsibilities. And we won’t use insulting, derogatory ads that, in fact, target you as the buyer. We will represent you and give you a voice in all forms of media—newspapers, radio and TV. We will include you in history and represent you fairly in textbooks and other written material. We won’t deny or belittle your contributions. We will name our streets, parks, and town squares after both men and women. We will erect statues and monuments that represent both sexes fairly. We will hire you in elected offices because we value your contribution and seek to represent all the diverse views of society, not because “we’re ready.” In all aspects of society, men and women will be represented and treated fairly. We cannot promise a utopia, but it will be a better, more harmonious and balanced society. We will hold each other responsible for our actions and our behaviors. If one becomes too powerful or exploitative, we will, like a system of checks and balances, hold each other accountable. We will work together cooperatively for peaceful solutions and resolutions. We will formulate a shared idea of values and human dignity. In this egalitarian partnership, we will work together in our homes, communities, and countries. This I pledge as a feminist working towards equality and justice for all.

Nutritional Supplements: A Crucial Part of Our Health Equation Joyce Mendoza is a health care professional and an Independent Distributor of USANA Health Sciences, Inc., a manufacturer of nutritional supplements, skin/personal care products and weight management products. She can be reached at 1-877-222-8058 (toll-free) or www.jem.usana.com “But I get everything I need from the healthy foods I eat!” I can’t tell you how many times I hear people say, “But I get everything I need from the healthy foods I eat!” Unfortunately, the truth is that is virtually impossible to get the nutrients from food that our bodies need to function on a daily basis. In a landmark survey done between 1989 – 1991, the U.S. Department of Agriculture determined that only 3% of the participants ate a healthy diet, and none of them consumed even the minimal amounts recommended for the most important vitamins and minerals. And here are some key reasons why even the participants who ate a healthy diet fell short:

Soil depletion Especially since World War II, our soils have become depleted of key nutrients. Agribusinesses have encouraged food production on mass scales at minimal costs. There is little incentive to replenish the soils when costs are at stake. If the nutrients are not in the soil, we can be sure they are not in our food.

Food storage, processing and cooking Nutrients are further reduced in our food as a result of long periods of storage in warehouses and further processing and preparation. By the time our food is on our plate, it is highly reduced in food value.

Unless we are able to control all these factors ourselves, the food we eat is destined to be seriously short of core nutrients. It makes sense to follow a balanced diet that contains as many fruits, vegetables and low-fat foods as possible. These foods will provide a portion of necessary nutrients. But for Volume 2, Issue 3

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complete nutrition, we need to add supplements that contain balanced nutrients in the right ratios and combinations. “With so many choices, how do I choose the right supplement?” Yes, it’s true that consumers have a vast choice of supplements today. But by using a few key criteria, you can quickly reduce the numbers to a manageable size. Here are some you may want to consider when you choose a supplement:

Is the head of the company a respected research scientist? Making nutritional supplements is a serious business and requires knowledge of the latest developments in a number of scientific fields, including microbiology, immunology, and antioxidant research. If the head of the company is a respected research scientist, it is one key indicator of the company’s commitment to scientific research and product development. You may also want to know the size of the Research & Development Team employed by the company.

Does the company make its own products? Many companies use outside vendors to produce their supplements. It is more difficult to ensure quality if an outside vendor is used.

Is the potency of the supplements guaranteed on the bottle? Companies that guarantee the potency of their products are more inclined to manufacture them using high quality, science-based standards.

Does the company make their products using pharmaceutical-grade standards? Although it is not required, some companies choose to use pharmaceutical-grade standards to make their products. These are rigorous manufacturing requirements that many companies cannot meet.

Has the company registered its facilities with the FDA? Again, this is not required of supplement companies. However, those that subject themselves to this additional scrutiny set themselves apart from other companies. The FDA ensures that what is listed on the bottle is actually contained in the product.

Is the company listed in the Physicians’ Desk Reference? Very few supplement companies have their products described in the Physicians’ Desk Reference, a medical reference book used by doctors all over the United States. It is a sign of scientific integrity if a company is included in this prestigious reference book.

By applying some of the simple criteria, you can increase your chances of finding the highest quality providers of supplements. After all, isn’t your health worth it?

After All These Years MJ Jones: “Now retired, I taught college English in the South and Midwest. My crime fiction has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine (another March 2007), Web Mystery Magazine, Writer’s Post Journal and DIME I (Quiet Storm, 2005). I am a winner of Mystery Writers of America’s Fish Award for best first mystery story (2001).” Send your comments to: slatch@mac.com

“Grading English papers can give you the creeps,” I told Jerry Schaeffer as we dug compost into central Wisconsin’s sandy soil. Jerry lives next door to me–Margaret Holmstad, retired English professor. Since I was new in town, he’d volunteered to help get my garden started. “Didn’t know student writing was so interesting,” he said with a laugh. “If you don’t believe me,” I said,” come inside when we’re done. You can have a beer and take a look at what I’m grading.” “Is going in your house a good idea right now?” Jerry’s wife was out of town and the neighbors couldn’t help but keep track of a man who stands six-four and sports a jaw full of white beard. “There are some essays I want you to see,” I said. “Disturbing essays.” Page 6

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I wanted Jerry to read them because before he won the lottery and became a full-time sculptor he used to be a psychiatric social worker. I knew even the most blissfully retired pro likes to keep a hand in. That’s why I work in distance learning. That and the money, of course. My own early retirement had nothing to do with the lottery. I’d just neglected important parts of my life for far too long. Now, a year later, I miss neither teaching nor living in California. A regular paycheck is another question. After we decided my screen porch was within the pale of local morality, I brought Jerry a beer and the student papers. He stretched out on the chaise longue. I sat next to him and said, “The writer’s name is Eldred Bates.” Eldred had signed up for Pre-College Composition, though that didn’t necessarily mean he was high school age. To enroll, he’d only had to supply name, address, social security number. Beyond that, there was no information on him. Eldred’s first assignment, I told Jerry, had been a paragraph about his background. He’d done it in pencil on brittle, lined paper. From among the smudges and scribbles, I gleaned that Eldred wasn’t married and had no intention of ever being married. I have too much family value already, he wrote. I returned the assignment with a note asking him to type his work and he complied without complaint. “So what’s the problem?” Jerry asked. “Just read that how-to theme in your hand.” Eldred had written, It is easy to kill a whole family including the dog. All it takes is the right poison, the right time and family. “Gets straight to the point, doesn’t he?” Jerry said then read on. “There’s a lot of different poisons out on the market. One can find many in their own home. Spot cleaner or in a fire extinguisher.” Jerry gave the page a disgusted rattle. “He’s barely literate.” “Keep reading.” Carbon tet is the ingredient in those. It is not very good for a mass poisoning which is what you’ve got when you do your whole family. It’s messy, people puke throw up and wriggle around on the floor. Viacor use to be okay. But you can’t get it anymore even in rat poison. You have to shoot them on Thanksgiving before the game comes on. Nobody is probably drunk yet or just a little. Jerry shook his head then went on to a description of Eldred’s home life. Half way through it, he said, “Sounds like anyone who wiped out this particular family would be doing a public service.” Eldred didn’t use words like incest, infanticide, bestiality. He simply told a story – about a litter of puppies drowned along with an unwanted baby and about the old man who dug their bodies into his potato patch. “Well?” I said when Jerry finished reading. “What’s he trying to do? Shock me? Scare me?” Jerry’s brows creased together. “When I was in high school there was a family out in the country….” He bit his lip to summon up the memory. “…killed on Thanksgiving, three or four of them. Poor family. Lived in an old tarpaper house. No indoor plumbing.” “Poisoned?” “Shotgunned. I remember kids making jokes like, ‘What do you do with the trash on Thanksgiving? You blow it away.’” “Who killed them?” Jerry shrugged. “It happened years ago.” “Remember anything about a dog? Eldred mentions one.” “Part collie, part pit bull, people said. Mean as hell. The cops found it out in the potato bed, killed, too.” “Sounds like the murder in Eldred’s paper,” I said. “I could be wrong about what happened. It was a long time ago. And anyway, I went in service about then.” For a while Jerry sat ruminating then said, “I think on the one hand you’re right. Eldred wants to shock you. But he also wants to please you by putting in lots of details, like you said to.” Volume 2, Issue 3

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“But why details from a murder? This murder?” “Probably because it was very big news for a very long time.” I was still disturbed. Could, in some strange way, this Eldred be stalking me? “Maybe I should find out more about the murders. I suppose the Post carried the story.” Jerry tossed away Eldred’s theme. “Lighten up, Margaret. All your boy’s guilty of is some petty yank-teach’s-chain.” His tone made me feel better. “He doesn’t sound like a homicidal maniac?” “I don’t know what a homicidal maniac is,” Jerry said, putting a hand on my thigh. “But I do know about sex maniacs. Wanna meet one?” So much for the screen porch as a citadel of chastity. *

Despite Jerry’s nonchalance, I wanted to know more about that family massacre. I called the Post. “It happened on a cold Thanksgiving day about forty years ago,” I told the publisher, another neighbor of mine. “I do wish,” she replied, “that you’d said you wanted me to research the subject, not recall it. But, yes, I remember those murders. Matter of fact, I got my first by-line on the story. Wasn’t even out of college and–“ “Before you start your Kit Whalen, Girl Reporter, number, just give me the facts,” I said, not exactly cutting off a rags-to-riches story. Kit’s family had owned the Post since 1893. “Come down to the office,” Kit said. “Read about it and then, if you want, I’ll tell you what Dad wouldn’t print.” The next day I went to read about the Braun family. THREE IN FAMILY MURDERED Two Missing Authorities are baffled by what Sheriff Charles Jackson calls the “gruesome” murders of three people in their rural Dubois Township farmhouse on Thanksgiving Day. Found shot to death were Cletus Braun; his wife, Frances; and Cletus’s father, George. Cletus and Frances’s children, Naomi, 17, and Harold, 16, have not been found. Nor has a murder weapon. Harold, I thought. Not so different from Eldred. A rural mail carrier discovered the bodies the morning after Thanksgiving and the authorities as yet had neither motive nor suspects. The sheriff said it didn’t look like robbery. There were no signs of a struggle. George and Cletus Braun lay near the kitchen table, Frances Braun by the counter where she’d apparently been cutting pumpkin pie. Except for dessert, the Thanksgiving meal had been eaten. Photographs showed a dilapidated, two-story farmhouse, sided in peeling tar paper. A battered pickup sat in the yard. Below the pictures was a sidebar, by-lined Kit Whalen and headed “Brauns Still Lived In The 1930’s.” The house and barn have electricity, but there is no indoor plumbing and Frances Braun cooked on a wood-burning stove. The family did not have a telephone or TV. Their only radio was a pre-war Bendix. The Brauns recently quit farming and now rented their acreage to neighbors. Neither of the children went to school. Naomi worked at a local cheese factory and the Braun men hired out as farm laborers. I thought about the two missing kids, Naomi and Harold. What kind of a life was it in that old house for a couple of teenagers? Awful enough to shoot their way out of?

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The Post said that although a search was underway, Sheriff Jackson wouldn’t speculate about where the kids were. “I don’t know if they got kidnapped or killed or if they just scrammed out of there while the other murders were going on.” He added that neither had a driver’s license and the Brauns’ truck, the family’s only vehicle, was still on the premises. That was Saturday. The Post didn’t go to press on Sundays, even for the county’s first murder in seven years and its only mass murder ever. But Monday’s headlines announced the Brauns had been killed by shotgun. Searchers had turned up neither the weapon nor Naomi and Harold. The family dog, though, was discovered in the garden, shot to death. They’d also found tire tracks that didn’t belong to the Braun’s pickup or the mailman or the neighbors. Puzzling, too, was that on a fifteen degree day, the Braun children had left their only coats in the house. The story ran for weeks, with headlines like “Relatives Baffled. Services Held. Where Are Braun Children?” Finally, it disappeared. Not, however, before Sheriff Jackson opined that whoever killed the Brauns “was a crazy nut case.” When I finished reading, I joined Kit Whalen for coffee in her office. “You said you’d tell me something about the murders that your father wouldn’t print.” Kit showed me to a chair, poured coffee then sat behind her desk. She touched a hand to her hair. A new dye job had turned it more brass than gold. I was glad I’d stayed brunette. “You mean the incest angle,” she said. “Back in those days such things weren’t mentioned in a small town newspaper. Which doesn’t mean such things weren’t discussed all over said small town.” “I got the impression no one knew the Brauns well enough to accuse them of incest.” “You must’ve grown up in a big city, Margaret. Here in the boonies, we figure we know our neighbors well enough to accuse them of whatever we want.” Kit said local gossip had it that the year before, Naomi had been pregnant – by her brother. “But,” Kit added, “the Braun neighbors told me they doubted Harold could’ve screwed anybody, never mind make a baby.” Today, Harold might be called developmentally disabled or, more harshly, retarded. Back then, people still said “simple-minded” and “not right in the head.” “I don’t think he was right physically, either,” Kit said. “The neighbors said he looked more like twelve than sixteen.” “So was Naomi pregnant or not?” “Nobody ever saw her with a baby.” “Was she retarded, too?” “The neighbors didn’t think so. They said she was just very quiet. Other than that, they didn’t know much about her.” “Why not? The Brauns must’ve been living out there forever.” When Kit paused to light a cigarette, she didn’t ask if I minded. That’s what I like about rural Wisconsin – people don’t make apologies for deadly behavior. “They’d only moved in a few years before,” she said. “And they only worked the farm for maybe two years. Then farming must’ve gotten in the way of their drinking, so they decided to rent out the property. After that, they did just enough work to keep themselves in booze. Mostly, though, they lived off the rent and Naomi’s wages at the cheese factory.” “Did the mother drink, too?” “I don’t know,” Kit said. “Why are you so interested in this old business?” I told her about my student’s strange choice of subject matter. And that Jerry Schaeffer agreed it bore a resemblance to these murders. “Dear Jerry,” Kit said. “It’s hard to believe he’s become an artist. And before that, a social worker of all things. Jerry was one reckless kid way back when. He.... “ She stopped. “But that was then. Now is a whole bunch better.” “Couldn’t agree more,” I said as I refilled our cups from the old drip coffee pot that bubbled evilly on a stand behind Kit.

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“I didn’t pursue the Braun story to its conclusion,” I said. “Who killed them? And what happened to Naomi and Harold?” “The murders have never been solved. Or I should say, the case has never been closed. But most everybody – the sheriff, anyway, and Dad, too – was pretty sure the kids did it. The only mystery is why they were never charged.” Kit paused to drink some coffee then said, “They turned up, finally, and I got an interview with Naomi. Did you see it?” I shook my head. “Didn’t come to much. She told me the same story she told Sheriff Jackson. Dad talked to him a lot, by the way. Naturally none of it ever got printed.” Kit and I were still talking when her secretary interrupted us. There was a crisis that only Kit could resolve. She squashed out her cigarette. “Duty calls. But we can talk again, if you want. And since you didn’t read my interview with Naomi Braun, I’ll bring a copy. Dad’s old notebook, too.” After we agreed to meet the following day, Kit said, “I forgot to ask. Did Jerry tell you he used to date Naomi Braun?” *

At home, I read another of Eldred’s papers. Farming is dangerous business. There’s things that can kill you everyday on the farm. You can get French-fried by down lines or sucked up by a corn picker. The cows can crush you; the hay can drop onto you. You can be poison too. Your mom might of canned botulism with the tomatoes. Or your grampa could of got confused out in the woods and brought home toadstools. There’s so much danger laying around on a farm you would not believe it.” Eldred listed still more rural hazards, until he concluded with, There’s lots of other dangerous jobs besides farming. On TV they tell about reporters in the battle zones and teachers all the time get shot. Certain ones ought to. Ha-ha. Was that a threat? I decided it might be and Jerry needed to know about it. Right away. His studio was in a building that once housed McCrory’s Small Engine Repair. And with the blue sparks shooting out of the welding torch and hunks of metal scattered across the oil-stained floor, it still looked more engine shop than artist’s atelier. But then Jerry was no effete modeler of clay or marble-chipping Michelangelo wannabe. He worked in steel beams. When I shoved Eldred’s paper at him, he turned off the torch and pushed back his welding mask. “Damn it, Margaret. Can’t you see I’m busy?” I convinced him to read the paper anyway. After he finished, he said, “So?” “Eldred is threatening me.” Jerry sighed, then steered me to the little office area in back. There, from a file-drawer, he produced a bottle of Johnny Walker. After a few pulls at the whiskey, I calmed down and we settled onto a pair of folding chairs. “What’d you find out at the newspaper?” Jerry asked. I told him what I’d read and heard, finishing with, “Kit said that one afternoon right before Christmas, the Braun kids walked into the sheriff’s office. Just like that. Explained they’d been hiding in an empty cabin near Lake Downer. “Oh sure,” Jerry said. “In winter without coats. Or food, probably. And how’d they keep warm without anyone seeing smoke from this cabin’s chimney?” “I wondered that, too. But Kit claims there used to be cabins in the forest back of Lake Downer almost that hidden away. Summer cottages but with kerosene heaters and pantries full of canned goods. Clothes, too, and lanterns. All the comforts of home.” “True enough,” Jerry said. “So what’d the kids say about the murders?” “The boy didn’t say anything. He was absolutely incoherent and stayed that way. But Naomi claimed three men had shown up with a shotgun. She thought they were Indians.”

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Jerry rolled his eyes. “Naomi said they wanted the Brauns’ money. Jerry laughed. “Money? The Brauns?” I shushed him and continued with Naomi’s story. “The men said they were from up north but they’d been passing through on Thanksgiving morning and stopped in a tavern. While they were there, they heard an old guy bragging about all the money he kept in his house. They must’ve found out his name and where he lived because that afternoon the three burst into the Brauns’ kitchen in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner.” “Did anyone actually believe the girl?” “Of course not. But, on the other hand, when the sheriff talked to the bar owner, it turned out three Indians really had been in the place on Thanksgiving.” “I remember that part. But nobody ever located them. Disappeared into the rez, I guess.” “You seem to remember quite a lot. For having been away at the time.” Jerry took another drink of whiskey then said, “I went out with Naomi Braun a couple times. When we were Juniors. Took her to the movies. I’ve forgotten what we saw. All I remember is she was very quiet. Read a lot. Pretty, though. Dark hair, blue eyes. I probably would’ve asked her out again, but she quit school then. Don’t think I ever saw her after that.” “Would you say she was capable of shooting her family?” “God, Margaret. What a question. I never thought about it. Not from that day to this.” Something in Jerry’s voice made me believe he knew more about Naomi than he was letting on. And what about all those psych classes he must have had to take, all the case studies he had to read, all the teenage killers he probably had to evaluate? “Seems as if the sheriff or the D.A. or somebody could’ve wrung the truth out of her eventually,” he said. “Or for sure out of her brother. I wonder why they weren’t arrested. Held on suspicion or whatever.” “Kit said they probably would’ve been. Except all at once their grandfather’s sister swept onto the scene. Apparently she had more money than God and more lawyers than Satan. After that, nobody could get anywhere near those kids.” “So,” Jerry said, “since there wasn’t any real evidence to hold them on, they walked.” “But where’d they walk to?” “Nobody seemed to know. Or at least my buddies back here didn’t. Out west someplace, I heard. I also heard the brother died not long afterward. Or maybe he got put in a home. I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.” “Do you think…,” I drew a deep breath. “He might not be dead?” Jerry stood up. “Gotta get back to work,” he said. And dismissed me with a kiss. * * * Next morning, I went to meet Kit at a cafe downtown. I was hardly inside before the waitress told me Kit was dead. “Had a heart attack yesterday afternoon,” she said. “And if that ain’t enough to frost ya, last night somebody went and robbed her house.” There was nothing else to do but go home and work with Eldred’s farm essay. “In your most recent paper,” I began, “you’ve neglected certain details of rural life. The farmhouse kitchen, for instance, which often served as kitchen, living room, gun room, and family entertainment center. “Not that it was always very inviting. The farmhouse I’m thinking of had electricity, but its kitchen appliances amounted to wood-burning cook stove, dented refrigerator, and a hand pump attached to the zinc sink. “Ragged green shades covered the windows and a single light bulb dangled from the ceiling on a frayed cord. The linoleum once had a pattern of pretty red and grey flowers. Now it was just grey.” I hit the Delete key. Eldred had served his purpose and thought about what else had been in that kitchen. A scarred oak table and, if I remembered rightly, five pressed-wood chairs. An old floor-model Bendix radio, two easy chairs, and, under the gun rack, a sagging brown couch. Volume 2, Issue 3

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On that Thanksgiving, George Braun sat at the head of the oak table, a small man wearing a dirty red hunter’s cap and a week’s worth of grey beard. Across from him was his son, Cletus. They were the only ones at the table. Frances Braun ate standing by the stove, Naomi and Harold on the couch. Both the children were tall, dark-haired, and rail-thin. One of Harold’s pale blue eyes was swollen shut from the beating he’d taken earlier when he spilled an armload of firewood. Now, he and his sister were banished from the table because he’d spilled his milk. “Oughtta make yas eat outside by the goddam dog,” their father said. “Got no better manners’n that thing.” “Dog’s smarter though,” George Braun said with a drunken giggle. He’d already been drunk when he came home from Parkos’ Tap at noon. “Bullshittin’ Parkos says he’s closing early cuz it’s Thanksgiving. What’s to be thankful for, I says. Go on home, Parkos says, eat some turkey, punkin pie, enjoy your family. Then he shoves me off the barstool and out the door, the bohunk bastard.” A plate of turkey and mashed potatoes sat in front of George. It hadn’t been touched; the old man was drinking Thanksgiving dinner from a tumbler. “That sure ain’t the drink Parkos give you,” his son said. “Old fart’s too tight, even on Thanksgiving.” Cletus was much bigger than his father, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. Now, though, too much brandy and too little work had done their damage. His jowls sank to the neck of his dirty T-shirt and the T-shirt barely covered his belly. “None of your business where I got this drink,” George said. “Ain’t for you anyhow.” “Why’nt you bring home more’n one bottle, dumbass?” Cletus said, pointing at an almost empty fifth of brandy lodged between the turkey platter and a bowl of cranberry sauce. “That there’s all’s in the whole goddam house.” “’S matter with you then, ya lazy turd? Get off your fat can and—“ It was the kind of drunken jabber that could, and very often did, turn violent. But now George broke it off because the football game was about to start. He reached into the front pocket of his work shirt and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill. “Get your stakes on the table,” he said. Betting on a game was the only family ritual the Brauns had on holidays. Other than that, they didn’t celebrate them, not even Christmas – unless buying a carton of Camels marked “Holiday Greetings” made for a celebration. Today they were having turkey dinner only because, early that morning, they’d found a box of food on the back doorstep. Where it came from, they had no idea. Cletus had given the box a kick and said, “Pro’ly some goddam church in town thinks we need the charity. Feel like going in there and telling ‘em—“ But he didn’t go anywhere and his wife was the only person he told anything. “Nice to have sump’n on the table besides Dinty Moore’s,” he said to her now. “Or the rest of your crappy cooking.” From the kitchen counter, where she stood drinking brandy and cutting a pumpkin pie, Frances told him what he could do to himself. She was a little woman, with brown hair and faded brown eyes. A purple bruise seeped across the knuckles of her right hand, put there that morning when she’d beaten her son with fist and firewood. “Somebody turn the goddam radio on,” George said. “And you, France-ass, ante up.” Frances was reaching into her apron pocket when Cletus yelled, “What the—?” Naomi and Harold stood in front of the couch. Naomi held a shotgun. The first blast slammed Cletus into the refrigerator. The second blew away George’s head. Frances stood frozen to the grey linoleum while Naomi reloaded. When she was done, she put the shotgun to her mother’s breast and pulled the trigger. What aٛwunderkind you were, Naomi. Smart and lucky, too. Which is also what Sheriff Jackson thought. I picked up Lowell Whalen’s notebook and reread what his friend the sheriff had concluded about the Braun murders. “Sometime Thanksgiving afternoon,” Whalen wrote, “one of the Braun children killed their parents and grandfather. Jackson says it was probably Naomi. Harold seems to lack the necessary physical and mental ability. Page 12

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“Since only four empty shells were found, including one in the yard, Jackson thinks a single gun killed all three Brauns and the dog. The weapon was probably the 12-gauge side-by-side missing from the house. The shells had no fingerprints on them. “All three murders occurred within a very short period of time, though their order is hard to determine. Jackson presumes the men were killed first, then the woman. The dog, which was no doubt barking its head off, was probably killed as an afterthought. “The kitchen was pretty much awash in blood, but no footprints were found. ‘Nothing to that,’ Jackson says. ‘The kids just didn’t happen to walk through the blood. There’d be some on the shooter’s clothes, though. “Only the family’s fingerprints were found inside the house. Whoever committed these murders was very careful, very instinctive. And very lucky. “As to the careful part, Jackson figures the murders had been planned for a long time – planned for deer hunting season, when no one would pay attention to gunshots; planned for Thanksgiving, when there’d be few people around, few potential witnesses. A hideout had been carefully chosen, a new wardrobe gathered and stashed. A dumping spot for the shotgun had been scouted, an escape route planned, a cover story concocted. “As for luck, first there was the weather – no snow had fallen yet but it was very cold out, the ground all but frozen. Secondly, nobody dropped by the Braun place, as country people might, to say Happy Thanksgiving. It was even lucky that George Braun must’ve mentioned the three Indians he saw in the bar.” I set Lowell Whalen’s notebook aside, to pick up his daughter’s interview with Naomi Braun. I’d lied to Kit when I said I’d never seen it before. I certainly had, any number of times over the past forty years. Again and again I’d read her description of Naomi: A fidgety, ferret-faced girl with greasy hair and dirty fingernails ... Her sly, hooded eyes cannot meet yours ... She has poor grammar and a rudimentary vocabulary. Kit was proud that the Milwaukee papers had picked up the interview – though all she’d really done was give her impressions of Naomi: Secretive even when it isn’t in her best interest ... Perhaps a low IQ prevents.... The interview mentioned Naomi’s low IQ several times but carried very little about the murder, and most of that dead wrong. But what does journalistic integrity matter when Dad’s the past president of the Publishers Association? Sheriff Jackson, on the other hand, was right about quite a few things. Hal and Naomi – but I don’t need to pretend anymore – Hal and I did stay in a remote cabin those three weeks. And, yes, I’d had it scoped out for months. It belonged to some Chicago people who didn’t use it much but kept it well stocked anyway. We drove most of the way there in the old Plymouth George had come up from Illinois in and left to disintegrate in the barn when he decided to stay. Hal had brought it back to life. The poor guy couldn’t read or write, even talk really. But, oh my, was he ever good with machinery. He was strong, too. We were both strong, outdoorsy farm kids who’d long since learned how to use a gun, drive a tractor. It didn’t take much for us to push the Plymouth into Lake Downer, just like I’d planned. Later, the shotgun went in, too. But I have to admit that’s pretty much where smart ends and lucky begins. I never have understood why no one found us. Matter of fact, no one came looking or even came around. Except the very first weekend, when I spotted a man prowling the woods not far from the cabin. A deer hunter, probably. I used my last shotgun shell on him and was lucky there, too. Not only did I miss, but he never came back. When we’d eaten all the food in the cabin and burned the kerosene, we went into town. I told the story of the three Indians and stuck to it. Hal never said anything at all. Not until the day he died. Why did I choose Thanksgiving? Not necessarily for the reasons the sheriff thought. Part of it was because that morning Frances had beaten Hal again. She was always a lot quicker with her fists than Cletus or George. They had other weapons. Mostly, I did it because when my dog tried to protect Hal, Cletus shot the poor thing dead. The dog was called Stop, the word Hal had painted on the doghouse instead of Spot. I hated what Cletus and George always did to Stop. It was no different than what they did to me but George also poisoned Stop’s pups. The first two or three litters, anyway. Then he took to drowning them, one at a time. George drowned a litter the same night he did my baby. *

It’s been six days since I slipped the poison into Kit Whalen’s coffee. I’m on my screen porch, grading papers – miserably written, as usual–and watching the neighbors drift in and out of Jerry’s house. They’re offering their condolences because though steel beams aren’t as efficient as a shotgun, they do get the job done. Yesterday afternoon, while Jerry was in Oshkosh, his wife met with a fatal “accident” at his studio. One of his big metal sculptures fell on her. And now – though, of course, he doesn’t know it yet – now Jerry and I will be together again, after all these years. Volume 2, Issue 3

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A Sudden Drop Michael Cain is 34. He lives where he grew up in North East Ohio, at the foothills near the panhandle of West Virginia. He counts money until his fingers bleed at a gaming resort, and lives with his dog Jack. Michael has stories currently published on the webzines Wild Violet Magazine, After Burns SF, Demon Minds, Lunatic Chameleon and Forbidden Fruit Magazine. He had stories included in the erotic anthologies Just the Sex and My First Time 3, both through Alyson Books. He will soon be included in the e-zine The Green Muse, Justus Roux, Logical Lust and Ruthie’s Club, and in print in Sofa Ink Quarterly, First Hand LTD, and in the July, August, September, October and the November/December issues of Writer’s Post Journal. Send your comments to: broke33poke@yahoo.com Lily’s magnificent If-not-unruly-red hair was tied back atop her head, looking more like the proverbial burning bush than a head of hair. The sound of her brightly painted fingernails tapping at a business calculator was all that could be heard over the drone of the air-conditioning. The place was dead. After the lunch rush, the Denny’s where Lily waitresses had cleared out completely. That’s why she’s sitting at the counter doing her manager’s job for him; totaling receipts, guest checks, payroll. Well, that and she’s nervous too. Getting married will do that to you. She stops and surveys her nails. They’re white with hot-pink and fire-engine-red hearts airbrushed all over them. For Valentine’s Day. But tomorrow Emma down at the Nail Hut will repaint them a subtle, if not truly boring pale pink. Bashful is its name. “Lily?” Herb, her manager calls to her from behind the grill, where he‘s burning a ham and cheese on wheat. “Tina’s here, and since there ain’t no customers, you can go home if you like. I know you probably have a load of things to do before Friday.” Yes, Friday. It’s Wednesday now, and Friday’s the wedding. Lily smiles at him and thinks, Since I’ve gotten all your work done already! But she does decide to go home early. Back in the break room she grabs her purse from her locker and picks up the Cherry Coke she‘s been working on. As she leaves, her fellow employees all wish her good luck, congratulations, and such, waving in concert as she exits the building. Once outside she pulls the scrunchy out of her hair, letting it fall carelessly, cascading in long fiery ringlets about her shoulders. She pulls out a Marlboro Light and lights it up, inhaling deeply both the nicotine and pesticides, but also the wonderful June breeze. Mama had been so happy that Lily was to be a June bride. That and the facts that this wasn’t going to be a shotgun wedding (meaning a bun in the oven) and that her groom – Freddy Canter – had a job, were just icing on the cake. Lily didn’t mind the ten-minute walk home, either. Most times it was the highlight of the day, a chance to unwind, clear her mind and to catch her breath. She’d waltz down Magnolia Street admiring the old homes, most built before even her Mama was born, with their weathered yet noble facades, and their elegant lines and lattices. On Deerborne Drive Lily would float through the Elm and Oak trees, deftly trekking over the uprooted sidewalks, caused by the overgrown tree roots. Riverton Boulevard was where the tiger lilies grew this time of year, their petals an even more vibrant red than Lily’s own tresses. Then on Ventura, right beside the playground, under a haplessly gargantuan willow tree, she would stop and light another cigarette, catching snippets of memory: a ten-year-old Freddy standing triumphantly on top of the monkey bars, a fifteen-year-old Freddy carving his initials into the bark of the willow tree, then at sixteen carving Lily’s right under his. Nostalgically tinted visions of him pushing her on the swing set, and of him kissing her by the fence, at midnight, the first time he’d told her he loved her, and, of course, the very fresh memory of him proposing on bended knee right over by the picnic table, his eyes bluer than the sky itself. But on Calamity Lane, Lily’s own street, she saw two things that surprised and bewildered her. Freddy’s Silverado pickup parked in the driveway – strange because he wouldn’t be getting off work from the pottery for another four hours – and the five-year-old son of her neighbor sitting on the front porch, playing with a plastic Tonka dump-truck. “Hi, Jimmy ... what’cha doing over here?” Lily said, bowing to smile into the little boy’s face. He shrugged his shoulders innocently. “Well, where’s Kelly? Where’s your Mama?” Jimmy smiled broadly at the mention of his mother’s name. “Upstairs,” he said, wheeling back and pointing his chubby little finger at the wide open front door. ”Upstairs?” Lily felt the smile slide off my face. What did he mean, upstairs? What could Kelly be doing in her house, and upstairs? The only things upstairs are the bathroom and… Page 14

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…the bedroom. “Fu...” she half said, suddenly sounding winded. Jimmy giggled at the partial profanity. Lily tried to smile. “Sorry.” She said. She walked into the house, looking around at the walls, the furniture, the coffee table and the TV as if it were all foreign and dangerous, liable to jump out and attack her at any moment. The TV was tuned to a cartoon Lily didn’t recognize, leaving the room awash in noise. The racket seemed to soak through her skin and was rattling her bones. She walked to the staircase and climbed to the next floor. On the second floor the blaring TV sounded distant, a mile away. As she walked down the hall, past the vacant bathroom and towards the bedroom, she realized she was holding her breath. Her hands were balled up in cold, damp fists. Astonishingly, though, the bedroom was empty. No Freddy, no Kelly; not a soul in sight. Her breath left her in a relieved sigh. Her body, especially her fists, relaxed and she scolded herself for what had been racing through her mind. How could I ever think Freddy would cheat on me? She thought. How stupid am I? Really? But then came a defined creak from overhead, followed by another, and then another. Lily started for the stairs to the attic without even looking away from the spot on the ceiling where the creak had emanated. The first few steps came quickly, but since the house was fully carpeted, Lily’s footfalls made no sound. But as she ascended the steps, there came other sounds: a woman’s ragged breathing, Freddy’s familiar groans of pleasure, the squeaking of bedsprings. Instead of the usual jumbled mess of the attic Lily found everything pushed tightly against the walls, and in the middle of the newly uncluttered floor stood a huge wooden four-poster bed, laid out in clean white linens. The bed had been Lily’s grandmother’s, a wedding gift, one that was “too big and dated” to ever be used in “their house,” Freddy had said. Kelly was naked, framed and backlit by the immense, open picture window behind her, astride Freddy, her eyes shut in ecstasy, his hand groping her right breast. A heartbeat later Freddy flipped them both over in a patented move he had tested and refined over the years on Lily exclusively, or so she thought. His lanky, firm body glistened from exertion as he buried his face into Kelly’s cleavage, his hips undulating as he banged her with harder, faster thrusts. The wind blew through the window and stirred the sheer yellow curtains. It looked like a bleeping Red Shoes Diary! Suddenly, finally, Kelly’s rapture-laden eyes snapped open, and she jerked with shock. “Yeah baby,” Freddy groaned as he continued to pound her into the mattress. “That’s how I like it.” “Freddy!” Kelly cried trying to push at his shoulders with her shaking hands. “Yeah, Freddy!” Lily said, her hands like fists again. Freddy’s head jerked out of his reverie in Kelly’s bosom. He didn’t look shocked or worried or even sorry. The look was more that of annoyance. “Hey, babe,” he said as he pushed himself into Kelly far enough to make her wince and moan just a little. “What’re you doin’ home so soon?” “Got off early.” Lily couldn’t believe he was actually trying to have a conversation with her while he had his dick in some other woman! “Well,” he said, pushing up his torso like he was doing a pushup, his shoulder length blond lashed back in a pony tail. “As you can see, I’ve been kind’a busy.” Lily had mixed emotions going on. She wanted to throttle him, maybe even shot, stab, or maim him. But then, she also was hopelessly in love with the son of a bitch! Tears were welling up in her eye sockets. Her body was literally vibrating. “How ...?” “How long has this been going on?” he interrupted. “About two weeks, give or take.” “How ...?” Volume 2, Issue 3

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“How could I do this?” he interrupted again. “Well, I was bored and Kelly here has been wanting some of this.” He started humping her again. Kelly turned her head away in mock shame. “No! You lousy shit!” she screamed, her voice shaking even the glass in the windows. “How come you’re not at work?” Freddy looked crestfallen, the smile on his face drooped, and his eyes dropped down to peruse Lily’s shoes. Kelly jumped in just then: “He got laid-off from the pottery. About two weeks ago. Same time my Allan did,” she said. “But Allen’s already workin’ for his brother in Baden.” Freddy looked like he wanted to strangle Kelly. “Well, that and all the stress from, you know, you two goin’ to get hitched and all. Well ... there it is!” “There it is?” Lily questioned. “Well, Yeah. He just needed to let loose, to unwind.” “And as usual,” Freddy added laconically, “you weren’t there ... here for me!” Lily doesn’t really know what happened then. Something snapped! Literally she heard something snap, like a tree branch in a hurricane. The next thing she knew she was standing over Freddy and Kelly on the mattress, his ponytail firmly grasped in her hand. Now he’s not much bigger than she is, to tell the truth. She had always shunned the big beefy football player types. Whatever! With a force that was so very unlike her she pulled him, by his ponytail, out of Kelly’s well worn sex, off the bed, over the dust-mote-filled wooden floor of the attic, and toppled him head first out the window. Lily didn’t hear any thump when Freddy’s body collided with the earth or his ardent screams as he hurdled to the ground below. For in her head she heard the Boston Pops playing ”Star and Stripes Forever,” Martina McBride singing “Independence Day,” and how the glorious bells of liberty and revolution bleated it all out to hell! As an afterthought she slid her engagement ring off and threw its three-stone Past, Present and Future out the window after him. The stinking baby with the bathwater, you know. She didn’t even hear Freddy’s cry of pain when the ring dinged him hard right between the eyes. What she did do was to look the sheet-clutching Kelly in the eyes and said, “I think that kid of yours could use a mother about now.” Lily then turned, walked out of the attic, down the stairs to the front door, stopped long enough on the porch to pick up her purse, where she had absently dropped it, and walked out of Calamity Lane, never to return. *

That evening, The Review printed a story on its front page. The lead read: Man Falls From 3rd Story Window – Naked! And lives! It turned out Freddy didn’t hit the ground at all. Instead he landed in some overgrown holly bushes, suffering nothing more than some bruises and a few wellplaced thorns. What he truly suffered was embarrassment. At the exact same moment he fell, a couple of new parents had arrived at the fraternal grandfather’s home. The grandfather was video taping the moment for posterity. He caught the most brilliant angle, not only capturing Freddy in the buff taking off, descending, and landing, but recording the cartoonish way Freddy first seemed to bounce once off the bushes before getting firmly planted in them on the downswing. The grandfather sold the video to The Review, where his son, Daniel, the proud father of the bouncing baby Nathaniel, worked as Editor. Daniel used a cropped freeze-frame from the video for his cover photo, perfectly capturing Freddy’s bounce off the holly bushes. With a little computer editing, Daniel shaded out the prominent image of Freddy’s erect penis. But the undoctored shot, taped to the wall of every cubical and framed in 9x12 grandeur on said Editor’s wall, right next to an even bigger shot of baby Nathaniel, is a favorite with every one in the newsroom,. No one ever found out the whole story about Freddy’s infidelity or how he didn’t just fall out a window but was thrown out by his murderously angry fiancée. Freddy neither answered one phone call about the story nor told a single soul about it. As for Kelly, well, let’s just say she stayed in her own backyard from then on to become a truly good mother to young Jimmy. But, to Freddy’s dismay, there was more to come. Daniel, The Review’s Editor sent the unedited tape to America’s Funniest Home Videos, where it was shown three times (though obviously edited with fluffy smudges over Freddy’s more turgid parts), won the grand prize, went on to syndication, and is now one of the show’s fastest selling titles: “Bouncing Boyfriend!” Page 16

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And Lily? Neighbors from Calamity Lane aver she pawned her engagement ring and jetted off to some third-world country and made her fortune punishing philandering husbands for disgruntled housewives the world over. But for anyone with any intelligence, or the hankering for warm pecan pie with ice cream on top, you can still find Lily at the Deep End Denny’s. But not for long. She graduates from the Carnegie Mellon School of Law in the spring and foresees a future in Post Marital Litigation: Divorce Court. Lily Jamison, Attorney at Law.

Flash Fiction: A Salem Story Mike Pittaway resides in the desert of Southern California. When not writing or working, Michael spends his time online playing text-based adventure games, such as his current obsession Miriani, which can be found at http://www.toastsoft.net. He can be contacted at mikepittaway@aol.com. When Sheila awoke she couldn’t see anything. But she could feel, and she felt as if she’d just been rolled down a mountain. As she rolled over onto her stomach, she could feel the damp cold stone beneath her. She slowly coerced her aching muscles to stand herself up, and her eyes started to adjust to the darkness. She could faintly see the floor she’d just been lying on, covered in what appeared to be rocks and sticks. “Hello?” she called out in a weak voice, “Is anyone there?” But there was no reply. The only sound she heard was of a faint trickling of water. She moved towards the sound of the water with her arms outstretched until she could feel cold stone in front of her. She began moving along the stone wall until she felt cool water running over the uneven stones. Thirst taking over her, she began to frantically scoop up the water with her hands and began drinking. After quenching her thirst, Sheila continued to follow along the wall to her left. She soon reached a corner, and then another, but on the third wall her hand brushed against wood. A door, she thought excitedly, it’s a door! As she moved her hands around the door she could not find any handle. Frustrated, scared, and alone she began to frantically beat on the door and scream as loud as she could, “Help! Please somebody! Help! I’m locked in here! Help me please!” But still no one replied and she shrank defeated to the floor. As Sheila fought back the tears that were forcing their way to her eyes, she tried to figure out how she had gotten here, in this dark stone room, all alone. She tried to remember anything before she had woken up in this place. She had been out with her friends, as was the normal every Friday night. Her girlfriends had met up at the Hook Ridge, the best bar in Salem. She remembered drinking, dancing, and having fun until the bar had closed. Her apartment was not very far from the bar, and she had opted to walk home instead of catching a cab. Molly, her best friend, had offered to accompany her. They had exited the bar and had been walking down 5th street towards Sheila’s apartment when a black cat streaked from an alleyway in front of them and ran across the road. Molly’s eyes had gone wide and she said, “That’s a bad sign Sheila. I think we better hurry up and get to your apartment.” “Please Molly, it’s just a cat. Don’t tell me you’re superstitious.” “I’m not superstitious,” Molly said defensively, “I just think some signs out there should not be avoided. And I think that was one of them.” “Molly…” Sheila had started, but quickly broke off when a cold breeze blew past them with a slight howl. She hugged her coat tighter around her and said, “There’s no such thing as omens and signs and all that mumbo jumbo. You sound as bad as those old hags in there.” Molly looked to see what she was pointing at. It was the Salem Apothecary, an ancient looking building that had stood there as long as Molly could remember. She had been inside a few times, just for laughs. They sold spell books, candles, and other “magical” items, none of which interested Molly. “I mean, they’re always going on about their magic and voodoo.” Sheila continued, “It is bullshit, plain and simple. Now c’mon, it’s getting cold and I’m about to pass out. Let’s go.” Sheila grabbed Molly’s hand and began walking again towards her apartment. She hadn’t taken but a few steps when her legs gave way and she fell to the sidewalk. She could hear Molly asking if she was alright, but everything had gone black. And now she was here.

The Beauty and Beast E Beate Böker: “It was inevitable that I should work with books sooner or later; I even have it in my name: Böker is the word for books in the local German dialect and my first name Beate is straight from Latin and can be translated as ‘Happy’. With a name that reads ‘Happy Books’, what else could I do but write romances?... I think I can sum up my main characteristic in one short sentence: I’m curious. Anything can set me on fire.” To read more about Beate and her work, go to: www.happybooks.de Jill dragged herself up to her apartment. Just one more flight of steps. Thank God the week from hell was over. On Monday, her boss insisted on a hurried research about a range of products from a competitor, then the yearly product presentation threw her Volume 2, Issue 3

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in a frenzy, and to top it all off, the annual New York Gift Show, sweltering hot, drained all her remaining energy. But now it was Friday, and she was back in Seattle and almost home. She resisted the urge to grab her right leg and hoist it up the next step. If only her contact lenses wouldn't hurt so much. They had started to make trouble on her flight back from NYC to Seattle, and by now, their edges felt sharp enough to slice into her eyeballs. With a sigh, she wiped the sweat from her face, stabbed the key into her door, turned it, and almost fell inside. Stuffy air welcomed her in. Scattering her handbag and her shoes on the way, she made a beeline for the bathroom and eased out the offending lenses. There. That was better. With a practiced movement, she pulled the magnifying mirror on her right closer, as far as its extendable arm would stretch, and stared into it, her nose almost touching the surface. Bloodshot eyes in a pasty face stared back at her. Maybe working fourteen hours a day wasn't a good idea. Jill yanked around the cold water faucet that insisted on getting stuck and washed her face, then stuck out her tongue and lapped up the cool water. New York in August felt like a steam bath. Thank God it was better in Seattle; in fact, it was a perfect night for the barbecue out with Mary and Sue. Jill toweled off her face. No. She wouldn't go. She was too exhausted. She would take a long, cool bath and try on that face mask Mary had given her. According to Mary, that face mask illuminated you from within and made you shine with beauty. Tonight was the right time for a transformation. She rolled down her panty hose, kicked it into a corner and padded barefooted into the hall to retrieve her cell phone. Punching in Mary's number with her right hand, she took out the clasp that held back her hair with her left. "Hi, you've reached Mary's mailbox. Please leave a message." Jill let out her breath with relief. Good. Leaving a message was quicker and the answering machine would not talk back. "Hi Mary, this is Jill. I'm sorry but I'm too exhausted to join in the barbecue tonight. I promise I'll . . . ." "Jill!" "Oh." Jill suppressed a sigh. "So you're in?" "I just came through the door." Mary's voice boomed through the receiver. "What's this about not coming tonight?" "I'm bushed. I really am." Jill didn't have to fake her weak voice. "Oh, come on. As soon as you're out, you'll feel better." Jill gripped the phone between her shoulder and her ear and opened the zipper of her skirt. "Not tonight." She hoped her voice sounded resolute and firm. "I would only be miserable, longing for my bed." She tugged at her skirt. "Is that your real reason? It's not by any chance that hunky neighbor you have, is it?" Mary demanded. Jill frowned, dropping the skirt onto the floor. "Who?" "You knowâ&#x20AC;Ś, the guy who moved in last week. Apartment F." Jill closed her eyes. "Mary, I still think you've seen an apparition when you were here the last time. There's only Mrs. Penny on my left, and you couldn't possibly take her for a hunky man. As to my neighbor in apartment F, whoever he may be, I've never even seen him." "Oh, well, I just wanted to ask." Mary's voice was cheerful. "He would be a reason to stay in." "Yeah," Jill muttered, longing for her bath. "You know what, I'll call you tomorrow or Sunday, and we can discuss my invisible neighbor for hours, but not tonight, okay?" Page 18

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"Only if you manage to get me introduced to Mr. F." Jill tapped her foot. "I'll shove you through his door the minute he opens it," she promised and hung up. Flinging the phone onto the sofa, she retreated into the bathroom. It was great fun to be with Mary, but sometimes her men chasing ways tended to be exhausting. She banged the door shut. There. The bathroom was going to be her sanctuary for the next few hours. It wasn't exactly a big sanctuary, with just enough room to turn around between the sink and the tub, but it would suffice. She would offer herself a true Wellness Evening. The kind luxury spas advertised. First rule: Gentle movements. Second rule: No disturbing thoughts. In two hours, she would be as good as new. A slow smile spread across her face. She started by brushing her teeth with leisure, sitting down on the toilet seat and wriggling her toes, glad to be rid of her shoes. Finally, her mouth full of foam, she yanked at the cold water faucet until it released the water with a protesting creak. One day soon, she would have to get a plumber. Oh. That was against the rules. No disturbing thoughts. Jill turned away from the troublesome faucet and unbuttoned her blouse, then took off her slip and bra. Next, a cool, fragrant bath. She watched the water gush into the tub and dropped a capsule of almond oil into the whirl. Guaranteed to give her soft skin, or so the girl at the drugstore had promised. Just before lowering herself into the tub, she sprinkled some bath salt with rose fragrance on top. The bathroom filled with a sweet smell. Jill eased herself into the water. AAAH. With a deep sigh, she leaned her head against the rim and closed her eyes. An hour later, she had washed her hair and spread a “luxury conditioner” cure onto it. The description said it would make her hair feel like silk. She hoped it was right. The cream felt like custard in her hands, accompanied by a faint vanilla smell. Jill double-checked the packaging to make sure she had not mistaken a dessert for a hair cure. But no, all was fine. Sticking strictly to the rules on the backside of the packaging, she covered the custard-hair-mix with aluminum foil to enhance the effect and fixed it all with a towel that she tried to turn into an elegant turban. She wanted it to look exactly like the turban of the poised yoga teacher she had seen on TV a week ago. But her turban had different ideas. It wobbled like a fat pudding on top of her head, sliding down whenever she dared to take a breath. After ten aggravating minutes, Jill gave up and fished out a large hair clasp that she jammed on top of the towering structure. It helped. Now was the time to slab on Mary's face mask. Then she would fix herself a cool drink, put up her feet and feel beauty soaking into every pore of her being. Jill squeezed the tube — and froze. The stuff was green, light green, and it smelled like… She wrinkled her nose and sniffed… like earth, no, clay. She turned the tube around and read the description. Maybe she shouldn't trust Mary with stuff that might damage her health. "This entirely natural product will enhance your beauty," she read aloud. "It will cleanse all pores, giving your skin all the care it needs." "Hmmm." Jill scratched a spot beneath the turban. "That doesn't sound too dangerous." With a frown, she continued reading. "Spread on your face, leaving out the area around the eyes. Let dry for twenty minutes. Wash off with warm water." She eyed the green paste once more then shrugged. "Oh, what the hell." She finished the tube, lavishly spreading the cream on her cheeks and her forehead, down the temples, around her mouth, covering her chin. By the time she had finished, the vapor in the bathroom had vanished. Bending down to throw away the empty tube, she happened to glance at the magnifying mirror. "Oh, my God!" Her eyes looked redder than ever, surrounded by pale green paste. The turban wobbled on top, giving the monster in the mirror a slightly ridiculous touch. ”My beauty will come out later, I guess," Jill murmured, pulled her bathrobe closer and glided into the living room, holding her head erect to avoid the structure from toppling over. Now part two of the Wellness Program. Jill turned on her CD player. Holly Cole. A clear, strong voice. Just like her beauty, emerging soon. Hopefully. Volume 2, Issue 3

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Jill ventured out onto the balcony. The air caressed her bare legs, warm and soft, tempting her to stay outside. But no, it would not do. The new neighbor might spot her and decide to move out again. Mary would never forgive her. Jill lit several tea-lights and distributed them around the room, then went into the kitchen and fixed herself a cool drink. Orange juice. Campari. Ice. It was summer. With a contented sigh, she lowered herself onto the sofa and put up her feet. Why couldn't life always be like that? She closed her eyes. A horn rang out across the street. Jill shrank together and shot up. The candles had long gone out. Stars shone through the open balcony door, against a backdrop of pitch black night. She had no idea where she was. Then recollection struck. "Oh, my God." Jill grabbed her turban with one hand and ran to the bathroom, peering into the magnifying mirror. Her face mask was stone dry, cracked in several places. She looked like a sick mummy. "Please, God, please, let it have no adverse effects if used too long," she prayed and jerked at the faucet. "Please, let my hair not be orange and my skin not be blue, and let… damn!" The faucet was stuck for good. Jill grabbed it with all her strength and tried again. She heard a crack. Something gave way, and water gushed out like a jet, filling the sink rapidly. Jill lifted her hand and stared at it, still holding the faucet. "It's come off," she whispered. "The whole damn thing has just come off!" She tried to jam it back, but it only made crunching noises and wobbled around, good for nothing. "I need a…," in her panic, she couldn't think of the word, "… a… a tool . . . a what's-it!" Whatever it was, she didn't have it. The water rose steadily, nearing the edge of the sink. Jill ran out of the bathroom, out of her apartment, into the corridor. Mrs. Penny? She couldn't help. The new neighbor! Jill ran to the door marked with an F and rang the bell, never taking off her finger. When nothing moved, she banged her fist on the door. "Open up, please!" she shouted. "It's an emergency!" The door was wrenched open. "What on earth…?" The man in front of her wasn't much taller than she was, so she could see his face even without her glasses. He stared at her, his eyes widening, his mouth going slack. Jill lifted her hand, still clutching the faucet. He jumped back a step, as if to close the door. ”No, wait!" Jill shouted and shoved the faucet under his nose. "The faucet broke. I need a … a tool…. a… you know? The water is running. I can't stop it! I'm from apartment E." He didn't move; he just stared at her. "Damn it, I'm your neighbor!" Jill got desperate. Why didn't he react? "Do you have a… a toolbox?" His eyes fell on the faucet. And finally, just as Jill was about to push him aside and run into his apartment to look for a toolbox herself, he nodded. "A wrench." Jill hopped up and down. "Yes. YES! You got one?" He nodded again, turned on his heels, and disappeared through an open door into his kitchen. Jill dithered on his threshold. What the hell did he do? Carve one? When he shot out of his kitchen, she pivoted around and ran back to her apartment, leading the way. At the door to her bathroom, she slammed to a stop. Small waves rippled towards them across the tiles. He pushed past her, splashing through the water. Her bra floated up, welcoming him in. Her neighbor bent over the gushing faucet and started to work on it. Jill could see nothing but his back. The water gurgled. Something metallic clanked. "Can you manage?" She tried to catch a glimpse by squeezing herself to the side. Her nose almost touched his back. All at once, she recoiled. He didn't wear a t-shirt. Gulping, she looked down. Thank God, at least he wasn't completely naked. There was a pair of perfectly respectable shorts where they should be. But his feet were bare, standing like islands in a sea. Jill blinked. Shaking herself, she grabbed as many towels as she could, throwing them onto the floor. "I need something else," he suddenly said. "Can you go to the kitchen and get my tool kit?" Page 20

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"Yeah." Jill swirled around, ran to his kitchen and found a toolbox sitting on his kitchen table. Thank God he'd only just moved in and had everything handy. She grabbed it shoving it close to him and chased back, "Here." "Thanks." He stared down at it, his blond hair falling into his face. "Can you get those pliers there, the ones with the red handle?" "Sure." "Now come here." She couldn't see how she could come any closer, but he already continued, "I've managed to turn it a bit, but it's stuck now. If you hold the wrench in place, I'll try to manage the last bit with the pliers." He moved to the side to make room for her. Jill crouched down beneath him and grabbed the wrench. He bent over her, set the pliers in the right position, and slowly turned the remains of the faucet to close the tab. Jill could smell his aftershave and felt his arms moving above her. It was a curiously nice feeling. The jet of water slowed, then sputtered and died. "That's it." She heard the satisfaction in his voice. Jill heaved a deep sigh. "Thank you." She wriggled out of her position and turned around to face him. "Thank you so much," she repeated. "You saved me." He stared at her, his pliers forgotten in his hand. Mary was right. Her neighbor was an attractive guy. With dark green eyes and a square chin that gave him a determined look. Jill tried a smile. Something cracked on her cheeks. She frowned. It cracked some more, this time on her forehead. She put up her hand and touched her face. Tiny flakes, light green, fell off and settled on the wet floor, sprinkling it like parsley. Jill's eyes followed them. "Oh, my God," she whispered. She'd completely forgotten her face mask. With troubled eyes, she lifted her head to stare at her dumbfounded neighbor. At this moment, her turban fell off, revealing the custard cream on her hair, with a topping of crumpled aluminum foil. The air felt cold on her exposed ears. A corner of his mouth quivered. Jill saw it and could feel herself blushing. At least he won't see me going red, she thought, after all, my face is completely covered with green paste. Then she realized that she was mistaken. Her ears were bare. An image of herself flashed through her mind: Yellow paste on top, garnished with aluminum foil, cracked green face, red ears, red-rimmed eyes. She was a monster. He didn't seem to be able to tear his gaze away. "I . . . aah . . . em . . .," Jill stuttered helplessly. "I had a Wellness Evening." He blinked. Jill made a furtive move with her hands. "You know. Pamper yourself. Get beautiful." He seemed dazed. "Only I . . . er . . . fell asleep. So it's not quite finished yet." He had a very attractive mouth. She was close enough to see it. Clear lines. Not too thin. Now even the second corner started to twitch, but he finally found his voice. "What's not quite finished?" he asked. "Theâ&#x20AC;Ś, "Jill swallowed. "The beauty process." A large flake of green paste shook itself loose from her face and floated silently to the ground. "I see." His answer was grave, but his eyes were alight with laughter. And all at once, Jill couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing. Her neighbor joined in, doubling up until he had to gasp for breath. Finally, Jill sagged against the wall, looking for something to wipe away her tears. He passed her the last clean towel. "Thanks." She grabbed it then stared doubtfully at the fluffy white material. "You can use my bathroom," he said, then grinned. "I guess you know the way." Jill grinned back. "I do." Volume 2, Issue 3

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Half an hour later, she started to feel like a human being again. A cautious peek into his mirror assured her that her hair still had its light brown color, though she wasn't sure about her face. It certainly felt clean. Scrubbed, rather. Flaming red, to be exact. She hoped it would tone down with time. She would have something to say to Mary. Toweling her hair, she ventured out. It was easy to find her way, as his apartment was built like hers. Following a faint clicking sound, she wandered into his living room. Her neighbor hunched over a computer, typing away as if he wanted to set the keyboard on fire. He had pulled on a white shirt, but his feet were still bare. "You work in the middle of the night?" she asked. He nodded. "I'm a night-owl." He threw her a lopsided grin. "And tonight, inspiration struck." She stopped toweling her hair and lifted her eyebrows. There was something in his grin that filled her with foreboding. "Nothing to do with me, I hope?" she asked. His grin deepened. "Uh, kind of." She came closer. He swiveled around on his chair and got up. "I just couldn't resist." Jill narrowed her eyes. "Couldn't resist what?" "Well, I write children's books." She got there with lightning speed. "And you've just had the perfect idea for a variation on The Beauty and the Beast, right?" "Beast E," he corrected her, with a smile. "Beasty?" "No. Beast E." He was so close that she could see the tiny wrinkles around his laughing green eyes. "You're in apartment E, aren't you?" "Oh." Jill was speechless. "But I must say you've improved greatly with the washing." Jill opened her mouth and closed it again. He held out his hand. "By the way. My name's Joe." She took it. His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong. "Hi, Beauty Joe. I'm Beast E Jill." He pulled a face. "Ouch. I guess I had that coming." It was Jill's turn to laugh. "Yep. You won't hear the last of it for a long time." Her hair started dripping again, leaving droplets on his linoleum floor. He looked at her, considering. "I know what I'll do," he finally said, "to make amends." Jill suppressed a smile and continued to towel her hair to stop it from dripping. "Well?" "I'll mop up your bathroom floor." By the time they had wrung out all the towels and finished cleaning the floor, she felt as if she had known him for years. "Want a drink?" she said, hanging the last towel on the rim of the tub and pushing back her heavy glasses that kept sliding down her nose. "Love to," he replied, emptying out the bucket. "All that water has made me thirsty." Jill went to the kitchen to see what she could unearth. "Red wine okay?" she called back through the open door. "Sounds great." She heard him crossing the living room. "Can't we take our drinks to the balcony?" he called. Page 22

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Sure," Jill dropped the bottle opener back onto the kitchen table. "But we'll get a kink in our necks because there's only just enough room if we put the chairs side by side and hang our feet across the balustrade." There was a chuckle in his voice. "We'll switch chairs when that happens." They switched chairs five times until the sunrise tinted the Space Needle an improbable rose, making it look as if it was going to fly off any minute. It was so easy to talk him, so easy to tell him about all the dreams and dramas in her life. When she finally brought him to the door, he said, "Good night, Beast E." "Good night, Beauty Joe." Jill only woke when the sun was already high in the sky. Feeling curiously light and happy, she dressed with care and did her hair and face with more attention than usual. Luckily, nothing much remained of her hardcore beauty treatment. As she pushed the pile of towels into the washing machine, she wondered how soon she could call on him without appearing too forward. When she opened her door half an hour later, she found a parcel on her doormat. Puzzled, she picked it up. Something long, wrapped in light green gift paper. She undid the ribbon that held it together and found a brand new wrench. Underneath it, there was a note. "Hope you slept well. Here's something for you in case I'm not at home when the next emergency arises. Have coffee ready, if you feel like." Jill smiled.

The Breeze Anthony Damonse is one wicked writer of women front-and-center in disturbingly poignant prose. Originally from New Westminster, British Columbia, he is an award-winning writer of short stories. You can read his more current writing at his blog: anthonydamonse.blogspot.com or go to his badly-in-need-of-updating website, www.anthonydamonse.com, if you have absolutely nothing to do with your time. I was not just a beautiful woman. Many women are merely that. I had grace as well. For fifty years I could bring men to their knees. Other women hated me. They told stories about me â&#x20AC;&#x201C; that I was a whore, that I carried diseases, that I was a witch. I was barely a teenager when men started giving me gifts, I did not solicit them like a common whore or housewife. Some called this prostitution, but then, find me one woman who does not give a man her body. Even nuns give up their bodies to the Son of Man. I never made a man give me anything, just as I never gave a man anything I was forced to give. Two men tried. One is sexless, and the other is dead. There was a man I loved once. He was a tall, handsome man. We met at a party. He had dark brown eyes, and the most beautiful hands. They were strong, powerful hands. When they touched me, they made me feel warm, and safe, and loved. I had never felt that before or since. He said he loved me, but he went off to fight in a stupid war to save people who never did anything for him, people stupid enough to bring a mad man to power. Those people killed my love. They took away the one thing for which I would gladly have given up my grace and my beauty. Now, I have nothing. You have put me into this place that is really just a holding area until I die, and you expect me to live. You tell me that I have a good life. You tell me to get up in the morning. You tell me to get out of bed, to "participate with the other residents." What for? This is not living. This is existing. I get up in the morning, and take five pills. An idiotic woman makes me wear some awful outfit, so I can sit in a room with a bunch of geriatric fools eternally waiting, like dogs, for some long forgotten relative to drop by. I am not somebody's dog. In the afternoon, after an uninspired meal, I get to play whist or bingo, or sit in my closet-sized room. Why should I want to go on? I have no control over the things that happen to me, I have no power. I can't even get dressed by myself. Some of the other residents have children or grandchildren. I had no children. I couldn't stand the things children do to your body. Besides, at the time it would have meant becoming a slave to some pathetic man. The evenings are the worst. When I was still a person I would have gone to parties, or the theatre. Now, I get to watch colourized Jerry Lewis movies with people who can't even follow the plot. What I hate most about the evenings is that they tire me out so I can't wait to get to sleep. All my days are the same, except Sunday, when the hypocrites make a big deal of going to church. I am up at six with nothing to do, while those hypocrites go to get an hour of sleep on an uncomfortable bench. I refuse to bow down to a God who accepts people like that as His own. I hate those people and everything they believe in.

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Now, when you look at me you see a pathetic shell. I have no grace and no beauty, I have nothing. Everything that I am and that I was depends on my face and my body. Without my beauty I am nothing. I am just another old fool with boring stories of a life nobody remembers. My face and my body betray me. I never thought my life would come to this, I don't deserve this. I never did half the things I was accused of, I never hurt anybody; so why must I live like this? Do you think I sit here, every day remembering the past, reminiscing to myself about the "good old days"? Why should I? it is all ancient irrelevant history. I have nothing left. All I want now is to go. Why can't I just go? I am so tired. Grandma and Grandpa, Who Drove the Lorry We sat and had tea, my brother my sister and me in the graveyard where my Grandmother lay on a bright and cloudless day we had placed the bouquet of flowers we brought to the grave in a coffee tin which reminded us of the thirty-five cents we saved the sun was warm and melted the dew the grass was green, the sky was blue my sister cried, and I was bored in that place where the dead were stored brother was twelve, I was ten, sister was seven uncle said a prayer about Grandma in heaven brother wanted to run, sister wanted to play, but mother pointed where we should sit and stay brother said he understood, sister said she would be good, but I just wanted to go home and play in my woods uncle lit a cigarette to hand to my mother, sister giggled at a secret she whispered to my brother I couldn’t understand then, I didn’t have a clue, why we would sit by the grave of a woman we never knew

-- Anthony Damonse

A Gypsy’s Life Lisa M. Wolfe is a freelance fitness writer for various publications and also the author of 5 fitness books. You can contact Lisa with your comments at: kickfitt@hotmail.com . Katarina stood in the doorway and looked around the small, white, one room shack that was to be her new home. The shack had been abandoned by a gypsy who fled to the mountains after the government sent his children to live with peasants. She hoped this latest move to Hungary would be the last for her. Many countries had banned the nomadic living that accompanied the gypsies and members of her family had been sold into slavery, witch-hunted, and even murdered in an attempt to eliminate “gypsy scum.” The Roma, or gypsies, were regarded as thieves and beggars. Roma families continued on in the same traditions their ancestors passed on, moving from town to town, because they didn’t know any different life. Roma spoke their own language, enjoyed the freedom of their lifestyle and aimed at meeting their needs of the day. For Katarina this way of life wasn’t enough for her. She dreamt of an honest life with her own home, a decent job and healthy living conditions for the family she one day planned on having. Even though her parents were stoic, they understood her desire and sent her to Hungary with what little money they could spare. Their final goodbye was not a tearful one and she left Austria in a covered wagon with a family of gypsies who had offered to take her along in return for her working to pay her way. Her robust frame and calloused hands from 22 years of labor suited her fine and in the two weeks of the journey she had used them to fend off the unwanted advances of her host family’s son, cook meals, wash everyone’s clothes and tend to the horses. She should have been relieved to be here on the threshold of her new life. Her small suitcase containing few clothes and her Bible lay at her feet in the doorway of the shack. She took a deep breath, looked around one last time, picked up her suitcase, and turned away. She walked down the dirt road for 5 miles into the town of Veszprem. She admired the beautiful houses. Her eyes opened in amazement at the near castlesized homes. She could almost forget the tents and shacks that colored her childhood memories. Page 24

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For the moment, she resorted to an old gypsy habit and quickly took an apple off the cart of a street vendor. She walked to the center of town and sat down next to a large fountain. She ate quietly in the sun and was contemplating where to go next when she felt him enter the town square. Josef saw her as soon as he entered the square. Her colorful clothing and long, curly dark hair caught his eye, and even though he knew she was a gypsy he wanted nothing more than to talk to her. As if she felt him, she turned and looked him in the eyes. Her eyes were as dark as her hair and looked right through him. Katarina watched him make the decision to speak to her. She admired his shoulder length brown wavy hair, and slightly unshaven face. His blue eyes reminded her of the sea. She had a feeling he was a fisherman. “Hello. Do you speak Hungarian?” “Yes, I do, but only little,” Katarina replied. “I saw you sitting here and wondered if you were in need of help?” “Yes. I just got into town and can’t find the relatives I was to stay with. I thought I’d wait here for them.” Josef knew she was not telling him the truth. “While you wait, can I show you around town? I could take you to my home and make you some dinner.” He was shocked to hear the words come out of his mouth. Katarina didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I’ll go with you. Thank you.” She did not want to go back to that small, empty shack. “What is your name? I’m Josef.” He held out his hand to help her up. “Katarina.” She took his hand and stood. He picked up her small suitcase. They took a small tour of the town and he pointed out the church, the coppersmith and one small restaurant, but she wasn’t paying much attention. She was watching the way he carried her suitcase. Josef’s hands were tanned brown, with trimmed nails. The fingers were long and slender, but she could tell they were strong. She began to wonder about what those hands had seen and done. “Here we are.” Josef’s voice startled her back to reality. He opened the door to a two bedroom home with its own bathroom and kitchen. She didn’t notice until now the small satchel he’d been carrying. He lifted it up in triumph. “I had some luck today, and after selling most of the lot, I have some good perch to add to halaszle, or fisherman’s soup.” Kararina just nodded. She was distracted by the home. It was sparsely decorated, mostly with pieces from old boats, but was very tidy. She knew she never wanted to leave. The feeling she had when she walked in was a welcoming home. “Do you want to clean up a bit before dinner?” Josef asked. “Yes, thank you.” “I’ll bring the hot water in to you in a few minutes.” Katarina went into the small bathroom and looked at the luxurious tub. She was used to bathing in cold streams. Josef brought in the water. She heard him in the kitchen as she slipped into the tub. Her nakedness didn’t bother her, but the unspoken intimacy between them had her shaken. Their conversation over dinner was limited. She tried to understand what he was saying and he tried not to ask too many questions. “I’ll clean up the kitchen, Josef, while you take a bath.” After the kitchen was clean, she sat down on the couch. She listened to the sounds of Josef in the bath. Josef hadn’t changed the tub, and when he thought of the water caressing every fold of hers and then passing over his own skin, he was thankful the water had cooled. Volume 2, Issue 3

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He emerged from the bathroom smelling of a mixture of the two. His chest was bare, and Katarina knew he wore nothing under the light pants her had slipped on. He crossed the room, sat next to her, and took her hand into his. “Will you stay here with me?” he whispered as he looked into her eyes. “My home feels complete with you here. I promise to take care of you and to be kind. I hope that one day you’ll fall in love with me as I have done instantly with you.” He didn’t tell her that his mother had one-eighth gypsy blood. When he was young, every night she told him his favorite story of the woman sitting by the fountain. Katarina relied one last time on her family’s gypsy ways. She took a quick look into her future with Josef and saw their feet surrounded by five sets of children’s eyes. Some were blue and some were brown, but all were a combination of the better of them both. “Yes, Josef. I will stay with you.” She knew her decision to be with a non-gypsy meant that she could never have contact with her family again, yet somehow she knew her mother had also seen the future and had given Katarina the greatest gift of all.

The Other Me Susan Littlefield lives in Santa Rosa, California. She is a paralegal by day and a writer by night. During the 1990's she published a few poems in small press magazines and wrote a novella as her final project for her B.A. in Liberal Studies in 2005. She continues to write short stories and is currently working on a novel. This will be her first short story published. Send comments to: susanlittlefield@earthlink.net It started one stormy September evening, a Saturday, while watching a marathon of Mission Impossible reruns. Not the theatre flicks, darling and daring as they are, but the old sixties series. Just as Phelps’ recorded assignment went up in smoke, my telephone rang. I muted the TV and grabbed on the first ring. “Yes?” “Maura Brightman?” I didn’t recognize the jovial male voice. Perhaps a telemarketer? I kept my tone noncommittal. “Yes. How may I help you?” “This is Thomas Abernathy.” He paused. “Remember me?” I fell silent and probed the aging storerooms of my past for any Thomas, Tom or Tommy with the surname Abernathy lurking in any dark corners. No princes or paupers threatened to jump out. “Hello, Thomas. Please, refresh my memory.” “Senior prom. Fortuna High, class of 92.” He released a small laugh. “Don’t you remember? We were homecoming king and queen.” “I didn’t go to Fortuna High or my senior prom,” I said, repositioning myself on the sofa. “I’m afraid you’re talking to the wrong person.” Silence came from the other end, and then the rustle of fingers leafing through pages. “Oh, I see. There’s another Maura Brightman listed. Your number’s first.” “Well, that explains it. Good luck.” I hung up and released a short laugh. Someone lives in my city, population fifty-thousand, with my name. Tell me, what are the chances? If my name were ordinary, such as Amy Jones, I wouldn’t have been surprised. But, I’ve known since I was nine years old my name is special— “Maura Bora, Maura Bora,” the kids chanted as they joined hands and formed a circle around me. “Maura’s boring!” With tears streaming down face, I dashed under arms and ran home to mother. I wanted to bury my head in her breast, to feel her comfort. But she pushed me away and looked down at me, her face stern. Her voice ran like stale Texas syrup. “With such a special name, it’s not a wonder they call you that.” She made a face and mimicked the kids. “Maura Bora.” And then, she turned on her heels and walked away, leaving me to bury my face in my hands and cry alone. — because mother said so. Page 26

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I pushed the memory away and grabbed the telephone book from the drawer. I scanned down to Br. Yep, just as he said. What about this other Maura kept Thomas thinking of her, gave him enough courage to call her after all these years? At 33, I’d had two relationships, both less than a year, and both flops. But, what if, what if, some guy from my past came looking for me? Mother’s voice slithered back into my head, like a snake filled with poison. “It would never be.” Why Mother? What’s wrong with me? “You’re more intelligent than anyone I’ve ever known,” she said when I cried over some crush who wouldn’t give me a first glance. “But, you’re different, cut from a cloth no seamstress would have in her sewing box.” Heaviness washed through my body. Ten years dead and she still lived inside my soul, her words like back-handed compliments meant to sting. I replaced the telephone book and eyed the Elavil tucked neatly to the side of the drawer. I pulled the bottle out and twisted the lid. Little purple pills, 100 milligrams of pure heaven – one to dull mother’s voice; two to slam the door in her face. I downed one with a glass of water, and then made a mocha and tried settling back into the MI marathon. Cinnamon Carter, MI femme fatale investigator, took a lingering puff of her cigarette, and then grinned as she blew out a smoke ring. Why can’t I be like her, sexy, beautiful and bold? Why can’t episodes of my life be dedicated to excitement and solving espionage and international crime? No glory existed in my pitiful life of an independent accountant working from my home, not stepping out into the real world, except for my morning excursions to Coffee House a block and a half away. Forget going out after dark. Thank God for Andy’s Café and Moos Choo because they delivered in less than an hour. Boring as hell, but safe. Something about the phone call led me straight into an obsession. What was this other Maura like? With the MI marathon going strong in the background, I fired up my laptop and searched my name in public records. Of course, my address came up first, followed by 3978 Sycamore Lane. She’d owned the place since April 2005. I went to every internet site I could think of. The more I searched, the more information about the other me came to the forefront: CEO of West Bank, chairman of numerous boards, local activist. Impressive! Everything I ever wanted to be. I hit another link and a picture of the other Maura popped up. I inhaled. She was pretty, more beautiful than I would ever be. Shiny, straight auburn hair hung to her shoulders framing a heart shaped face, and teal eyes stared out at me, as if looking into my being. I stared at her picture and a sudden ire blazed through to my bones. Why did she get to be so beautiful? I hated my short curly red hair and squat body. If I can’t be Cinnamon Carter, then maybe I can be — The other me. *

Later, I browsed Hair Palace, and then on to Classy Woman for wardrobe, shoes, make-up and accessories. By the time I finished, I was short $1,320.97 and waiting in anticipation for my packages to arrive (yes, I rush ordered everything). My treasures arrived by UPS four days later. Once I hung my new wardrobe, I stripped down to my underwear. I slipped into a light blue blouse and black slacks, and then added a pair of two inch stilettos. I’d never worn anything higher than a half inch solid heel, so this was going to take some practice. I moved one foot forward, hobbled, and then threw my hand against the wall, catching myself. I took slow, careful steps to the full length mirror near the door. “You just wait,” I said to my half-changed refection. “You’re going to be beautiful!” “Never,” mother said. “You look nothing like her.” I snubbed the old lady and took the wig out of the box and put it on my head. At first, it just sat on top with my red tendrils peaking out. How stupid I looked! I lifted it off and stretched the wig over my head until it felt like my brains were being squeezed out of my ears. I tucked away all evidence of my Irish heritage. I stared at the new me and smiled. And, what I did next – SURPRISE! I kicked off my heels, ran to the laptop and straight to the online white pages. My fingers worked with unimaginable speed. Abernathy, Thomas, Fortuna, California. Volume 2, Issue 3

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Nothing came up. I erased Fortuna and searched all of California. A Thomas Abernathy lived in the next city over! With pounding heart and shaking fingers, I dialed his number, hung up after the first ring. What if he has caller ID? What if…what if….who cared? I redialed. Breathe, wait, breathe, breathe. He answered just as the machine started to pick up. “Good afternoon.” I opened my mouth, lost my voice. “Hello?” How would the other me, the new me, act in a situation like this? “Thomas? Is that you?” “Yes.” He paused. ‘Who is this?” I mustered my gumption and said my name as if I were her! “This must be fate,” he said. “I called you the other day. Your voice mail was full.” I smiled. This was going to be easy. “I went out of town. To Fortuna. I looked you up.” He released a surprised laugh. “I moved down here last month. Your mother told me you lived in the area.” Fear shot through my veins. My mother? Oh, her mother. Instinct told me to avoid mother. “I’ve been here awhile.” “Graduation changes things. How about meeting up again? Just to say hi.” Heat rushed to my cheeks and my mind blanked. I sat there, frozen. How could I pull this one off? I couldn’t invite him here, and new places frightened me. Besides, I had no idea what he looked like. “You there?” he asked. I heard myself stammer. “Yes. Still here.” “Well, what do you think?” We could meet at Coffee House. The place had a quick turnover. Even if someone recognized me, they would think I’d gotten a make-over. “Coffee House sounds good,” he said. “Say 10:00 a.m. tomorrow?” “I’ll be there,” I said. “You know, I’m afraid I might not recognize you after all these years.” He let out a short laugh. “I look the same, except I’ve shaved my head. The solution to thinning hair. See you soon.” I hung up and danced around the room. Tomorrow, I would step into my new life! *

The next morning, I slipped into designer jeans, a black cashmere and boots with a nice thick heel. I studied a picture of the other me as I applied my makeup, and then I put the wig on. I looked better than her! I was her!

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I parked across the street and walked over to the coffee shop. Every guy in the place had hair. I sat down and put my handbag on the chair next to me. A few moments later, a man with a shiny scalp appeared in the doorway and looked around, his eyes passing over me. It had to be him. I smiled, caught his eye and waved. He crinkled his forehead and, without moving, stared at me. His eyes felt like an X-Ray machine scanning for every defect inside of me. Fear shot through my entire being. What if he can see through me and doesn’t believe I’m Maura Brightman? But, I am her- me! Then, he grinned and strolled to my table. My cheeks got warm and I looked down. “Maura?” Was he unsure, disbelieving? I stood and we exchanged a cordial hug. “Thomas. It’s good to see you,” I said, sitting back down. He slid a chair out and sat down. With a pasted smile, he paused and fumbled his fingers. His forehead still donned a strange crinkle pattern. “You…you look different.” I lowered my eyes. “Yeah, I’ve put on a little weight.” “But, it’s almost like you’re a different person.” My heart palpitated and a hot flash shot through my body. And, just when I thought“Ms. Brightman, your mocha today?” I looked up at Sissy and flashed a relieved smile. Her eyes said how pretty the new me looked. “Please.” I glanced at Thomas. He gaped. “You, sir?” Sissy asked. He started blankly, and then shook his head as if trying to bring himself back to reality. “Iced Coffee. Black.” Silence ensued. Once our drinks arrived, I lifted my cup. “How about a toast to old times?” We clinked our cups. He gulped his iced coffee and I took a sip of my mocha. He furrowed his brows. “Aren’t you allergic to chocolate?” Allergic? To chocolate? “They thought so when I was younger. But, allergy tests a few years ago came out negative.” “Wow. Some luck. Especially after almost dying from a Hershey bar when you were a kid.” I trembled inside. An image of mother laughing and wagging a crinkled finger at me flashed through my head. He drank his coffee, I didn’t touch my mocha. Thomas was first to break the silence with the slide of his chair. He threw eight dollars on the table, and then stood up. “I need to go.” I blinked back tears. “Maybe we can get together again?” Without a yes, no or maybe, he turned and left. Sweat broke out all over my body as I made a quick exit to my car. The solitary block and a half home felt like ten miles in rush traffic. Once back to safety, I pulled the wig off and threw it across the room. Why hadn’t I thought this out better? Mother’s voice came through stronger now, more insistent. “I thought you were smart, but you’re just too stupid for him. This other Maura is both pretty and smart. No wonder he wants her and not you.” Then, with sudden force, her voice exploded in the space between my ears with every cruel word she’d ever said, louder and louder, faster and faster, filling every inch of my brain with incessant jabber, until I squeezed my eyes shut and slammed my hands over my ears, my voice jumping off the walls and echoing to my core. “SHUT UP, MOTHER!” Like the abrupt cessation of a thunder storm, my head filled with white noise. Exhaustion washed over me, through my cells and into my bones. I downed two pills, sank onto the sofa and curled up. Volume 2, Issue 3

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No bedtime fairy tales for this girl. I closed my eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. *

The ringing of the telephone woke me late that evening. I answered with a groggy hello. “This morning was a dirty joke.” Ah, a voice that became familiar less than a week ago. I rubbed my eyes and sat up on the side of the sofa. I winced. My head throbbed with a happy pill hangover. Thomas continued before I could say anything. “How could you do something like that?” I inhaled with shock. “I don’t know what you mean. I am Maura Brightman.” Silence came from the other end, and I was sure he’d hung up. I moved the phone from my ear, and then his voice came through loud and clear. “Well, you listen to me. Just because you have the same name as my friend doesn’t mean you’re her. In fact, she knows all about your game. I’m sure she’ll file charges for identity theft. Expect a visit from the police.” The dead connection buzzed in my ear. I dropped the phone and paced the room. His words, in my mother’s irritating voice, played over and over in my head. My heart thumped and drops of sweat formed all over my body. I ran to the closet and pulled her wardrobe from my closet, grabbed her hair and shoes, stuffed them in a box and tucked them in a corner of the attic. No police officer would think to look there. By the time I was done, there was no evidence of her anywhere to be seen. I did my research on Identity theft, and then I called the police. *

The next morning, hot water simmered in the teapot and the aroma of fresh baked croissants filled the kitchen. Next to the plate of pastries sat two cups with dry pekoe tea bags. I’d shut mother up with both pill and will. The doorbell rang right on queue. A handsome young officer in plain clothes smiled at me. “Maura Brightman?” “Yes,” I answered with confidence. “My name is Robert Smith. I’m here to ask you some questions about the police report you made yesterday. May I come in?” I motioned him inside, pulled out a chair. “Tea and croissant, Mr. Smith?” He sat down. “Thank you, Ma’am. Haven’t had breakfast yet.” “Me either,” I said, pouring water into the cups. Before I knew it, we were breaking bread together, chatting like old friends. “Before we pass this on to the proper department, I need to make sure I’ve got the facts down. Tell me what happened.” I took a sip of tea, and then recited the story as I had created and rehearsed it. Now, I was the femme fatale in my own play. He kept his eyes on me as I spoke. “Yesterday morning, around eleven or so, I received a phone call from one of the baristas at Coffee House, where I’m a regular. The barista- I don’t even recall her name, there always seem to be new ones- said a woman was just there with a bald guy trying to pass herself off as me. She overheard the woman say to the guy, ‘I’m Maura Brightman, freelance accountant.’ Well, that’s what I, Maura Brightman, do. I searched the licensing board and I’m the only accountant licensed in my name.” I paused to allow him to take in my performance. “I’m concerned someone is trying to steal my identity. I hear it’s pretty common these days.” “But, you don’t know who called you?” I shook my head. “Sorry. But, you’ll check into this?” “I will tell you, this type of report, with no corroboration, is low on the priority list. But, I can ask some questions at the coffee shop and try to find out who called you. If this other woman paid with a credit card in your name, then we can pass this on to the Identity Theft Unit. I also suggest you obtain a credit report for any cards you have not applied for and call all your credit card companies for any purchases you have not made.” He stood, pulled a business card out of his breast pocket and laid it on the table. “Call me if your credit report comes back with any inconstancies. And, if anyone calls you again about this woman, get their name and number.” Page 30

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“Thank you Officer Smith,” I said, opening the door. “If anything strange shows up on my credit report, or I get any other phone calls, I’ll let you know.” He left and I tossed the card into the garbage. Just let that other Maura Brightman call the police now. “Smart girl,” mother whispered, smiling. For once I had satisfied her. I cleaned the kitchen and glanced at the clock. I switched on the TV just when the MI reruns started. What adventures would spicy Cinnamon lead me on today? I watched as she and Phelps concocted their latest scheme of deception, studied her hair and make-up, mannerisms, the way she talked and walked. My chance of being the other Maura Brightman was gone, but nobody remembers Cinnamon Carter, do they? The other me.

Snakes Give Me the Shakes! Genita Hill of North Carolina returns with another installment of her Don’t Make Me Go Postal stories. She is currently working on her 20th year as a rural carrier with the Postal Service. She loves being outdoors and talking with her customers. She is fulfilling her dreams of writing, something she has done since she was 11 years old. She has written a children's story on being mentally challenged and poetry on various subjects. Send your fan mail to: jlhill16@yahoo.com Whoever said there are good snakes and bad snakes 1ied. All snakes are bad, even the dead ones. Why? You still have to see them. I deplore snakes and lately I have seen more than my fair share of snakes. I have seen them on the mail route, while driving around and worse of all at my home. Throughout all my younger years of growing up in Georgia, I had never seen a snake out crawling on the ground. I had seen them at the zoo and when we had science programs, but never out on my own. If I did, I didn't know what I was looking at. The fIrst real live snake that I saw up close and personal was on the mail route. I was going down a dirt road delivering mail and I saw something up ahead going across the road, but at an angle. I asked myself (I talk to myself a lot on the route) what was it? As I got closer (too close for me) I realized it was a snake. I stopped my car and screamed until it got completely across the road. I will not run over a snake. I am surprised that I have not caused an accident, because I stop in the middle of the road and wait for the snake to cross. I do not run over snakes because of my belief. I believe that if I ever run over a snake and look in my rear view mirror and that snake is not mashed in the road or flipping around, I believe that will be a wrecked car. Once when I was delivering mail to a customer, I noticed a snake coiled up on her porch. Fortunately we were standing in her yard talking. I did take the time to fInd out if she had another way to get into her home, before I departed the premises in a big hurry. She was closer to her home than I was to mine and hers had the snake; not mine. Unfortunately, a snake showed up at my home two days later. I guess that's my punishment for abandoning her in her time of need. However, she didn't seem that upset that a snake was on her porch. If it had been my porch, I would have left with the mail carrier. I have actually had a prankster put a dead snake in a mailbox. I guess you know me well enough by now to know somebody did not get mail for a while. My scariest experience with any form of a snake was at a business that I deliver to. This business had the big reflective glass in the front that you could see yourself in. Evidently, a big black crow was fascinated with seeing himself in the glass. I guess he thought it was another crow and he would come up to the glass and peck away. Someone planted this great idea in the head of someone at that plant, to lay a rubber snake by the glass at the front of the building to scare the crow away. They forgot to tell them to warn the mail carrier, not that it would have mattered anyway. When they laid the snake there, I am quite sure they did not know they would be scaring the mail carrier away, too. Picture this if you can: a mail carrier minding her business just doing her job and earning a day's living. She is walking up to the front of a business to go in to deliver the mail. As she advances on the building, she takes one last look through the mail to make sure it is all correct. Out of the comer of her eye, she catches a glimpse of something that seems out of place. She looks to her right. Less than twelve inches from her feet is the biggest snake she has ever seen up close with no glass separating them from each other. It wasn't black, so her first thought was copperhead. It really wasn't her fault that half of their mail ended up on top of the building. It serves them right that someone out of that office had to go up on the building to get their mail. It is a wonder that they still get mail. Needless to say, no rubber snakes have been lurking around their office building anymore. However, I must admit, the big black crow stops by every now and then to peck at his friend in the glass. I guess the people in that office will just have to grin and bear it.

Holding Hands with the Accused Karla DeLuna: “I read with great interest the description of your magazine in Writers' Market. For many years I have considered myself an outdoor adventurer and have gotten into and, thankfully, out of more than a few tight spots. None of them compare to the experience that inspired the attached story. You may find it controversial, but anything but conservative. The names have been changed, but the emotions are certainly real!” Please send comments to: karladeluna@mac.com “Let’s listen to the story as it unfolds.” Those were the defense attorney’s words as he finished his opening statement to the jury. I was in the courtroom on day one of what would be a four-day trial of my lover, for five felony charges, and particularly ugly charges at that. I had Volume 2, Issue 3

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heard those words before, about six months ago, when the relationship was brand new. I had asked Mariano about his family. He said very little at the time: “As we become better acquainted, the story will unfold,” he said. We met through an Internet dating service and exchanged a few e-mails before meeting for dinner. As a second date I met a few of his friends at a barbecue. On our third date we were sitting on the beach at my family’s summer lake house and I told him all about my 14-year-old daughter. She was spending the weekend with her father, a man from whom I had been happily divorced for three years. Connie and I were still close as mother and daughter, but adjusting to her adolescence. All Mariano said was that he had left a 12-year marriage more than two years earlier and that he had a six-year-old son and a 16-year-old daughter. He and his now ex-wife had journeyed to Russia to adopt the girl from an orphanage, and returned with her to discover not too long afterwards that the wife was expecting a baby. But now, he said nonchalantly, he did not see them much. We left it at that and went for a swim. Outside the courtroom window the sun shone through the clouds and the temperature rose into the 40s on this anything but average January day. Inside, the radiator was beginning to clank as the bailiff brought in the first witness, Mariano’s daughter. My thoughts went back to our fourth date, or rather the morning after. Mariano had stayed late to watch the meteor showers with me. Since he lived 45 miles away, I invited him to sleep on the futon in the guest room (Connie was home). In the morning we had coffee in the kitchen. That was when Mariano made a heart-stopping revelation – a story that hung in my consciousness like a poisonous fog and tormented me to this moment, in spite of every effort to push it away. “I have to tell you,” he said. “It wouldn’t be fair not to. I’ve decided to live my life as normally as possible and to deal with each part as it comes. I know I’ve done nothing wrong or illegal or immoral and I’ve done everything I can to be truthful and responsible.” It was then that he told me about the felony charges hanging over his head. Not sure that I had heard correctly, I went over to the radio and turned off the Sunday jazz brunch show. “So, tell me again how this daughter of yours has accused you of such a thing.” His answer was both outlandish and starkly real at the same time. How could such a thing be? I listened with every bit of my consciousness. “It all happened after my wife, my ex-wife, bought her a book. I don’t know where she got the thing. It was the story of a family. They nearly matched us, really, mother and father, older daughter, and younger son. The girl in the book was being sexually abused. She told her therapist that her father had been coming into her room at night and – well it was shortly after reading the book that Tasha made the accusation to her therapist. The girl in the book got rid of her father that way. He had to leave the house. I think my ex actually planted the idea. You see, Tasha actually was abused at the orphanage. She was afraid of men and she had begun to have delusions when we brought her home.” There was more to the story, but that was about all I cared to absorb at the moment. When Mariano left I had a moment alone with my thoughts. How could this be? How could I believe him? How could I not? I said a prayer, then called my shrink and took the very next available appointment. I had been seeing Deb monthly for counseling ever since my divorce. She had helped me through some huge changes – in particular how to handle my transition into the middle age dating world, as well as how to balance my new life with my daughter’s needs. She always seemed quite sensible and directive in her advice, often affirming my inclinations while also offering valuable insights. She had never been reluctant to point out potential mistakes, either. As I walked into her office I wondered how I would ever explain this one! I sat cross-legged on Deb’s brown leather couch and I just blurted it out. “Deb, I met a man. He is handsome and educated, intelligent and fun. He likes cycling, hiking, and kayaking. He’s read all the same books I have and we even agree on politics. But, he’s just revealed to me that his ex-wife and adopted daughter have made these horrible allegations of child sexual abuse against him. He has charges pending. It'll probably go to trial! Deb, am I some kind of nut to be even asking you this? I mean, here I am, a single mom with a teenage daughter?” Deb took a moment to answer me. She looked at me as she always does when she is about to admonish me, “Don’t 'catastrophize',” she said, using her word for my tendency to worry too much about too many things. “I will not tell you to stop seeing a man who may turn out to be a wonderful person, a good friend and a perfect life partner, just because he has yet unproven allegations against him by an adversary. I WILL tell you to proceed with caution as you would, and MUST, in any new relationship. And watch how he relates to your daughter. Don’t leave him alone with her.” Why would I, I thought. We talked a little more and discussed the latest research on pedophile behavior. (If Mariano was a child molester, it seemed that he wasn’t a very good one). Ye-gads, I thought. What next? I left Deb’s office with renewed resolve to proceed with caution while still enjoying the pleasures and exploration of a developing relationship. Tasha was on the witness stand. This was the part I had come to see today. Sure, I was there to support Mariano. Of course I loved him. Of course I believed in him. Why else would I stick around – not just stick around, but develop what was the best relationship I had ever known? But here she was. This was the first time I laid eyes on the girl. What would I see? I had been asking myself this question on my drive to town today. Would I see exactly what Mariano had described to me: a confused, traumatized child, who really had been abused in Russia at the hands of her stepfather, a man who eventually murdered the girl’s mother, beating the woman to death as she watched? What if I saw an honest, composed girl, telling the truth? Would I be forced to admit to myself that Mariano was in fact a very devious, intelligent, and skilled con artist who had managed to pull the wool over my eyes for six months? I had gone over the list in my head as I was driving in. I had met his friends, many of whom were there with us in the courtroom. I had met his family and spent holidays with them. I had met his business associates and I had certainly been in his home. For Christ’s sake - the most incriminating thing he owned was a book on Chinese erotic art with references to a jade stalk and a lotus blossom! He was actually worried that an investigator would find it and think the worst! And most of all, I had my perceptions, my intuition, and my love. So this was the daughter, now 17 years old. She was a pretty thing, in a way, with her long, blond hair (which I later learned had the natural curl straightened out), and fashionable blouse and pants. She smiled, and then gave a more serious look. The District Attorney began the questions. The testimony quickly became a confused jumble of giggles, tears, and facial contortions. My heart went out to her. “I can’t remember...yes....maybe....it happened all the time – particular time.... I don’t remember....every night...two or three minutes at a time....he touched my breast... I was eight years old...no, it stopped...he kissed me.... yes at bedtime...my mother? Well she was asleep. He drugged her.” She squirmed. Poor thing. And her eyes, darting to her right, gave away her disbelief of herself. The jury looked strangely unaffected. They weren’t buying it, either. Or had they already decided? Maybe they weren’t listening at all. The judge shrugged his shoulders and sighed. Or did I imagine that? The clock struck 1 o’clock. The witness stepped down, and day one was over. Page 32

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Day two of the trial was not unlike day one, except that I now knew the best place to park the car and how to get to the courthouse from the lawyer’s office. The weather was still warm and springlike. The radiator in the courtroom was still clanking, and the story was still unfolding.This was the first time I was to see Vivian. She was diminutive as she climbed to her seat on the witness stand – a tiny woman playing grown up in oversized clothes and armed with her own unique reality – a reality that matched no one else’s, a fact which would reveal itself in time. Her testimony was not at all what I had expected. The D.A. led her through some questions about how this alleged abuse had come to her attention. “Mrs. Santanoni, can you tell us a little about your life with your former husband and when you learned of his abuse of your daughter?” In a monotone voice she told how she was exhausted all of the time because she had to take care of the children, and the house, and do her job, and go to school, not to mention shoveling snow, cooking, and washing dishes while Mariano drove around in his red Jeep and went to the gym. Clank, clank went the radiator. The bailiff yawned. Vivian’s testimony picked up speed. And she was stressed from Mariano’s inability to earn enough money to pay her tuition and the nanny’s salary. He even hid the bills from her! Hmm... was this the same man I know? I thought about how I had not touched a dirty dish in his presence since I had known him. He was a better cook than I, and he even shoveled my driveway! From the witness stand I was hearing how it would have been impossible for her to notice anything because Mariano was so clever and sneaky. But how did she finally find out? Well, Mariano had confessed to her, of course, late one night, she testified. The DA smiled with apparent satisfaction and Vivian's face morphed into a smirk. It wasn't until after this second day of testimony that I learned of the other allegations Tasha had made. “Why didn't you tell me before?” I asked Mariano with a slight sense of annoyance. Mariano just looked at me incredulously and explained that it wasn't admissible in court because she was a minor – besides, better to hear it here than from me. The story, even with few details, seemed incredible enough! OK. But why hadn't he told me? “You mean Tasha thought that Tim was trying to seduce her?” Tim had been her mother's lover several years earlier – a year before the marriage ended. Tasha had been 12 years old at the time. She and her little brother had accompanied their mother to Tim's horse farm and played outside with Tim's son as the two lovers trysted in the bedroom. That information emerged in court, but not until Mariano’s attorney cross examined Vivian. Come to find out, Vivian had also banned Mariano’s male friends from their house in the first few months after the adoption for the same reason. She feared that they would molest Tasha if given the chance. I asked Mariano if he hadn’t considered that a little irrational. Perhaps, he said, but losing friends was easier than arguing with Viv. What power, I thought. Lord spare me from such power! Vivian's cross examination had an almost surrealistic air to it. She beamed with ironic self righteousness as she described the secret, extramarital affair. She claimed that Tim was a “nasty person” and that is why she broke it off. Interesting. Then Tim had revealed the affair to Mariano, and warned him that Viv was on a 'mission to destroy him.” What followed after these revelations became a blur. When I did focus, the defense lawyer's questions and Vivian's answers did not match. Never before had I attended a trial and I wondered if this was typical or expected. In almost random order, we also learned that Tasha’s first allegation had surfaced around the time that Tasha had gotten into some trouble involving activities and deceptions which she had documented in a secret diary. Oddly, the alleged abuse appeared nowhere in the diary and the teenage writings had not been examined in the police investigation. Nevertheless, Vivian had found and read the diary in the last weeks that the family had been living together, and it was at that time that Mariano had grounded Tasha and suggested, as a last resort, a very strict girl’s boarding school for Tasha. Now I wondered if I remembered correctly Mariano’s earlier reference to shock camp. That was immaterial now. Two weeks later Tasha told her counselor that she and her father were “doing stuff” and that he had kissed her on the mouth. The next morning Vivian called social services from Tasha's counselor's office. Later that day Mariano was forced to move out of his home. It was Vivian herself who called the police. One month after that, Viv’s boyfriend, a new one this time, had moved in. Needless to say, Tasha went neither to boarding school nor to reformatory of any sort. During the next few weeks of what she had called a stalled investigation, Viv helped the police by giving them various props and instruments which she suspected Mariano had used to violate their daughter. Listening to this testimony, I tried to imagine the alleged crime. Could it be? Had I noticed anything like this in Mariano’s apartment? Had he ever suggested anything kinky to me? I wracked my brain. Ultimately, I marveled at how these varied but seemingly ordinary household items, now entered into evidence, had turned up clean when tested by the forensics department. Or perhaps I could not see the truth of this ugly crime because I was yet another halpess victim indoctrinated into a male dominated society. Improbable. I had earned both a B.A. and M.S. from the most liberal university in the state, and had taken electives in women’s studies there. Could it be that I was simply blinded by love? Considering these possibilities, I returned to the facts and I wondered how the D.A. had ever come to prosecute this case. The most important evidence was an old dusty copy of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (but were afraid to ask). Apparently it was found in Tasha’s room a week or so after her father moved out. At this time it was all too much for me to process and I decided that day three could go on without me. Mariano’s friends would be there. I would go to my job instead and save my final personal leave day to return to court for the grand finale. No matter what the outcome, I would be there by Mariano’s side. Of that I was sure. Day three passed surprisingly quickly for me. It was a typical day at work, and that evening I received a confident report by phone from Mariano that another battle had been won. No counselors or doctors had been asked to testify and there was no physical evidence. None. Mother and daughter had contradicted each other in their testimonies. But this type of charge is so sensitive, so emotional. Would the prosecution need hard evidence to convict? Day four. I set out for the courthouse. I noticed the bare and muddy trails as I drove over the mountain pass where we should be skiing. Backcountry sports were our passion, but this January thaw had melted the little snow December had brought. I had given Mariano a new ski jacket for Christmas and he had surprised me with a membership to a ski club co-op on a nearby mountain. How I looked forward to those times! But would they happen? Would he be there with me? I pushed those thoughts to the deep recesses of my consciousness. My mood was strangely elated now that all that was left was Mariano’s cross examination and the closing arguments. Yes, he would be testifying in his own defense. The guilty never do that. Right? That’s how it is in the movies. God, I was standing on terra firma one minute and grasping for straws the next. What was wrong with me? I knew the truth. Would the jury? How did I ever get in this spot? How many middle class career women and mothers have stood with a man charged with a felony? Not just any felony, but the rape of a child! Surprised at my own frantic, bilateral thoughts, my thoughts took me back to a time last September. It was one of those late summer days and we had gone hiking up a small mountain in back of the old house where Mariano lived in a rented apartment. After the hike we headed for his old claw foot bathtub for a long soak together. It was an intimate time. Apparently our thoughts turned simultaneously to this heavy cloud of legal problems and accusations because Volume 2, Issue 3

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we found ourselves discussing the situation before either one of us knew who had brought it up. How I wanted to believe Mariano! All of my sensibility told me that he was honest and true. I told him with my words that I believed him. That silent, ever present self doubt, infused in me from childhood, or who-knows-when, refused to leave me alone. I had been fooled before, it reminded me. So I rationally resolved to live by that old English common law principle of innocent until proven guilty. During those few months of vigilant observation, I had fallen in love. I arrived at the lawyer’s office just in time to start our ritual parade to the courthouse. At the very beginning of the day’s proceedings, the D.A. asked the court to lower the charges. Lower the charges, I thought? That is what they do when the case is going badly for the D.A. It is easier to get a conviction on a lower charge regardless of the guilt or innocence of the accused. The judge shook his head and gave an exasperated harrumph, almost a chuckle. “No,” he said. “I see no call for that. These were the charges you brought.” I thought the D.A. was going to cry, right there in court in her nice blue suit. Why should she cry? She was losing her case because she didn't HAVE a case to begin with. She was rather plump. I imagined she had gained about ten pounds since purchasing her professional wardrobe, a situation resulting in her current resemblance to a stuffed sausage. There was an angry adolescent thought. I resolved to think like an adult and then forgave myself. It was getting harder and harder to stay in the present. By this afternoon, we would have our verdict. Ours? His? Deb had spoken to me about setting boundaries. You don’t need to feel responsible for things that happened before you were even around, Deb had reminded me. Guilt was a bad habit, a quiet misery I enjoyed from time to time. Guilt was right up there next with “catastrophizing.” But wait a minute, nobody is guilty here, anyway. Not guilty! Presumed innocent! Yes, that was the recurring theme of the defense. Mariano Santanoni is presumed innocent because HE IS INNOCENT! Those words rang in the courtroom and it was time for the jury to receive their instructions. The radiator began to clang. The judge addressed the lawyers. His office would call their offices when the verdict had been reached. It could be in a few hours or it could be in a day. The jurists also had to eat lunch. Moments later Mariano appeared and took my hand. Everything was in his favor. Only one thing we needed to be aware of, though. If even one of the charges resulted in a conviction, he would be taken into custody immediately while awaiting sentencing which would be within the week. I squeezed his hand harder and summoned all of my psychic strength to push away the visual image of Mariano in an orange suit. We had an hour and fifteen minutes until we needed to be at the lawyer’s office. There would be no time for a self defense course or anything else that could be useful in state prison. Lord, what was I thinking! Lunch was a cup of tea at a café. Neither one of us could eat real food. Then we went into the church next door to pass the next half hour in quiet, intensive, meditative prayer. At the attorney’s office, we waited for Mariano’s friends who had gone to their own lunch, leaving us in privacy, but mostly we just waited for the phone call. We didn’t wait long. The jury deliberated only two and a half hours, including lunch! This must be good news, no? “Hurry”, said the law office assistant as I headed for the lady’s room. “Not a chance, “ I thought. We have been on their schedule all week. What I do in the next three or four minutes is not going to change that verdict. I fixed my hair and applied lipstick. I would look as good as possible for Mariano and for anyone else who cared to notice. We marched for the last time to the courthouse. It was mid-afternoon. Time had almost stopped and conversation was strangely mundane and casual. A week had been spent on the trial, a year’s salary on the defense team. Another small fortune had been lost in Mariano’s business. But for me, love and trust and faith had been gained under the least likely of conditions. So there I was, on day four, standing outside the courtroom door, knowing that the verdict was ready, and holding hands with the accused.

g{x fvtÜÄxà YÄtÅx Éy TÅáàxÜwtÅ

A tale of love, intrigue, lust and greed, in a time when tulipomania consumed an otherwise sensible country, leaving its economy, not to mention the fabric of its genteel society, in tatters. Nicole Gill is a peripatetic Tasmanian writer, with a lusty preoccupation with plants and morality. Although trained as a botanist and devoted to the collection of shiny things, the motivation that drove people to trade their houses for flowers continues to elude her. Send your comments to: nicole.gill@gmail.com Even in the kitchen, the air tingled with excitement. Mingling with the steam rising from pots on the stoves, in the clatter of silver on ceramic, and in the ringing of steel against stone, it wafted into every nook and stuck to the walls, flavouring the room with a zest of anticipation. It peppered the chatter of the scullions and table girls, as they giggled over steaming platters, and as she started on another pile of soiled plates, the excitement tickled the insides of Hoiden’s nose. Out in the drawing room, every surface not groaning under an armoury of silverware was festooned with tulips of every hue. Bronze Queens leant upon Grenadiers, while Dreaming Maids huddled together with Orange Brightlings and Crusaders. Constellations of Fiery Stars fought Rising Suns for attention, while Sunbursts and Novas brightened the corners. Utopias were available by the bunch. A string quartet played slightly too loudly in the corner, valiantly competing with the animated crowd. Fashionably attired in the finest silks and the best-cut suits, the cream of Amsterdam’s social and financial elite bantered, quarrelled, murmured, and screeched over the veiled case at the centre of the room. Page 34

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Abruptly, the music fell away, and the crowd gradually quietened. All eyes turned towards Henk van der Hoof, the evening’s host, as he made his way towards the case, tapping his knife against a stray champagne bottle. “Dames en Heren, esteemed friends, old and new. I’d like to thank you for joining me here this evening for this celebration of that most beautiful of flowers, the tulip. For those of you new to our Tulip Fanciers Society, we formed as a group five years ago, in the summer of 1631, and now boast a membership of more than 700 avid tulip collectors.” A wave of muted applause rippled across the room. “It is heartening to see so many of you lovers of this wonderful bloom here, and tonight I am honoured to be able to share with you an outstanding example of botanical perfection.” “More like an outstanding example of his ridiculous wealth,” snorted one of the serving girls from the kitchen. “But before I unveil this very special bloom, I would like to introduce Meneer Cowley, who is to present us with a poet’s appraisal of the tulip’s many charms.” A pale looking young man made his way to the centre of attention, drawing a sheet of paper from within the folds of his jacket. “Dames en Heren, this is an extract from a piece I am currently at work on. I have tentatively titled it “Ode to the flowers and all things fine.” He shot a glance towards an ornately decorated young woman in the corner, who blushed and looked away. ”The tulip next appeared, all over gay, But wanton, full of pride, and full of play; The world can’t show a dye but here has place; Nay, by new mixtures, she can change her face; Purple and gold are both beneath her care, The richest needlework she loves to wear; Her only study is to please the eye, And to outshine the rest in finery.” With a nod to his audience, and a wink to the corner of the room, he left the stage to polite applause. Henk van der Hoof stepped back into the limelight. “And now, dames en heren, the moment you have all awaited with such great patience. While recently in England, I came across a collector with an outstanding collection of rare bulbs. Included among them was the bloom I am to present to you tonight. Although it was not cheap to acquire, I believe its value goes beyond the realms of mere economics.” He paused dramatically. “May I present to you, my newly acquired beauty, the Admiral van der Eyck.” Beaming proudly at his guests, he drew back the curtain with a flourish.Those towards the front of the assembled throng began to murmur in confusion, as their host turned to the display case and stared in horror at its contents. In the centre of the case sat not a flower, but a single sheet of parchment, emblazoned with blood red ink. Trembling, Henk van der Hoof read the note aloud. “The rich cosset their extravagant blooms while our children scour the gutters for scraps. Free the hothouse flowers! Tulips for the people! Kindest regards, The Scarlet Flame of Amsterdam” Awash with crimson rage, the tulip collector swept the case off the table and onto the floor, where it shattered into a thousand bright shards. The men cursed and the women swooned, and the Purple Duchesses and Lilac Queens quivered on the table before him. “Find him! He cannot have got far! I’ll pay whoever returns that bulb to me a thousand, no, two thousand florins, and a thousand more if they bring the Scarlet Flame of Amsterdam with it.” He tore the note into several pieces. “This is the last time he will appropriate other people’s flowers!” In the confusion, as the crowd jostled to find their coats and hats, nobody noticed the servant girl patiently sweeping up the glass, smiling to herself as she pinned back a stray lock of strawberry hair. *

Before the sun had touched the courtyard, Hoiden’s head was pressed up against the fragrant flanks of a mottled cow. Broad shouldered, with long, red plaits thrown over each shoulder, Hoiden was a picture of industry, as she squeezed streams of milk with rhythmic precision into the bucket below. At her side sat Sonja, her aging aunt, propped on a stool by a steaming heap of manure. As a night dirt woman at the end of a long shift, such earthy aromas had long since ceased to bother her. As small and stringy as her niece was tall and strong, she sucked juicily on a long-stemmed pipe, which was removed from her mouth only when she wished to make an emphatic point. “The Brauns passed on their thanks for the bulbs you sent them. Apparently Meneer Braun was about to take them to the tulip trade-off at the tavern last week, but before he had the chance, his wife diced them up and added them to a stew.” Sonja rolled her eyes, “Those beauties would have earned them enough to buy themselves a nice house, or at least a couple of cows.”

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Hoiden sighed into her milk bucket. “Well Sonja, we can’t really tell people how to manage their assets. But it would be nice if a few less of them got eaten.” She slid the full bucket sideways and replaced it with an empty one. “Did you drop off that Admiral van der Eyck to the Bakkers? I hear their daughter’s fallen ill.” “Not yet, but I’ll stash it in the cart tonight. You should have seen the crowd come out of the van der Hoof’s last night, all the men with their lamps, and a few with sticks, looking for the Scarlet Flame. I laughed so hard, I almost swallowed my tongue.” “Mmm, there was quite a scene in the drawing room. I’m thinking about going down to the docks tonight; apparently there’s a ship due in. I might borrow a dress off Maaike.” Sonja regarded her niece with surprise. “Hoiden! Surely there’s no need for that sort of thing!” “There’s a ship due in with a consignment of rare tulip bulbs. Really, Sonja, you’re so alarmist.” She patted the old woman’s hand, then stood to hoist the two buckets onto her yoke. “Maaike has found me a sailor who may be amenable to acquiring a few of them for me. Being fresh into port, I’m sure he’ll be only too pleased to contribute to the livelihood of a poor, local girl.” *

Early in the evening, as the sky began to blush behind the docks, two young women could be seen to be haggling over seafood. Hoiden leant over the day’s catch, fidgeting with her bodice. Clad in a dress of immodest cut, she jabbed accusingly at shiny piles of lekkerbekjes, as she exchanged words with the fisherwoman behind the trestles. “Have you spoken to your friend on the boat, Maaike?” “Of course. Go and introduce yourself to the boy over there in the mouldy green coat.” She glanced over at a young sailor, making his way off the boat. “Ask him about the treasures…. And that’ll be a florin for the red herrings!” she added, raising her voice at the last. Hoiden sashayed over towards him, and as he descended from the gangplank, she carelessly let her bundled herrings fall at his feet. Both leaning in to grab it, their heads connected. Apologizing profusely, he passed over her package. “Have you been at sea long?” “Only a few weeks. We sailed from England in April.” “Did you bring many passengers?” Hoiden asked, leaning in slightly to catch the sailor’s reply. “Oh no, this is a cargo ship, for the most part. We brought over all sorts of fineries, fabrics, beautiful furniture, things for rich men’s houses,” he shook his head, “and even a few odd looking onions, in amongst all the treasures.” “English Onions? Oh, they’re the tastiest things in the world to have with a little herring. I’ve not had one for so long…and I’d do anything for one.” The sailor found his eyes irresistibly drawn towards Hoiden’s amply-padded bosom. “I’d love to have some with a few ales…Do you think you might be able to get me some?” she sighed, fluttering her eyelashes appealingly. “Well,” he struggled to regain eye contact, “I suppose a few onions won’t be missed. I’ll just nip back in. You will wait, won’t you?” “Of course.” Hoiden draped herself across a large coil of rope. “Don’t be long.” He scuttled up the gangplank, and Hoiden resituated herself behind a large packing crate, armed with a bundle of herrings and a hefty lump of wood. As the young sailor made his way past the crate, she stepped out silently and felled him with a blow to the back of the head. “Onions!” he cried, before crumpling into a dirty green heap. Hoiden relieved him of a bag of rare bulbs, and in their place tucked the package of herrings. She slipped a few florins in his top pocket and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Sweet dreams, sailor boy, and thanks for the onions.” She quickly slipped out of her borrowed threads, and back into her regular attire. “Thanks for the dress, Maaike, it works a treat every time! Keep an eye on that boy for me, will you? See that no-one robs him while he’s out.” Shouldering her yoke and buckets once more, she strode off into the night. *

Across the city, golden light streamed from countless windows, smearing the canals with a warm yellow glow. Staring down at these dancing lights with undue severity stood Dik van Steveninck, half-listening as his wife regaled him with the latest gossip on the Scarlet Flame. Page 36

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“They say he is tall, with broad shoulders, and flame red hair, a man of good breeding with a penchant for the finest bulbs.” She coughed delicately into a lace handkerchief. “He is said to be devilishly handsome, not to mention clever.” Her husband snorted derisively. “If he’s so damn clever, how do you know so much about him? You rarely leave the sitting room, let alone the house.” “The servants know more than you might imagine. They say he speaks five languages, and is a prominent member of high society.” “Well, Petra, if so much is known about this wretch, why hasn’t he been caught? The scoundrel stole half a dozen of my new consignment last night from the boat, right from under the captain’s nose, and then had the cheek to have this ” he brandished a note penned in scarlet ink, “delivered to me this morning.” He screwed the paper into a ball, and, tossing it towards the fireplace, began pacing to and fro. “So few of the bulbs he steals are ever seen here again, he must have buyers outside Holland. So you tell the servants, if they have any real information, they should take it to the proper authorities, rather than using it to fill your head with romantic rubbish.” He stalked out of the room, closing the door behind him a little too firmly. Petra sighed, and went back to her embroidery, carefully drawing vermilion threads into the form of a scarlet flame. *

At the kitchen table, Hoiden wrestled with a loaf that had seen better days. Hewing the bread into rough slices, she slapped a slice of Gouda onto one, and passed it over to her aunt. “Oh Sonja, how long are we to live like this? Our bodies exploited by a wealthy few, our health jeopardized, our dreams dictated?” Sonja reluctantly removed her pipe from her mouth, and chewed meditatively on her bread. “Well, dear, some would say that that is the way of humanity – there will always be some who do better than others, and that we should grateful for the little we have. Personally, I’m all for the dissolution of social hierarchies and the fair distribution of wealth to all.” Hoiden thought on this a moment. “What we really need is a means of breaking the cycle, to get out of this rut of poverty that forces us to work like dogs for a meagre living. If only we could see our way to getting a little land and some cows, we could surely support ourselves, and perhaps some others who shared our dreams of freedom!” “Sounds good to me, love. And it’d be a wonderful way to help homeless youngsters get a good start in life, living and working in the clean air of the country.” She rose from the table, stuffing the remainder of the bread into her mouth, and planting a fragrant kiss on her niece’s forehead. “I’ve got to get going – night dirt waits for no-one, flies excepted. And when I see you tomorrow, I want to hear how you’re going to save us, and the rest of the world, from the grinding forces of the class system.” She picked up her pipe, and in a swirl of earthy aromas, was gone. *

The markets buzzed with morning vigour, awash with colourful gaggles of buyers, sellers, growers, and gawkers, bustling between the stalls, poking at fruits and sniffing at fish. Some paused a while to listen to the small round man atop a wooden crate, yammering for attention over the clamouring crowd. “Attentie! Attentie! Dames en Heren! Clear your diaries and lock up your daughters, the grand tulip fair is coming to town! Come one, come all, to the Imperial Bazaar, this coming Saturday, and marvel at the glorious offspring of the union between Man and Mother Nature! Fantasies and Violet Queens! Amulets and Golden Dreams! Dantes, Venuses, Brilliant Stars, and a special showing of La Tulipe Noire! Come buy, come sell, but you must come and see this spectacular spectacle, this wondrous wonder, the rarest of blooms, the Semper Augustus! Never before seen in the fair city of Amsterdam, it will go on display with other rare jewels of the tulip world. Who would not forgo his fortune to possess such beauty? So come buy, come sell, but most certainly come to the Imperial Bazaar this Saturday, and view exotic blooms beyond your wildest imaginings!” Behind the tulip spruiker, Hoiden sifted through the day’s vegetables with another serving girl. “So Tina, I hear Meneer van Steveninck was burnt by the Scarlet Flame the other week?” She tested a carrot for firmness. “Oh yes, he was furious! When he got the letter, I swear, he turned the same colour as the curtains! And such language from a man of supposed class!” She popped a radish in her mouth, hurriedly crunching it down before the stallholder noticed. “Mind you, he still has the bulk of the new bulbs in the conservatory, in preparation for the show on Saturday.” “Really? Well, I suppose the household must be busy readying them for the show?” “Well, yes, but you know, I don’t suppose there’ll be anyone around tomorrow morning…” “How interesting. Oh well, Tina, must rush, places to see and people to do. Take care of yourself. And perhaps I’ll be seeing you on the morrow.” * Volume 2, Issue 3

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The following morning, after tending to the cows, Hoiden made her way across the city. Her yoke sat upon her shoulders, the half-full buckets swinging to and fro. Arriving at the house of the van Stevenincks, she emptied one bucket into the other. Leaving the yoke and the full bucket in the shrubbery, she stole into the house through the servants’ quarters. From the back of the house she crept, bucket in hand, through the kitchen and into the main entrance hall. Generations of gentry sneered down at her from gilt frames, their milk-pale complexions rendered in decadent oil tones. She slipped through a darkened door at the corridor’s end, and stepped into the light of the conservatory. Such an array of colours assaulted her eyes, she stepped back a moment in surprise, before regaining her composure and setting to the task at hand. Making her way around the central table, she scooped up armfuls of Admirals, Switzers and Kamelotten, Viceroys and Hagenaers, carefully keeping track of their respective labels. Extracting a note from her pocket, she placed it prominently upon an empty glass case at the end of the table. Turning to the corner of the conservatory, she caught her breath in awe. There it was. No jewel could sparkle more brightly, nor gold reveal so rich a lustre as the delicately feathered petals of this bloom. It was the Semper Augustus. The whole town had been abuzz with talk of this rarest of tulips, with its licks of carmine flames on pure white petals. Slowly, she reached into the open case, and with trembling fingertips, caressed the precious flower. Perhaps this one, she might keep for herself. Drawing back from it, she shook her head at such fanciful thoughts, laughing at herself aloud. “Really. It’s only a bloody flower.” “Oh no, my dear. It’s so much more than that.” She heard the door click shut behind her, and swung around to find herself sharing the conservatory with Dik van Steveninck. “And what, may I ask, do you think you’re doing?” “Ah, I’ve been sent to tidy up the conservatory, to ensure all is ready for Saturday,” she improvised desperately, trying to place herself between him and the folded letter, with its incriminatingly lush red script. “I wasn’t aware extra help had been brought in to prepare for the show.” Spying the note, he strode towards her, and snatched it from the tabletop. “What’s this?” He tore it open to reveal the seal of the famed tulip thief, and turned to her with fury in his eyes, “You’re in league with the Scarlet Flame!” Hoiden quickly sidestepped to put the table between them. “No. I am not in league with the Scarlet Flame. I am a member of the invisible serving class, and, as a woman, am doubly invisible. While you attend to such fripperies as flowers, I, and others like me, labour for a pittance to keep you in comfort, ignorant and uncaring of the hardships suffered by those you consider beneath you. And the richer you grow, the more detached you become from the realities of life in the serving classes, unaware that the embers of our discontent have been fanned to a scarlet flame. And that flame is me.” “You? The Scarlet Flame? Impossible! You are but an upstart of a milkmaid, and the Scarlet Flame’s conquests defy the abilities of a mere serving wench.” Eyes locked, slowly, they began to circle the table. “Let me tell you what I know about women. In so many ways, they closely resemble that most beautiful of nature’s gifts, the tulip.” When uncultivated, women, like tulips, show little variegation. Although sturdy, they are inelegant of form and of little pleasure to behold. When they have been weakened by cultivation, they become more agreeable to the eye; their form is more refined, and they become more diversified in hue and appearance. Thus, such masterpieces of culture, the more beautiful they turn, grow so much the weaker,” he grabbed a sharp-ended trowel, and sprang across the table, pinning Hoiden to the wall, “so that, with the greatest skill and the most careful attention, they can scarcely be transplanted, or even kept alive.” He leant in towards her. “And you, my delicate little flower? Perhaps you are more a Pink Trophy than a Scarlet Flame?” Hoiden stared into his eyes, sighed deeply, and floored him with a swift knee to the groin. “Delicate little flower, my arse.” She clouted him with the bucket for good measure. Straightening up her dress, she proceeded to bind the now unconscious van Steveninck hand and foot with some gardening twine left carelessly upon the tabletop. She dragged him over to a nearby cupboard, and hefted him into it, but not before gagging him with a particularly fine specimen of a Root en Geel Gevlamt. “I hope you choke on it, you old worm.”

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Heart beating a brisk tattoo, Hoiden grabbed the remaining twine, and raced upstairs to the sitting room. She burst through the door, startling Petra van Steveninck, as she flipped through a tulip buyer’s catalogue on the sofa. She glanced up at Hoiden with evident irritation. “Yes? What is it? Are you one of the new scullery maids?” “Not exactly. Pardon me, Mevrouw van Steveninck, but Meneer van Steveninck has requested your presence in your room immediately. He says it’s a matter of the utmost urgency.” “Oh, it’s always of the utmost urgency for that one.” Petra made her way to the door, and across the landing to her room, where Hoiden rendered her insensible with a bulky perfume bottle. “Sorry about that, m’lady. I’m afraid I’m also going to have to borrow some of your clothes.” Hoiden laid her on the bed, tying her hands and feet, and gently scrunching a handkerchief into her mouth. “Don’t worry. Your serving girls will be back in a few hours, and I’ll be out of your way.” Hoiden rummaged through the cupboards and drawers, until she found a selection of clothes to fit her. She just managed to squeeze into the sickly woman’s clothes, but was unable to force her feet into the tiny, pointy-toed shoes. Undaunted, she draped a pale green shawl over her new, rich red satin dress, and, snatching up a handbag and matching parasol, hurried down to the conservatory. Stashing the bulbs in the handbag, and the newly uprooted flowering tulips into the parasol, she grabbed the Semper Augustus, case and all, and strode out of the front door. Outside, she hailed a passing cab, and, as delicately as possible, alighted to the carriage. “Where to, madam?” “Take me to the Imperial Bazaar.” *

On her arrival at the Imperial Bazaar, Hoiden found the establishment in a flurry. Rushing to and fro, everyone in the building seemed to be barking orders at one another, to which no one paid the slightest attention. Drapes hung from the walls at slovenly angles, and a maze of tables cluttered the floor. In the corner of the room sat a selection of bulbs and blooms, yet to be accommodated in the current confusion. Hoiden made her way towards the man who appeared to be engaged in the most yelling and the least actual work, and placed the Semper Augustus on the table before him. Abruptly, his barking ceased, and he regarded her with an expression which hovered uneasily between irritation and shock. “Are you the owner of this establishment?” “Why, yes, I am. Klaas van Rijswijk at your service. And you would be…?” “Mevrouw van Steveninck.” She extended her hand. “My husband sends his apologies for not delivering these himself, but he has been struck down by a sudden illness. With whom should I speak regarding the sale of these specimens?” Van Rijswijk began speaking quickly, in more ingratiating tones. “Why madam, what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. Your husband had mentioned you being generally somewhat indisposed, and incapable of leaving the house, but I’m delighted to see that this is no longer the case. However, it is terrible news that Meneer van Steveninck is unwell, as I know the eagerness with which he has been anticipating this grand event. You have certainly come to the right person.” He paused for breath, and peered at the tulip in all of its glory. “May I ask, what his plans were for this magnificent specimen?” “As his health is so poor, he requested that I sell it immediately, as well as these,” she opened her parasol, “which we were forced to uproot this very morning for fear of thieves.” She lowered her voice. “There were people loitering outside the conservatory in a manner I considered most suspicious, so I pulled down the blinds, and bundled these up in my parasol not an hour ago. Dik told me to get a good price for them, and to ensure they went back into pots as soon as possible.” “And what price did Meneer van Steveninck have in mind?” “He said that a fair price for these rarities would be 4500 florins for the Admiral Liefkin, 3000 for the Viceroy, 2000 for the Admiral van der Eyck, and 1500 for the Childer.” “And for the Semper Augustus?” “6000 florins. Bringing the total to 17000 florins. A bargain, don’t you think?” “Mevrouw van Steveninck, you must admit, this is rather irregular. It’s just not always possible to find that much money at such short notice.” “Well, Meneer van Rijswijk, if it’s too difficult for you to organize, I will bid you good day, and take my business elsewhere.” She picked up the case, and started to leave. Volume 2, Issue 3

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“No, Mevrouw van Steveninck, wait! I didn’t mean to say that it could not be done. Let me go out to the safe, and check our finances.” He scuttled to a room at the back of the building, and returned moments later with a substantial box of notes. “12000 florins, madam. I’m afraid it’s all we have.” Hoiden glanced out the door, her eyes falling upon a handsome carriage drawn by two fine greys. “Whose is that carriage by the door?” “It’s mine, I acquired it only last week.” “I’ll throw the Semper Augustus into the deal for the horses and carriage, as well as the 12000 florins.” Van Rijswijk hesitated. Any suspicions he may have entertained as to the legitimacy of this deal were quickly banished by the thought of the profits to be made from the resale of such rarities the next day. “Done. I’ll have the tulips repotted immediately. Would you care to borrow my driver for the afternoon, to drive you back to your home?” “Thankyou for the kind offer, Meneer van Rijswijk, but I think I’ll manage myself. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow at the fair?” Hoiden picked up the box of florins and her handbag, and headed for the door. “Mevrouw van Steveninck! Haven’t you forgotten something?” She froze at the threshold, and mentally prepared herself to run very fast. Van Rijswijk appeared at her side. “Your parasol, Mevrouw van Steveninck. Have a safe journey.” She stuttered out her thanks, then threw her possessions in the carriage, jumped up to the front of the cab, and whipped the horses into motion. Van Rijswijk watched her disappear into the crowd, another tulip broker by his side. “Did you see the shoes she had on? She looked like she’d come straight from a cow shed!” “Noblewomen,” sighed Meneer van Rijswijk, “they are so strange.” *

The carriage careened wildly across the city, eventually pulling up at Hoiden’s home. She dashed inside, and dragged Sonja, pipe still in mouth, from her bed, and out into the courtyard view their new acquisition. “Sonja, look! It’s ours, but we must leave right now. Grab what you need, and we will buy the rest once we are out of the city.” “Hoiden, I don’t know how you did this, but I am ready to leave. Have pipe, will travel.” With that, she clambered into the carriage, and Hoiden whipped the horses on to the fish market. “Hey, Maaike, check out my new wheels!” Maaike turned from the fish she’d been cleaning, and, mouth agog, dropped it into the canal. “We’re going to live in the country, and I’m going to buy a farm, and some cows, and we’re going to make cheese!” “And grow tobacco!” Sonja piped from within the carriage. “And, when we get established, run a shelter for disadvantaged women and children.” Sonja jumped down from the cab. “Will you come with us?” Maaike looked at her friend in confusion. “Hoiden, I don’t know what to say. I can’t just leave…can I think about it?” “Sure. Think away, and I’ll send details once we have a new place.” She pushed a bundle of notes into her friend’s hand, and plonked the handbag on the table. “Distribute these for me, to those who most need them.” She enveloped Maaike in a tight embrace, and kissed her cheek. “And if anyone comes looking for me, tell them I went that way.” She sprang back onto the cab, threw Maaike a tulip, and with a crack of the whip, Hoiden and Sonja rode out of Amsterdam, and into the sunset of happily ever after.

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Attitude in Life Jungmin Shon is a Korean writer and teacher in Singapore. She is writing a book on the Korean language and uses her journalism skills to tell us true stories such as this one. Send your comments to: mshon1@hotmail.com. Some people think they are too old to experience something new while some are always ready to try something they are interested in and enrich their lives no matter how old they are. When a new Korean course started one Saturday, there was a lady who looked probably 65 years old sitting in the front row. I, as a Korean teacher, could see she really wanted to study Korean. Often where students sit shows how seriously they want to learn the language. I asked students why they wanted to study Korean in the first day of the course. Most students wanted to learn Korean as they liked watching Korean TV drama series. The mature student sitting right in front of me, Jow Ee Chun, said she has been learning janggu, the hourglass drum, a Korean traditional percussion instrument. She had many Korean friends. So, she wanted to learn the language. I said to myself: What? Are you saying there is a Singaporean who plays janggu in Singapore? Isn’t it impossible to see a non-Korean out of Korea learn the traditional musical instrument? After seeing a traditional music performance in Seoul, Korea, several years ago, she wanted to learn janggu. Yet in Singapore she couldn’t find any janggu teacher so she called the Korean embassy to ask them to find one. Though the embassy was puzzled by the special request in the beginning, they later introduced a janggu teacher for her. So since 2003 she has been playing janggu along with Korean players. Another time the class was asking each other about family to practice expressions they had learned. She said her son had already retired. Other students and I wondered how old she was. She said she was 88 years old! We were amazed by her reply; she looked a lot younger for her age by at least 25 years. I saw her family picture later. Her oldest child, a son, had all white hair. He was the father of another one of my other adult students. Ms Jow said the son sometimes slouches so she has to tell him to sit up straight! Ms. Jow has a wide range of hobbies. She plays golf and has done Chinese traditional dance for 20 years. She decided to learn a 21-string zither after she found her arm suffered uncontrollable shaking. Thanks to the zither, her arm nor longer trembles. When she was younger she learnt Japanese flower arrangement. After learning the flower arrangement, the mother of four children decided to go and learn more in Japan. So she spent six months there to learn it and joined a hairdressing course. After returning home, she wrote a book on flower arrangement. She needed to take pictures of her work. After finding hiring a professional photographer too costly, she went to a photography class to learn how to take pictures. In 1968, she published the book, which successfully sold. Furthermore, she had taught Chinese exercise to a number of people for several years. Now she doesn’t teach any longer as she has to practice janggu and Korean. But she still works out every early morning. Through her various activities, she has many friends so that she has an active social life. She invites them to her house (including me) and meets them regularly so she doesn’t have time to feel lonely though her husband passed away some years ago. She knows how to look after her body so well. When I visited her three-story house, I found her bedroom was on the third floor. She said it’s because she needs to move and exercise by going up and down the stairs every day. She stresses about having to move. One of her friends, a 72-year old who spends most of her time at home, is hospitalized now. Jow still works every morning at her family business with her daughter. Above all, she is very caring and generous. Having heard I wanted to learn Chinese, she brought me a Chinese book to study. One day when I visited her, she noticed how husky my voice was due to a cold. She gave me a grapefruit to bring home saying it is good for the cold. She spreads love and happiness -not anger or bitterness -- to other people and never expects others to make her happy. But most people do. She finds joy in everything. Ms. Jow is completely different from my former student Tan who is 50 years old. When we talked about hobbies, she said though she likes most sports she wouldn’t join any club because she is too old. Despite holding a degree in computer science, she doesn’t even participate in online groups. She doesn’t seem to want to make the most of her life, thinking she is too old for anything. Ms. Jow might be slower in learning Korean than the younger people in the class. But why does it matter? She is improving little by little, which allows her to communicate with her Korean Janggu classmates in Korean. As she went to a language school to learn English in her 30s, she doesn’t have any problem in talking to them in English. But she is doing this because most Koreans in the janggu class don’t speak English. Volume 2, Issue 3

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Moreover, while learning the foreign language she knows she will enjoy making friends and have fun. She is definitely happier than many elderly who watch TV all day long or who say they are too busy or old to be active because she knows it is all about attitude, not age or anything else.

Story Time H. G. 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 last year when he became serious about his craft. This is the second story we are proud to feature in AFTAW. You can contact Howard with your comments at howard.yeilding@sbcglobal.net You’ve probably read about me in the paper, or seen coverage on MSNBC, or at the very least heard other people talking about the incident at Spring Valley Elementary School. It has been largely accepted as one episode in an emerging pattern of sociopathic youths and pedophilic adults. Much of what you have heard is true, but there are some important parts of the story that have gone unreported for reasons I now hope to make clear. I have waited almost ten years to do this, mostly because I don’t want to say anything else that might give mental health professionals an excuse to say that I’m crazy. I did plenty of that when I was in the sixth grade. The difference is that now it’s much harder for them to commit me without my consent. I’d still probably keep the whole thing to myself, but I watch the news just like you do, and the portrayal of society on television has compelled me to tell the truth to as many people as I possibly can, regardless of whether or not I wind up in the booby-hatch. It happened in February of 1996. There was eight inches of snow on the ground. At Spring Valley Elementary, students trickled in one at a time because of the conditions of the roads and the varying degrees of caution exercised by parents while driving their kids to school. The classroom wasn’t cold exactly, but the heater was acting up again, making loud clunking noises that we could hear through the cinderblocks. On the walls, Valentine’s Day decorations were still up—red and pink hearts accented everything. The five of us—Chris, Mark, Gregg, Missy, and myself—were seated at our desks in the far corner. We were the furthest away from the teacher’s podium. We knew that because Chris had paced off the distance on the first day of school. Normally, there wasn’t much free time in the morning, but forty-five minutes after the first bell we still had no teacher. For a roomful of sixth-graders, we remained relatively well behaved, although the rumble of conversation was getting louder. It went on like that for another half-hour or so. Then, at 9:15, with still no teacher in sight, Principal Van Flandern came in and said that a substitute was on her way. “Man, this is great!” said Gregg when the coast was clear. “Getting a sub is like getting a day off. It always takes ‘em a few days to figure out what to do, so we can probably just coast through everything today.” “I don’t know,” I said. “Mrs. Stevens ain’t that bad. You never know what kinda battleaxe could show up here to cover for her.” “Hey guys,” Chris interrupted. “I’ve got a new Shannah picture.” “Cool, let’s see it!” Mark said. “Ok,” Missy said. “That’s it for Jenny and me. You boys have your fun, so long as you know that there are kids at home watching Teletubbies right now that would be too old to think those pictures are funny.” She and I turned away, feigning disappointment in the boys’ stunted maturation. Chris pulled out a sketch pad and flipped past the first few pages. They had been engaged in a secret competition amongst themselves to see who could draw the funniest caricature of our classmate, Shannah Hastings. Gregg had been the champion at the time, with his “Shannah of the Jungle” sketch. It depicted a large, gorilla-like monster with a misshapen head and a large mouth filled with grotesque teeth. On the drawing, there were little smelly arrows wiggling away from the creature in strategic places like the armpits, and more were used to denote bad breath. The only thing about the creature that bore any resemblance to Shannah was the long, wavy hair tied back with a red clip that was like the one she wore almost every day. They gathered around Chris’s desk and examined the picture. I couldn’t help it; I looked, too. It was a new take on the old theme. There was a hairdo—just the hair, no head or body to speak of—perfectly groomed and with the usual red clip, floating and traversing a random path around the page. The hair was asking, “Has anyone seen my brains?” We were still laughing a few minutes later (remember, we were eleven years old). Eventually, I looked up and saw that everyone’s gaze was fixed on something behind me. A gaunt, stony woman was looming a foot away from us, looking over our heads at Chris’s drawing. She stood preternaturally still. Her features were hard and cold, like she’d been chiseled out of ice. Mark was laughing, and Gregg and Chris were still admiring the picture. “Guys,” I said. At first I got no response. “Guys!” I yelled it this time, hitting Gregg on the back of the head for good measure. “Hey! Cut it ou…” Gregg said. When he turned to confront me, his face turned that shade of pale that usually foretells vomiting. There were giggles in the background now, and we began to realize that this could become a pivotal moment in our eleven-year-old lives. Page 42

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“Hello class. I’m Ms. Leath,” she said. “You will find that I am an easy person to get along with, provided that you behave accordingly. If you do not behave accordingly…well, then I’m not very nice. My rules of discipline are simple; three strikes and you’re out. I will assign as many strikes as I believe are warranted by any particular offense. You four,” she said, pointing at us, “have just earned your first strike. Get rid of that sophomoric sketch, will you?” “Ok,” Chris droned. He crumpled up his drawing and threw it in the trash. “Thank you,” she said, and then walked to the back of the room and retrieved what looked like an old-time leather briefcase. The thing was creepy. It was big—you could keep the history of the world in there if you wanted to, and still have enough room for your lunch. There were long, white hairs that hung from it in places along the seam and near the fasteners. She placed this on the teacher’s desk, and began rummaging through it. From within, the substitute withdrew a thick ledger, opened it, and wrote down our names. Once that was done, Ms. Leath altered her gaze to envelope all of us. She was young and thin, with blonde hair that she wore pulled back into a bun, as if she were paying homage to millions of teachers past and present. “I have had a thorough discussion with Mrs. Stevens, and I know exactly what you have been doing and what her lesson plans were for today. We will not deviate from those plans, so if any of you were hoping to get out of today’s quizzes, you can bring yourself back to reality.” There were a few moans, but the will to protest had mostly been culled from the class. “Any questions?” Ms. Leath asked. Absolute silence. “Good.” she said. “Open your English book to page 141.” That was how the school day began. It seemed normal enough at first. There were a few more strikes given out by Ms. Leath. One to Tommy Newton for chewing gum, one to Missy for talking in class—gossiping was “beneath a lady” she’d said. Mark earned himself another one by simply stapling his English assignment on the wrong side of the paper. “Man, she’s gunnin for you,” Chris had told him. “One more strike and you’re out!” “I wonder what she means when she says ‘you’re out’,” I said. “Do you think it means a visit to Van Flandern’s office?” “Hell no,” Gregg said. “I bet she just takes you out onto the back forty and shoots you in the brain like a cattle thief!” Every time Ms. Leath gave out a strike, she took out the ledger and jotted something down. Keeping records, I thought, so that she can give Mrs. Stevens a full report. The first incident occurred at the end of Science class. Everybody was getting ready to leave when one of the girls, Renee, stood up and fell back down immediately. She crashed into the desk in front of her, and heard a sick, hollow crunching sound. I looked over and saw that her shoe laces had been tied together. She must have broken her nose, because blood was everywhere. The school nurse arrived at once, and helped Renee back to her office for some privacy and first aid. At first, I thought Ms Leath was oblivious. Then I noticed that she wasn’t staring blankly away, but had leveled her gaze upon Brian Wessinger. No one had seen him do it, but we all knew it was him. Brian was the only one who did stuff like that. It was obvious that Ms. Leath knew that as well, and I wondered how she knew it. After a short eternity, she said, “Mr. Weissinger. You did that, didn’t you?” Brian looked scared. “No! No Ma’am!” he stammered. “Oh, and a lie on top of it. That’s quite a shame,” Ms. Leath said. Her features glowed and you could tell that she didn’t think it was a shame. Not at all. “Three strikes,” she said. I’m pretty sure I could hear the heartbeats of everyone around me. What was the sentence going to be? Detention? A visit to the Principal’s Office? A phone call to the parents? Maybe she would just go to work on him with a pair of pliers and a blow torch. Much to our surprise, nothing happened. Ms. Leath simply walked around her desk and sat down with perfect posture. The handbag was still on the floor beside her, its white hairs fluttering in a breeze that I could not feel. Ms. Leath pulled out the ledger, made yet another entry, and then put it away. Gregg mouthed the question, “What the hell?” “Get on with your studies,” Ms Leath said. “Except for you, Mr. Weissinger. You drag your desk into the hallway and spend the day out there.” “Ok,” he said, and a look of incredible relief came over his features. Brian did as he was told, and afterwards I couldn’t hear anything but the scratching of pencils. Lunchtime came and went without incident. Recess was scheduled for after lunch, but because of the weather it had been labeled an “inside day” which meant that everyone had to return to the classroom when they were done eating. Brian had finished his lunch and, per the demands of Ms. Leath, returned immediately to his desk in the hallway. Volume 2, Issue 3

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Our regular teacher, Mrs. Stevens, would read to us sometimes. The general consensus seemed to be that eleven-year-olds were too mature for “story time”, but one day Mrs. Stevens asked and we accepted. Since then, it had become a ritual on days when the weather was bad. We were surprised when Ms. Leath asked, “What was it that Mrs. Stevens was reading to you?” Mrs. Stevens must have told her, of course. “It was a collection of short stories—scary stuff, you know, ghost stories,” Missy said. “Well, that’s excellent. I’ve brought the perfect book then.” She reached into that creepy bag of hers and pulled out a leather-bound book: Collected Stories by Edgar Allen Poe. Once everyone was settled down, she began to read “The Tell-Tale Heart”. It was a short reading, only ten minutes or so from beginning to end, but Ms. Leath told it with such skill and passion that everyone was pleasantly terrified. Her voice rose slowly, almost imperceptibly as the heartbeat of the dead man grew louder in the tale, the entire class could feel its pulse through the tones and tremors of Ms. Leath’s vocal crescendo. More than a few pairs of eyes were opened wide when she stopped. After a moment of profound stillness, someone asked her to read it again. She obliged. Outside in the hallway, Brian began to sing at first. As Ms. Leath read, his lyrics began to subside, and took on a mumbling, surreal quality until eventually he grew quiet. I assumed he was trying to listen to the story. *

The next morning, I got to school before anyone else. Just as I began to think that Ms. Leath might be out of our lives, she sauntered in. “Hello Jennifer. I didn’t expect anyone to be here.” I noticed her briefcase right away, and was having trouble taking my eyes off it. After a short pause I said, “Hello Ms. Leath.” She strode around the room and sat down quietly behind her desk, placing the briefcase on the floor at her feet. The scant hairs billowed as she did so. Once seated, she pulled some papers out of her bag and began to work on them. I started to do the same, but my focus was entirely on Ms. Leath. I found myself staring at the handbag again. I was startled out of my roadkill fascination by some sharp clucking sounds. Ms Leath was looking at me, eyes wide, eyebrows raised, and mouth open. “Like my bag, do you Jennifer?” My neck became stiff, and my concentration couldn’t leave the confines of my skull. It was like when my mother caught me in a lie—I just stood there, struck dumb by fear. After an uncomfortable moment or two I said, “No. I mean, I wasn’t looking at your bag, I was just kinda staring off into space. You know?” “Yes,” she said. “Yes. I know exactly what you mean. But that’s not what you were doing. You’re lying, aren’t you?” She reached into her bag, took out the ledger, and started writing. “Another strike.” I opened my mouth to reply, but she held up her hand and said, “Don’t lie again by denying it. I’ll know, and I’ll have to give you your third strike. That would be such a shame.” Then she smiled. For just a moment—so quickly that I questioned whether or not it had really happened—her eyes had turned completely black, and her earlobes had extended almost down to her shoulders. Her complexion was pallid and the bone structure of her face changed so that her head sloped back from a nose that was nothing more than a couple of holes in the middle of her face. The mouth was larger than it had been, with sharp, ebony teeth. Her skin had the wrinkles of centuries, and there were long, thin, white hairs growing out of her ears and from scattered places on her face. Before I could shriek or even blink, she had gone back to being the same young woman with blonde hair pulled up in a bun. First I tried to make sense of the momentary vision by blaming it on my imagination, but my adrenal glands had gone into overdrive. I rose quickly to run from the room. “DON’T run out, young lady!” she said. “That will get you your third strike, too.” She smiled again, but her countenance remained human this time. I told myself that it had just been my imagination, and I think I actually believed it for an hour or so. Students began to trickle in exactly as they had done the day before, with two exceptions. The first was that there was no unnecessary chatter. The second was that Brian was absent. When Chris, Gregg, and Mark got in, I told them about my second strike. I did not tell them about the changing image of Ms. Leath—my hallucination. Regardless, the guys did not laugh or tease me in any way, nor did we toy with Mark any about his two strikes. Suddenly, we all felt the need to be quiet and behave. We were afraid, and it wasn’t just us. The entire class was silent. I also noticed that the room had been sterilized. All of the hearts from Valentine’s Day had been removed, as had any other decorative accessories. There was nothing around us but bone-white walls and snow-covered windows. Page 44

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An hour into the school day, Mr. Van Flandern came in and made an announcement. He was obviously upset about something. His eyes were wet, and he was chewing on the side of his mouth the way he had when the Dept. of Education audited Spring Valley the year before. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he was saying, “but I think it’s best if you hear it from me. Brian died last night. He fell from the balcony of his apartment building and was killed instantly.” He spent twenty minutes answering questions about the “terrible accident” as best he could. Then he departed sullenly, and everyone sat in stunned silence. Everyone except for Ms. Leath, that is, who transitioned immediately into her lesson. Missy came in around 11:00, and when she told us why she had been late I thought I might throw up. It turned out that Missy was Brian’s neighbor. She’d been up most of the night giving as many details as she could to the police and to some other guys from the coroner’s office. “He was running around yelling stuff, crazy stuff,” she whispered on the way to gym class. “It sounded like he was banging his head against the wall. He broke a bunch of things, and then he started screaming, ‘The heart won’t stop beating! It won’t stop!’ He said it over and over again, just before he went out onto the balcony. A few seconds later he jumped. I saw it from my kitchen window. He didn’t fall. He jumped!” The four of us walked along quietly for a moment, Missy probably expected us to ask her questions. My throat was suddenly very dry, and I said nothing. “It’s just like the story yesterday!” said Gregg. “No shit, Sherlock,” said Chris. “So what do we do now?” Our line continued forward and around the corner to the hallway that led to the gym. Still thinking about my earlier encounter with Ms. Leath, it was beginning to feel more and more like I was on the verge of my own form of madness. “We need to keep our eyes open,” said Missy. “There’s something wrong with her…” Missy trailed off. She looked behind us with a silent scream in her eyes. I turned around and was horrified, but not surprised, to find Ms. Leath walking along with us. I didn’t know how long she had been there, we’d been moving constantly, and I figured Missy would have seen her if she’d been there for very long. When we got to the gym, Ms. Leath pulled us aside. She stared at Missy for a moment. “I thought I told you, gossip is unbecoming for a young lady.” “I wasn’t gossiping! I was just telling them what I saw. That’s not gossip, right?” she said, a panicky hopefulness in her voice. She looked briefly at Mark, and then at her feet, then at the woman standing in front of her, whom we had all begun to suspect was a murderer. “Don’t try to fool me, you little tart. I know what you were talking about, and I know what you were trying to do. Well, I’m afraid that I don’t have much of a choice. Two strikes. That’s a total of three for you, isn’t it?” Missy stared back at her with wide eyes that were beginning to grow moist. Her hands started shaking as well. “Go on,” she said, pointing towards the gym. All five of us walked quickly through the door, and into the relative safety of the cavernous gymnasium. Mr. Manheim, the phys ed teacher, didn’t run a very tight ship, so the five of us were able to huddle together in a corner of the stage that was adjacent to the gym. I waited until there was a safe distance between us and the rest of the class, and started talking. I told them about my experience that morning—I had become convinced that it was not just my imagination. “She changed. I swear it!” I said. “I’m not crazy. It was just for a second, like she was warning me or maybe just trying to scare me.” Missy had tears in her eyes now. “What do I do?” she cried. We couldn’t think of anything. None of our ideas amounted to much, so in the end she just decided to leave. There was a back entrance on the stage, and it seemed like a good way for her to get out unnoticed. Mark intended to go with her. “You know that’ll get you your third strike,” I said. Mark looked at Missy and said, “I don’t care. I’m going.” Gregg, Chris and I could only nod our heads. The two of them went through the back entrance as quietly as they could. We didn’t see them again that day. In fact, no one would see them until eight months later, when their bodies were found at the bottom of a dry well. When we returned to the classroom forty minutes later, Ms. Leath looked in our direction immediately. “Where are Mark and Missy?” Volume 2, Issue 3

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I shrugged my shoulders. “We don’t know.” It was true, we didn’t know exactly where Mark and Missy went. We thought it would be best if they didn’t tell us where they were going. Ms. Leath seemed to know intuitively when we were lying. “The three of us were playing basketball,” Chris said, which was also true, though we only played for thirty seconds. “I see. I’m afraid Mark has just earned his third strike,” she said. Out came the ledger, and she added another entry in what had become a familiar series of motions, right through the expressive arc of her writing hand. When she replaced the ledger, I noticed that the handbag seemed to shiver. There was no breeze in the room, and yet the small hairs on it seemed to wave for a moment. After lunch, when story time had arrived, she pulled out the book of shorts by Poe, and sat in her chair in the front of the classroom. “Today,” Ms. Leath said, “we’re going to read ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’.” The reading went to completion without any effects that we could see. I knew, though, and so did Gregg and Chris, that our friends were probably dead. Things progressed with an eerie silence until 3:00, and I remember thinking that we might actually get out of there with our skins intact. None of us was going to come back to Spring Valley again. But Principal Van Flandern caught us just as we were leaving. “I heard you kids caused quite a stir in class today,” he said. We looked questioningly at each other. “Ms. Leath wants you to stay after school and clean the room up a little bit.” He pointed back the way we had come. I looked in that direction, and Ms. Leath was standing at the end of the hallway. She was staring at us, and when I looked into her eyes I sort of lost track of myself. That’s the only way I can explain it. I don’t remember anything until I woke up several hours later, chained to my desk. *

Chris and Gregg were shackled into the desks next to mine, and had begun to stir, but I hardly noticed them. I was focused on our substitute teacher who was feeding her handbag. Ms. Leath had taken everything out of it and set it down on the floor. Then she took a large cat out of a cardboard box and held it for a moment, stroking it behind the ears. With frightening speed, she stuffed it into the leather bag and withdrew her hand. The handbag pursed and tightened so that the cat was stuck inside. It began to struggle, and the handbag-thing wriggled with the effort. The cat managed to get one forepaw out through the top, but after a few minutes the internal movement subsided and the paw was pulled slowly back in. The handbag started to blush. I’d swear it looked happy, if that’s possible, and Ms. Leath looked happy for it. She…it…had dropped its disguise. It appeared before us exactly as I had seen it earlier that morning. It was terrifying, in spite of my previous knowledge, and all three of us were silent with paralysis. The Ms. Leath thing stared down at us, wringing her hands in expectation of something, and my imagination began to develop ugly scenarios in response. “Screw you,” I said in a moment of defiance. It came out sounding desperate and pointless, but I was still glad I said it. The creature hissed, and then disappeared into a closet. A moment later I heard scraping sounds as it drug out another desk like the ones we were handcuffed to. Secured to this one, handcuffs on her wrists and duct tape on her ankles, mouth, and forearms, was Ms. Leath. The real Ms. Leath. She looked exactly as the monster had portrayed her. There was nothing but fear in her eyes, though. She stared at the three of us, a panicky glimmer on the skin of her face, then looked up at her captor, and shook her head violently. Grey, splotchy fingers removed the tape from Ms. Leath’s mouth. She stretched her jaw muscles experimentally. After a moment, she said, “What’re you gonna do with the kids? You leave them outta this!” “Still the protective teacher, even in such a ghastly state of mind and body. How admirable!” The monster seemed ecstatic about this revelation. It walked to the front of the room and reached into the handbag, pulling out the now familiar ledger. She opened it on one of the desks in front of us, and I could see all of our names written down on the papyrus. “I want to read you some passages,” the monster said, “from a novel called Dracula.” It hissed, and began to read. I remember everything that happened next with photographic clarity. It was only a few seconds before the four of us began to struggle with our bonds. We strained and shook in our seats. Sweat and spittle flew in all directions as a desperate need for blood overcame all of our senses. Our howls grew to a volume that can only be reached through insanity.

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When the creature finished reading, she closed the book, placed it into her handbag, and left the room. A moment later, seemingly of their own volition, the locks on our restraints disengaged, and I, my two friends, and the human Ms. Leath—the teacher that we had never met—began trying to devour one another. I will not narrate the madness that followed. We were a blur of motion, and a horrible cacophony of triumph and agonized screams. It was a blood feast that did not end until Chris and Gregg were dead, and Ms. Leath and I had collapsed—her from blood loss, and me from a blow to the head. I regained consciousness some time later. The madness within me was gone, and I immediately began to vomit brown, coagulated blood onto the classroom floor. After a lengthy purge, blackness set in again. Early the next morning, I awoke in a hospital room. I was handcuffed to the bed. Detectives were there, as was my mother, and the questions began as soon as I regained consciousness. There were several weeks of intense interviews at the hospital and at the police station, after which I was allowed to go home as long as I stayed put. It was obvious that I had played a part in the deaths of Chris, Gregg, and Ms. Leath (she died before reaching the hospital), but it was just as obvious that I could have claimed self-defense. I was missing large chunks of flesh in several places, many of the wounds on my back were obviously bite marks, and could not have been self-inflicted. Also, my blood was in each of their stomachs. The conclusion was that we fell into a horrible kind of mass hysteria, like when kids go on a shooting rampage, or kill their grandparents and drink their blood. I tried to encourage that line of thought. Yes, it was society’s fault. And drugs, had I mentioned the drugs? They all nodded their heads with understanding reproach. I couldn’t tell them the truth. If I had, I’d still be locked up in wing four at Harper General, wearing a green robe so that orderlies would know to keep a close eye on me. Now I live in Pennsylvania, and I’ve spent the last few years looking for another one of those grey monsters. I’ve been to Columbine, Jonesboro, and the Amish schoolhouse here in Pennsylvania. I was beginning to wonder if it had been my imagination all along, then today I finally found one. Out of the corner of my eye, near a local murder scene, I noticed something. I saw it for just a second: a man underwent a brief metamorphosis into something with wrinkled grey skin, black eyes, and black teeth. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them it was human again. It turned away, and I followed it home. It’s pretending to be a thirty-five-year-old man named James—God only knows what’s happened to the real James. I’ve been watching the grey bastard from a hotel room ever since. I’m going to try to kill it. If you find this manuscript, it means that I am dead, and the grey things are still etching away at the building blocks of humanity. If you don’t believe me, just turn on CNN and behold the world according to ugly grey monsters. Wish me luck…

Woman Invincible Alice E. Sink is the published author of numerous short stories, articles, and essays in anthologies and in trade and literary magazines. Three of her books have been published with a fourth due fall of 2007.She is Associate professor of English/ Communications at High Point University, North Carolina. Her M.F.A. in Creative Writing is from UNC-G. You are active and vital. Outsmart those rules and regulations that push your button in nail-biting situations. A favorite re-run of the ever-popular "Seinfield" television sit-com show is entitled, "The Soup Nazi." Jerry Seinfield warns buddies Elaine and George that they must stand in line, march quietly to the Soup Nazi's counter, order their soup, pay, and be on their way. No talk, no complaints, no compliments, no nothing. Of course, the plot escalates when Elaine ignores Jerry's words of wisdom. In retaliation, the Soup Nazi refuses to serve her. Often intimidation attempts to surface when you are asked to adhere to rules and regulations that you feel are. . .well, pushing your personal limits. Your first test is at your local post office. The people there have rules, too. You're willing to march through roped corridors, stand straight, and maybe – just maybe -you'll be allowed to purchase a sheet of commemorative Marilyn Monroe stamps. You place your order. You're kind, polite, and to the point. "Sorry, we're out," the postal worker says before you even have a chance to finish your request. "Love bird stamps?" "Nope. Super Heroes?" "None left." "What do you have?" you ask. "Flags.” "But I don't want flags," you say, venturing onto the proverbial limb that you suspect will be sawed from beneath you. Volume 2, Issue 3

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"Next," the agitated clerk calls down the cordoned path of waiting customers. She fiddles with her postage scales, stares you straight in the eyes, and waits for you to disappear. Wait, though. You, too, can be stubborn. You've just about had it with this Stamp Nazi. "Okay, give me twenty-give flag stamps," you say, knowing you need postage for the bills and cards you need to mail. "Self-adhesive, please." She slides twenty-five flags over to you, looking as if you had asked her to lick all twenty-five stamps. "Nine dollars and seventy-five cents," she says. You pay, take your purchase, and leave. The flag stamps will get you through the week; however, you have not finished with Ms. Stamp Nazi. What to do? This is a tough one. Then you remember the TV jingle that advertises Stamps by Mail and Stamps by Home Delivery. Then, there is the on-line postal service at WWW.Usps.com. You sit at your desk and order cartoon character stamps, flower stamps, famous people stamps... and the list goes on. You write one check for the entire order and sit back to wait for home delivery! You're getting the knack of this invincibility thing now. There remains, however, one more big test -- the ultimate Nazi experience is with the DMV. It's driver's license renewal time. You have your renewal notice, your old license, personal check and cash (just in case), two major ID's, and thirty minutes. Already ahead of you in line are three teenagers and an ancient gentleman. Apparently none knows the dictates of the License Examiner Nazi. They fumble with road sign recognition and are soon sent on their individual ways, each with the warning, "Study and don't come back until you know this stuff!" It's your turn. You've been watching very carefully and know the drill. You must proceed with caution, or you, too, will be sent packing. Gingerly, you approach the next available examiner. There are two wooden straight-back chairs. You ponder, Which one? You sit in the one closer to the examiner. "Over there," he grunts. You move. "Name?" You know that one, or so you think. "Full name?" He wants your first name, maiden name, and last name -- in that order. Okay, you can do that. No problem. "Read those signs," he says, pointing to a machine in front of you. You look into its guts. There aren't signs inside. You see letters of the alphabet and numbers. What will you do in this nail-biting situation? The License Nazi waits. You can't fake it. Don't think for one minute you will tell him it's an eye test, not a sign test. Put yourself in control of this little situation. "A-S-T-U-W-N." you say with conviction and accuracy. Then you look up. His left eye is twitching fiercely as an outward sign that he will -- under no circumstances -- admit he made a mistake. "Correct," he says, but sounds as if he's drowning in his own saliva. He pushes a button on the top of his desk. I hear the insides of the machine roll "Signs," he dictates. You look. The signs are there this time. You identify each, quickly and thoroughly. You've passed the examination. "Signature here," he growls, "then go over there to have your picture made. Wait until your name is called to pick up your license." You overpower him with that "you-are-messed-upfellow" smirk. Four more years of reprieve before you have to return. This calls for a celebration. What will you do to treat yourself? Then you remember. There is the salvage store. The buys are great, and although you always save bundles of money on computer paper, designer make-up, sheets, towels, and other sundry items, often the humiliation dished out there is difficult to bear. For example, a sign at the entrance of this salvage store states emphatically, "WE DO NOT HAVE A BATHROOM FOR THE PUBLIC. DO NOT ASK TO USE OUR PRIVATE BATHROOM – FOR ANY REASON UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES." That in itself should be a clue as to what this business is about – they will call all the shots – period. And management lets everyone know this before the customer even enters the building. So know this and accept the facts. Your decision to enter the salvage store is not in vain. You immediately spot the bargain of the day: a large, and ordinarily very expensive, collection of Erno Laszlo cosmetics under a sign reading $9.99 each. All these goodies reside on shelving behind a tall, wide glass counter. A sign dictates, "DO NOT LEAN ON OR OVER THIS COUNTER. A SALESPERSON WILL ASSIST YOU." Okay, you say. Only there is no sales person in sight. You travel on past the B.C. Powder and olive oil and teabags to the check-out person. Later you request help back at cosmetics, you retrace your steps and wait. "Mabel, go to cosmetics NOW," the cashier's voice dictates in true Nazi fashion over the store's scratchy intercom. Mabel never shows, so you decide to wander towards the rear of the store, hoping to find her, yourself. There you see the person whom you perceive to be the indispensable Mabel standing hands on hips beside a huge roll of colorful wrapping paper, next to, of course, a sign that declares, "DON'T TOUCH THIS PAPER! A CLERK WILL MEASURE AND CUT FOR YOU." Facing Mabel is a confused-looking customer who cannot decide how much paper she needs. "I've got two boxes--two big boxes," she relates to Mabel. "Probably going to take eight to ten yards." "Shoot!" Mabel spews in true Nazi disgust. "Now, you know you can't return this paper. Think about how much you're going to need." You should ignore Mabel's ire, walk up, and politely inquire about the possibility of having her ASAP to cosmetics. You will probably shock her by being assertive. Circle the store, and in ten minutes go back to Cosmetics. Mabel will probably be behind the counter, ready to assist you. In the meantime, check out the rest of the store's merchandise. You see another sign above the stacked boxes of surplus computer labels: "IF YOU CAN READ, YOU DON'T NEED TO OPEN THESE BOXES." Disheveled cartons, severed tape, and loose sheets of dog-eared labels shout to the world that readers will and, indeed do, open whatever they feel like opening. Apparently, someone other than you does not fear the S. S. N. (Salvage Store Nazi).

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Off to one side of the salvage store's main display area is a small locked room. You look inside the window on the door, but a sign instructs, "IF YOU NEED TO GO INSIDE, AN EMPLOYEE SHOULD BE CALLED TO ESCORT YOU." Good luck with that! You squint beyond the sign. You can see what's in there. You don't have to be escorted inside to discover the contents: electric cattle prods. Why are they under lock and key? Who would want to abscond with an electric cattle prod, but if you did would you risk smuggling one past Mabel and the Nazi Cashier? No thanks. You would not dare pull anything funny at a place of business where NOBODY can use the bathroom for Am. reason. And besides you're just not interested in a hefty discount on an electric cattle prod. So, you circle back to Cosmetics, and there stands Mabel, ready to assist you. You purchase what you need and leave. Your confidence soars. You are a free woman, having earned your right to drive anywhere you want to go. Ahead of you are four glorious years to get Mabel's attention, purchase more Erno Laszlo, and buy wrapping paper and stamps. You've dealt with and survived nail-biting intimidation. You are Woman Invincible. Enjoy your new status!

Nomad's Daughter Kim McDougall: “I am a Canadian writer and photographer currently living in Pennsylvania. I have a BA in English literature from Concordia University, Montreal. My fiction has appeared in literary magazines and I have a novel published by Avalon Books, New York. Most recently, my prose-poem "Mother Crone" will appear in the September 2007 issue of Aoife’s Kiss.” To read more of Kim’s work go to: www.kimmcdougall.com It should be a nice view. The apartment building isolates us from the din of the city. The front walk is dusky, lit only by a small amber light and my eyes play drunken games with the shadows. The garden is unkempt: a tree, an overgrown bush and some scraggly grass. Sometimes I feel guilty about not keeping it up, but never for long. The rest of the street is hopelessly middle-class. Rows of old, distinguished maples, uniformly interrupted by black asphalt driveways. White cone-shaped cement blocks separate the lawns from the road. We display ourselves on stairs that are cold, even for September. From behind, Jack's fingers pinch my shoulder. We must have spent--God knows--thousands of hours on these steps, with this view, beers in hand. Like the white blocks we are silent sentinels, tokens of possession. From somewhere a crying baby breaks the stillness. I've grown to like silence. My mother often said that she'd be still when she was dead and until then she'd talk all day and all night if she wanted. And she did. "You children will be the death of me! If Nanny knew the way you run wild..." or "I may be many things, but I'm no mind reader..." or "God knows, Henry, you've important things in your head..." She nattered on at my father eighteen hours a day, every now and then pausing expectantly--we were all expectant--waiting for my father's improbable comment. It was a relief when Mother began chattering again, her fingers busy with a rusted can opener. Silence wasn't right in our shabby camper kitchen. But it is tonight. Jack and I have a kind of unspoken pledge that I wouldn't dare break. Silence is a comfortable, acquired taste. "Where did all the toads go?" I ask later when our vigil is done and we have retreated to our dark bed. Jack doesn't answer. He's used to my meanderings. Once, we almost split up because I insisted on the possibility of a whole different spectrum that we have never experienced. Imagine trying to explain a color without any point of reference. Jack couldn't imagine it or, perhaps, he wouldn't imagine it. By now he knows better than to argue when I am whimsical. Instead, he closes his eyes to me and settles his pillow behind his head with an air of martyrdom. And I feel a twinge of that long hidden resentment, that rebellion against the I-told-you-so's. My brother, Tom, started me on this reactionary track. With all the snobbery of an eight-year-old, I knew my brother was a fathead. "SHAZAM!" He exploded from the closet, carefully crushing my toes. "KA-BAM!" A feint at my nose with his fist. Wailing was my only defense. "Shut your gob, or mom'll hear!" After Band-aid surgery, and a cuffing or two my mother pushed us out the door to "go catch toads or something!" "I told you so," grumbled Tom. "Tomfool," I retaliated. Summer vacations were hard on my mother, especially when my father was home writing The Book. On the road, while he did his research, we were easier to handle. Then, we had endless toads to catch and infinite miles of forest to tire out in. And toads were great. You always knew when they were going to pee on you; they fidgeted. You could even squeeze their little asses and make them go. After that they were your best friends. Tomfool never mastered this technique. Toads always peed on him. So he ripped their legs off and brought them home to Father. That's probably why I always thought The Book was about amphibians. What is strange is that I never really knew what The Book was about. All I knew is that it involved too much research and that it was always there ever since I could remember. "One day, when you're a big girl I'll explain it to you, " said my father. Real enough promises to satisfy an uninquisitive little girl. Volume 2, Issue 3

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Besides, I resented The Book. The kids on the block made fun of it. Especially the big kids. Tom had more than a few run-ins with them. "Artsy-fartsy" they tagged him. (Where's Shazam now, Tomfool?) We were the artsy-fartsy kids. The wanderers, the gypsies, the vagabonds. "Where's your bag...lady?" jeered at my mother from behind melting snowmen, the sentinels of suburbia. I suppose we were a little strange, taking off every few months to travel across the country. With Father in the lead, we explored every small town the Canadian tundra had to offer. The more ghost-like the better. When the camper rusted shut one winter, we lived in shacks and tents that summer and, when it rained, the back of the old Buick. At night it was always cold, even in July. Tomfool and I curled up together like newborn kittens that don't yet use their claws. Sometimes we settled long enough for Tom and I to get in a full semester of school, but more often before our report cards came in with the dreaded "inattentive in class" or "has trouble focusing her attention," I would come home to find Father packing the car. He was not restless. He did everything with a quiet deliberation. The sleeping bags always fit just so under the hinges of the trunk door, the suitcases braced between them. And when he drove through the endless miles of wheat fields, he had both hands on the steering wheel, at ten and two o'clock. Never one hand drooping out the window like the teenagers that hung out at the drive-ins. Each time we left, I tried to miss my newfound friends, but there were too many, and later, not enough. In the back seat of the car, Tomfool and I played Chinese checkers on a magnetic game board that was missing pieces. I pretended we were secret agents for the RCMP. I recited the multiplication tables. I became Shazam's sidekick. Somewhere in northern British Columbia, in the late seventies, Tom announced that he was hitchhiking to Vancouver to get a job and finish school. Father only nodded and gave him whatever money was in his pocket. That was the last time I saw Shazam. Until Yesterday. We met in a second-hand bookstore. I'd heard that he moved back to Toronto, the city where, as children, we began our grand tour. I don't think he graduated from a university, though I didn't ask. He just didn't have the look of an alumnus. He doesn't know what The Book was about either. Jack is smoking in his introspective way. I hate that. It's the only thing worse than smoking after dinner. Besides, I know he's going to burn the house down one of these days. "So, where did they go?" "Who?" "The toads. I never see them anymore." Not that I've been hunting, but I'd expect to see one now and then. "It's the pollution," he says, putting out his cigarette. "Frogs and toads breathe through their skin. They can't handle it." I look at him to see if he's pulling my leg. "It's true." From the foot of the bed, wrapped in damp sheets, I watch him, feeling like a child at storytime. Where does he learn this stuff? Later on I watch him sleep, noting every mark and smoothness on his skin. My finger traces the creases around his eyes. My skin against his, like two opposing magnets. I feel like a cat-burglar. I'm stealing from you Jack. Your soul. Your dreams and nightmares. I am omnipotent while you sleep. I can't sleep again. I have always been a night owl, at least since the fire. At night I can't escape the what-if syndrome. What if I close my eyes? What if I had done something? What if I had made a difference? It's a masochistic game I play. How many different ways can I blame myself for my father's death? I don't like the guilt so I rationalize it: He would have had no life anyway, after The Book was destroyed. As with gardening, my guilt is not long lasting, just recurring. "Worms," says Jack, surprising me. Back in our bedroom, his eyes are wide open. He's been watching me. There is no honor among thieves. "Never much liked toads. Worms were more my thing. They always hid under those white rocks by the side of the road." He rolls over and sleeps. I am dismissed. Eventually, I do fall asleep to the soft bang-bang rhythm from the headboard of the tenants upstairs. Breakfast is still one of my least favourite times of the day. Jack is a morning person as long as he gets his coffee and cigarette. It's my turn to cook. French toast is the only thing I know how to make. Jack is reading me snippets from the newspaper, but I'm not listening. There is a seed in my brain, an idea conceived in the middle of the night that won't let go. At what time last night did this whim take me? I suspect that it has been with me since the day my father ran back into our burning house for The Book. Page 50

Adventures for the Average Woman

"I want to write a book," I say, testing the feel of it on my tongue. "What about?" he says from behind the paper. "Oh, I don't know. About people. About you and me." "Since when did you become an artsy-fartsy?" In this minute I hate him. But then logic comes back to me and I stop the rift between us from spreading. After all, how could he know of my childhood trepidation? I give him the benefit of the doubt. What I mean is that we do have our moments. "I might have to do some field research," I say. "Uh-huh." He's not listening anymore. "It might mean being away for a few months." No reply. "Maybe four or five..." I pick up the entertainment section but I don't see anything that I read. I'll travel, for research. I'll meet people. Shazam, Tomfool. I am artsy-fartsy.

Stolen Rachel DuChene is a new writer, but a lifelong lover of fantasy stories. She lives in Denver, CO, and has worked in Finance for the last seven years. Together with her husband, Alec, she runs an internet forum for animation cell collectors, named Anime-Beta. Rachel shares her home with two fire-bellied toads and two cats. Send your fan mail to: baobhansith@earthlink.net “Marianne, come away from your work. You must see this!” Marianne mumbled a reply, but what it was, she knew not. In her head, her own voice intoned a recipe that had nothing to do with her sister, Jeanne. Phials and jars pinched brown paper envelopes between them, and boxes minus their lids teetered in a pyramid at one end of her scarred workbench. Tissue paper balls, kite string, measuring spoons, knives, and mixing bowls crowded in the cellar’s stone sink. Perched on a stool, Marianne leaned over her burner. Her thick spectacles cut the flame into two independent pieces as she peered through their frames. “Oh, come see, else you miss it,” Jeanne pleaded. Her voice floated easily down the stairs. She was outside, then. And what was all that racket? Marianne frowned and paid her no heed. The business of a country witch is exact, and she could not leave her work for trifles. She tipped her mortar over the bubbling potion. A yellowish mash plopped into the dish. Next thing she knew, a rancid wind knocked her off her stool. It happened as simply as that. There was no bang, flash, or explosion to mark a spell gone awry. Only the quick puff of indigestion and there she lay on her back, ingredients in her lap and the burner singeing a hole in her workbench. Marianne scrambled to her feet, righting the burner and reaching for spilled containers. A broken crystal phial dripped ruby sand as she picked it up. She overturned it carelessly, for the sand had contained three aqua pearls – powerful faerie magic, but fragile, and surely evaporated by now. Her hand fell on her wooden pestle, fingers curling around it. She sniffed. Garlic! She dropped the pestle into her pocket in disgust and ripped off her apron. Half a morning’s work and the expensive aqua pearls, gone in the mistaken identity of a garlic clove! “What is it, Jeanne?” she snapped. Jeanne, obviously torn between whatever she had seen outside and her desire for Marianne, had halfway descended the stairs. A little deflated at her sister’s tone, she ceased her impatient dance and in a breathless accent said, “The Troupe. They’re here, on the road, right now. Oh! you simply must come see. There is a perfect cat for us. . . .” Marianne wanted none of it. It was only the Troupe causing such a fuss, selling their gaudy baubles and foreign magicks? What of the poultry and Jeanne’s chores? With all the to-do, she would have thought the cows had trampled the garden, at least. As she spoke, Marianne put the cellar back to rights, her dishwashing perhaps more vigorous than was called for. “Cruel Marianne!” Jeanne cried, her patience, like in all girls of twelve, nonexistent. “Come away this moment.” She leapt down the last few stairs and landed with a smart rap of her heeled boots. In a fine spirit of making her sister have some fun for once, she ran to her and grasped her arm. Before she had tugged Marianne two feet, however, she let go with a cry of, “Garlic!” Volume 2, Issue 3

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“Yes.” Marianne unhooked her spectacles from behind her ears and wiped them on a dishtowel. “Garlic, pretty as you please, tucked in my jar of dragon tears. I have asked and asked, but you and Mother will not hear –” “’Tis the larder as much as your workshop,” Jeanne interrupted. “We have to eat, even if you will forget.” Marianne sighed. She would never cure her sister’s habit of using her shelves, which were closer to the casements and therefore more inviting than the cool, dark larder at the back of the cellar. “Someday, you are going to poison us all. Imagine using a dragon’s tear in a stew.” “Halloo!” The voice, a man’s, drifted down the cellar stairs, followed closely by a shadow. Startled, Marianne grasped Jeanne. “On the road! Why, I believe they’re in our yard.” “Well, yes.” Jeanne’s cheeks crimsoned. “There is this cat, you see . . .” “For shame, inviting gamesters to the house. I’m sure the garden is trampled after all.” “Halloo!” the voice called. “Come, else he come down,” Jeanne said shrewdly. She succeeded in dragging her sister out of the cellar, Marianne fumbling with her spectacles the whole way. The sisters burst from the double doors into a fresh spring morning. Marianne, with the help of her spectacles, discerned the garden remained safe. The Troupe, she saw, was not in the yard; their colorful caravan, bells in the wagons and tassels on the horses, had stopped somewhat up the road, leaving behind a single man to conduct business with a family of women. “Good morning, fair maidens,” he said, sweeping his hat off his head and bowing grandly. Flaxen curls tumbled around his shoulders, and round blue eyes twinkled at them. He wore white gloves and shoes. The felt hat graced a high brow, and he dazzled them with a smile. Or, tried to. A handsome specimen he was, but he had to tilt his head up to meet Marianne’s bespectacled stare, for she was taller. Also, she could not in truth be called fair, and she kept her silence. Jeanne, meanwhile, blushed and curtseyed. “Are you aware, Miss, that you carry an aroma of garlic?” he asked Marianne, without discarding his cheerful charm. White teeth glinted in a lean golden face. She shrugged. “Your coat is covered in cat hair. At least garlic is honest. It can hardly be otherwise.” “I heard of your witchcraft in the village, Miss. Forgive my impertinence. We are of the same trade, you understand, and I knew I must see you.” “For what?” Marianne eyed him coolly, not trusting his finery or free speech. “I am sure my brand of magic is of no comparison with the skills of the Troupe.” He accepted her empty flattery with a flamboyance that made her impatient to return to her cellar. Despite her youth, she having turned sixteen in winter, the good humor given by beauty had never been hers. She wanted this stranger off her mother’s property. Jeanne’s laugh broke in on the tête-à-tête. There was the cat, cradled in the small girl’s arms. Its gray tail waved lazily. She giggled when its whiskers tickled her. “He’s gorgeous,” she said, as the cat purred in her ear. “Put it down!” Marianne gasped. For a brief moment, she had seen the cat’s green eyes. It looked at her, and it smirked. She had heard that cats in general were cold, indifferent creatures. But this one’s gaze was hot, searing her with malignant thoughts, and it scared her. She tried to speak calmly, but her voice shook. “Think of your frock.” “Oh, nonsense,” Jeanne said, brushing gray hairs from her skirt. “I want to keep him. We need a mouser for the barn. Pray, what is his name?” This, she addressed to the Troupe-man. He smiled, and told her. Marianne never heard it. The cat released a yowl that made her head spin and her ears ring. A massive paw struck her sister, laying her frock open with unsheathed claws. Jeanne, eyes wide, fell. The cat leapt away with something in its mouth, and vanished. Marianne rushed to her sister. Horrified, she watched as the girl’s pretty, healthful face took on an ashen hue, her eyes open and unseeing. Her rosy lips turned waxen, parted in surprise. Blood soaked her front, and Marianne whirled on the Troupe-man. “I am afraid,” he said, his face stuck in a dreadful smile, “the cat is not for sale.”

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He turned, stepping from the sunny yard into nothing, and Marianne realized he was not from the Troupe. They were tricksters, but the cat had possessed real sorcery. Whatever the man was, she couldn’t let him get away. She lunged for his retreating form and snatched his coattails. Together, they pitched through the air, somehow beyond it, and left the square farmhouse and the lingering smell of garlic behind. Marianne missed her footing, and she went down hard on her knees; she refused to release the velvet coattails. Enraged, the Troupe-man shook her off. “How dare you!” he shouted. “Please,” Marianne sobbed. “My sister – please, is she dead?” He did not answer. He spoke a few words and Marianne, for the second time that morning, found herself lying flat on her back on a cold stone floor. Painfully, she got to her feet, while her hair escaped its pins. She felt distinctly out of sorts. She was shocked to discover she was alone in a cave. Glittery walls surrounded her, and a sheet of ice stretched beneath her boots. Faint light pricked at her eyes, so she made her way unsteadily to a wall. She put her hand on its crystalline surface, and shuffled toward the light. That direction, she hoped, she would find answers. The cave yawned into a massive cavern, glowing with eldritch blue light. Marianne heard the slow drip of water, felt her breath pluming against her cheek, and advanced into the clammy air. She maneuvered around frozen jets of water and stalagmites, her heels cracking the ice with each slippery step. She didn’t know where she was going, but moving was better than not. Then she saw him. A boy, sitting so still he must have been dead. The glow gave his bare torso a bluish cast. Marianne crept closer, struck by the boy’s expression. She had never imagined a sorrow so great, yet so gentle, and it squeezed her heart. But was he alive? She could discern no movement, no breath, and his hands lay in his lap. A heart-shaped locket dangled from a thin chain that interlaced his fingers. Black cloth twisted around his waist and over his legs, frozen in a pool of black water. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” the Troupe-man said, suddenly at her elbow. Marianne swallowed, anxiety for her sister warring with the urge to comfort the boy. He was beautiful, gray flesh and all. Alive, he might have been the same age as she. “You would give up everything,” the Troupe-man whispered, his lips touching her ear, “for that boy.” Marianne jerked away, every muscle locked against the ice underfoot. “Please,” she said, her spectacles misting. “Please help my sister.” “She is not dead. But I am.” He tossed his head, flaxen curls flying, and collapsed into a pile of bones. The felt hat bounced away. Marianne blinked. A young girl, whose ginger hair and rosy lips reminded her of Jeanne, pouted at her from where the man had stood. The gray cat, growling around its prized mouthful, sat on her foot. She said, “Why did you come? I wanted my toy. Not you.” “I came to retrieve what his cat stole.” The girl eyed her critically. “You are not pretty. I don’t want you. And he is my cat.” “Please, help my sister. She has done nothing wrong,” Marianne said. She began to shake. It was so cold! “He begged of me once, too,” the other girl said, turning her dark eyes on the boy. She continued, in a sing-song voice, “He wanted love, and thought to secure it with a witch’s power. A pretty little locket for a pretty little girl. She is gone now, a century in her grave. I have his heart.” Marianne stared at the boy. A slash marked his chest, on his left, inflamed as he was not. It looked like it would weep scarlet at any moment. “You have no mercy!” she exclaimed. “He wanted my sister, and begged for my help!” the witch shrieked, angry tears sparkling in her lashes. “And what of me, whom he loved first? I did not wish to surrender his love to her. So I took it.” Marianne scarcely knew how she felt. Intense emotion surged in her, and she wanted to slap the other girl. But Marianne was merely a country witch. Who knew what this girl could do? She controlled the urge for violence and forced herself to think. “What of my sister?” she managed to ask. “Such a pretty girl,” the witch mused. She put her finger to her lips. “I couldn’t have such a rival near him, you see. He gets so… hungry. Nothing but a heart will satisfy him. Until his own is returned, he devours the hearts of maidens.”

Volume 2, Issue 3

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She paused, her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I have offended you. It is disagreeable, to receive a reproach from such an ugly girl. Come, you would gain this boy’s love. There, see? He perceives you.” The boy’s eyes, large and expressive, regarded them from behind strands of his prematurely white hair. His mouth, lily-pale, twitched. “You could not give such beauty to your sister, could you?” the witch asked in a low voice. “Not when she has so much already. Forget about her.” Marianne did not remember moving, but she was at the boy’s feet. Overwhelmed by his gaze, she could not find her voice. Jeanne, her precious, precocious little sister, warm, lively, affectionate. How could she discard Jeanne? Marianne was not meant for fairy-tale romance. Her fate was to mix potions for country folk, to help with good harvest, cows, and poultry, and good families. “I can’t,” she said. “Please return my sister’s heart. Return his, too. No one deserves this.” “You would have pity for that monster?” the girl-witch hissed. Then she spoke a name, the same one the Troupe-man had given, and the boy started. He reached out clawed hands and locked them around Marianne’s throat. His face, his features – all distorted, a thing beyond any nightmare - black teeth, gnashing a long tongue to shreds, dripping scales, and steaming blood. In helpless terror, Marianne closed her eyes to shut it out. The thing snarled at her, its lower half trapped in ice, and she struggled. Dimly, she heard the witch raving. “I will not give him to her! He deserves no other! Their hearts are mine!” Somehow, Marianne dipped her hand into her pocket. The monster scratched her, bit her, choked her. Provincial she may have been, but a witch is a witch, and she knew what to do. She found her pestle where she had put it, still stained with garlic oil, and threw it at the other girl. A corrupt witch cannot withstand honesty. The garlic’s stink slammed into her and she began to burn. Ice melted and ran. Then, the girl was no more. Her power dissipated. Marianne wondered that the other girl had not smelled the garlic earlier; she reeked of it still. By degrees, the monster loosened its hold, and she dropped to the ground. She scrabbled across ice, water, and stone, and thrust her hands at the spitting cat. She grasped fistfuls of its fur. It, too, burned, leaving behind a pathetic, bloody bundle. Jeanne’s heart. Marianne scooped it up. She did not know if she could save Jeanne – How was she to return her sister’s heart? “Take this.” The boy, released from one spell, offered the tiny silver locket. “It is a witch’s trinket,” he said softly. “It can hold her heart, as it was once meant to hold mine for another girl. Take it, and go.” Wordless, Marianne accepted the gift, and closed Jeanne’s heart inside. The boy’s stillness returned, sorrowful and unloving. Shiny tears wet his face, spilling without pause from his large eyes. “Thank you,” Marianne said. She took up one of his icy hands and pressed it. “Wait a little longer. She is only twelve. But she will come for you, and return your heart, as you have made it possible for me to return hers.” He said nothing as he cried. Marianne turned on her heel and walked out of the cavern into a fresh spring morning. She knelt by Jeanne and clasped the chain ‘round her neck. Then she opened the locket, freeing the heart. Anxiously, she waited. Jeanne’s eyelids fluttered, closed, and breath lifted her bosom. Marianne, with a cry of joy, gathered her sister into her arms. She knew Jeanne’s fate, just as she knew hers. In a few years, Jeanne would be more than a girl, and she would rescue a boy from his prison. The years would be bleak for the nameless boy, while Marianne could take comfort in Jeanne’s company. She could, she reflected, once (twice, even thrice!) come away from her work for trifles outside of her cellar. Either Jeanne would accidentally use dragon tears in a stew or Marianne would blow herself up with garlic, but while they had each other, the sisters would find happiness. In the end, Jeanne’s affectionate heart would lead her to love. Marianne, not meant for fairytale romance, foresaw it all with joy.

Fighting Polar Bears in Indiana (8454) C.J. Cauley: ”I have been writing professionally for nearly 10 years. I was the editor-in-chief of Shock Value Music Magazine where I wrote music criticism and features articles, and was previously a movie critic for Westsider Magazine and Movie Mania. I also had a biweekly column in the Harrison Press in Harrison, Ohio, entitled, "Old Wives Tales." In addition, one of my feature articles was published by She Knows Magazine.” Send your comments to: ccwriter@gmail.com In 1978 I was a short, pudgy seven-and-a-half-year-old with rosy cheeks and a geeky disposition. I loved “Star Wars,” “M*A*S*H,” and “WKRP in Cincinnati.” I wanted to marry Shawn Cassidy and have eleven children who would form a singing group, just like the Page 54

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Osmonds. I, my mother, and my five siblings lived in a small modular home in Moores Hill, Indiana. It was the ugliest of yellows, the kind of mustard color that you would find on older kitchen appliances. It only had three bedrooms, so I and my older sister had to share one bedroom while my three brothers shared another. The rooms were so small that a custom bunk bed had to be made to accommodate the three boys. My younger sister was only two months old, so her crib was still in my mom’s room. Our house was at the dead-end of a two-mile long gravel road. There was no cable television and our phone was on a party line that we had to share with the rest of the street. The phone was the same mustard color as our house and it had a dial rather than push buttons, so it took a full two minutes to dial someone’s phone number. I loved the swish sound it made after you pulled one of the circles all the way to the right and let go as the hole spun back to its corresponding number. Zero made the longest swish of all. I also loved talking to the operator when no one was around. It would never take long to get hung up on, but I always enjoyed the brief conversations we had; I was starved for attention. Most of the time when you picked up the phone you could hear Mrs. Jones, who lived at the end of the street, screaming, “The phone is in use! Hang up! Hang up!” I’m not sure what state secrets she thought we would overhear, but every now and then when I picked up the line as quietly as I possibly could, all I ever overheard was her complaining to her mother about her children. Robert and Stephen were the only kids on the street around my age, so we spent a lot of time together. She was right, they were disturbed. On Wednesday, January 25, 1978 my mother was nervous because the weathermen were saying a big snow storm was coming and she had to go to work. She worked the 4-to-12 shift at a plastics plant. She was usually gone when I got home from school and wouldn’t come home until after I was fast asleep. When I and my siblings woke up that day, it had already begun to snow. We were all very excited because it didn’t take much snow in order for Dearborn County to cancel school because all of the houses were in rural areas. We all sat around in our pajamas, which usually consisted of underwear and a t-shirt, and watched the morning news. We usually watched cartoons, but snow always made for special circumstances. We had to watch the news to see if school was cancelled for the day. My two oldest brothers and mother were sitting on the couch. It was all wood with rickety, scratched bamboo arms and bright azure cushions. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor with my sister and youngest brother, between the glass-top coffee table and our 17-inch TV, which was perched on an old particleboard TV stand. When the anchorman said, “the following schools are closed,” we all held our breath. As soon as we heard, “all Dearborn County schools,” we all yelped for joy. My mother sat silently. My oldest brother went back to bed while my other siblings ran off to find something to do. My sister wanted to watch cartoons, but my mother wouldn’t let her turn the channel. I climbed up on the couch beside my mother to watch Nick Clooney and Ira Joe Fisher talk about how bad they thought the storm would become. My mother still sat silently. Our television rested in front of a huge bay window, so we could watch the snow coming down in solid sheets of white fluffy powder. I could tell my mother was worried. “Go play with your Barbies, Chris,” she said to me. “Will you play, too?” I asked. In my 7-and-a-half years, my mother had never played Barbies with me, so I knew the answer before the words came out of my mouth. “No, Chris, just go to your room and play, I need to hear this,” she said, shooing me away with her hands. Miffed at my dismissal, I headed to my room. I turned and stuck my tongue out at her when I was sure she couldn’t see me. My sister was reading on her bed, so I went into the closet. We had our closet set up like a clubhouse. Even though it was small, we were able to fit in a chair and a small black and white television with earphones. The TV sat on top of my Easy Bake Oven. We put my Lite Brite on top of the TV to illuminate the room because there was no light. I closed the door and sat in the closet watching “Tom and Jerry” until I got bored. When I took off the headphones, I could hear my mother speaking to someone on the phone. I opened the closet door to discover that my sister had left the bedroom door open. “She must have gone outside,” I thought. I walked over to our bedroom window, which looked out over the front yard, but I could barely make out the outline of my sister and brothers through the heavy downpour. My mother raised her voice. I could tell by her tone that she was concerned, so I went into the hall to listen. “Dad, what am I supposed to do?” I heard her say, “Pack up all six kids and head to your house?” There was a hint of desperation in her voice. “I realize that, but we have a fireplace, we’ll be fine,” she said. I began to get nervous. The last time we packed up and went to my grandparent’s house I was five and my mother left my abusive father. She woke us all up in the middle of the night in our underwear. “Get up, girls! Get up!” she screamed me out of a solid sleep. “Put some clothes on! Let’s go!” My oldest brother, Bobby, was grinning behind her. His eyes had a spark I had never seen before. I thought it looked like joy. He started throwing our clothes into a large trash bag. “Bobby, make sure you grab enough underwear,” she said. What was it with my mom and underwear? I wasn’t sure what was going on. Bobby yelled at me to hurry up, so I did. I never argued with him. My sister began to cry. “Stop crying!” Bobby yelled. “This is good! Just hurry up!” Being the oldest, Bobby had to put up with my father’s abuse longer than the rest of us. When my dad would line us up and beat us until someone confessed to whatever it was he deemed wrong, it was usually Bobby who stepped forward, even if he didn’t do it. We all knew that whoever stepped forward faced a worse beating, and we were all terrified. Being the youngest, I don’t often remember being in the line-ups, but I’m certain that I never stepped forward. I bear the guilt of Bobby’s scars. “Put your shoes on, let’s go!” Bobby yelled after I had slipped into a dress and my sister into pants and a shirt. When we exited to the living room my other two brothers were standing around groggy-eyed. Ron was holding yet another trash bag and tears were streaming down his cheeks. Both were silent and staring at the floor. My mother came swiftly around the corner from her bedroom with another trash bag in her hands. For the first time I noticed that her cheek was red and swollen. “Alright, let’s go!” None of us argued. Ron and Connie were still crying. Ryan had taken the trash bag out of Ron’s hand and was running ahead of us to the car that was still running in the driveway. Bobby was right on his heels. “Move Volume 2, Issue 3

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faster, Chris!” my mother yelled. She did not wait for me to comply and whisked me into her arms as she hurried out of the house. All six of us piled into the white Chrysler, while the boys put the trash bags in the trunk. I was squeezed between my mother and Bobby in the front seat. I was tired and confused, but we were all together, so I wasn’t worried. I laid my head against my mother’s shoulder and fell fast asleep. When I woke up Bobby was carrying me into a room at the Imperial House Motel. The only time we had ever stayed at a motel was when we were on a family vacation. I thought we were headed to Florida. I was sure my dad would just meet us there. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was fast asleep again, dreaming of the beach. I remember waking up one more time that night. I thought I heard my mother crying, but that was impossible. My mother never cried, not even when my father hit her. She was always stoic. To this day I have only seen her cry a few times and most of those involved a death in the family. I thought I heard Bob’s voice reassuring her, but maybe it was just a dream. That morning, we moved in with my grandparents, next it was off to my mom’s aunt and uncle’s house, and then we moved back with my grandparents and finally ended up in Moores Hill. My father was a Cincinnati fireman and apparently the Cincinnati Police Department had a problem arresting one of their brothers-in-arms, so we had to move to the end of the earth where the police didn’t care who he was. I switched schools three times that year and I wasn’t looking forward to moving again anytime soon. Maybe the blizzard was clouding my judgment, but I kept thinking that it didn’t make any sense. My little sister’s dad was nice and he didn’t live with us, so I couldn’t figure out why we would have to move again. I listened more closely. “Alright, Pop!” she said, exasperated. “I’ll do it,” she paused, “We’ll be there in a few hours.” She hung up the phone and closed her eyes, leaning against the receiver as if it were a life preserver. She was mumbling something to herself that I couldn’t hear. I think she was praying. When she opened her eyes, she looked up to see me standing there, staring at her. “Chris, go get your brothers and sister, and tell them to pack enough clothes for a few days, we’re going to stay with grandma and grandpa Fritsch.” I immediately began to cry. “Stop crying, what’s wrong with you?” she asked. She was never one to suffer tears gladly. She must have guessed my fears. “We’re just staying until the snow gets plowed, now hurry up!” I wiped my tears and hiccupped a little as I tried to stop heaving. I threw open the front door from the warmth of the mudroom, still wiping my eyes. I yelled at my siblings to come inside, but my cries were silenced by the wall of snow coming down. I screamed louder and louder still a third time. “Why?!” was the reply I finally received. “Because mom said so!” was explanation enough for the lot of them. “Chris, I could have done that.” I heard my mother say from her bedroom. She must have been getting my baby sister dressed because I could hear Cindy gurgling in the background. “Tell Bobby to start the car,” she said. “Bobby! Mom said start the car!” I screamed out the door as Connie, Ryan, and Ron approached the steps to the mudroom. “Bobby’s not out here, stupid,” Ryan said. “Mom says pack clothes to go to grandmas” I said. “What for?” Ron questioned. I thought about his question for a moment and realized that I had no idea why. “Because mom said so,” I replied, definitively. As I turned to run to the boys’ bedroom to find Bobby, I could hear Ron and Ryan asking mom why we were going to grandma and grandpas. When I arrived at the boys’ room, Bobby was still sleeping. “Bobby, mom says start the car,” I said. He didn’t budge. “Bobby.” I said louder. Nothing. I opened the drawers under his side of the bunk bed and used them as a ladder to climb up. “Bobby!” I screamed in his ear. His head jerked up in the air. “What the frig do you want, Chris?” Ah, his usual polite greeting. “Mom says start the car,” I said. “Why?” he said, annoyed at the rude awakening. “Because mom said so,” I replied, confident that he would obey. I jumped down from the top drawer and opened the door to exit to my room. Ryan and Ron were coming in to pack their things. I heard the rustling as Bobby rolled out of bed and began to dress. Then I heard him cursing under his breath while Ron and Ryan were digging in their dresser drawers. Ron was explaining to Bobby why we were going to grandma’s house for a few days. “Mother effer,” was Bob’s response. He always had a way with words. When I entered my bedroom Connie was still in her coat, packing clothes into a purple gym bag with “Moores Hill Bobcats” painted on the side in white letters. I went to the closet to get a bag of my own and began packing my clothes. “This means that mom’s leaving Ed, doesn’t it?” Connie asked as she zipped up her bag. “No,” I said in protest. “She said it’s cuz of the snow, that’s all.” I started putting on my coat. Page 56

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“It snows all the time and we don’t go to grandmas,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Well your face is ugly all the time and you don’t go to the ugly doctor,” I said. Connie walloped me in the head with her gym bag. “MOM! Connie hit me!” I screamed, grabbing my bag and running toward the door. “Did not!” I could hear her shout as she chased me. “Chris is a liar!” “MOM!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, but there was no reply. I ran into her bedroom, but she wasn’t there. Cindy was sucking on her pacifier in her crib. She turned her head to look at me. I ran through my mother’s bathroom, into the mudroom where I dropped my bag and ran out the front door. Connie was right on my heels. We both stopped in our tracks. My mother was in our green LTD trying to turn the car around. Bobby was in back pushing. The car wouldn’t budge. There was already a foot of snow on the ground and no plows had been down our gravel road. The LTD looked like an enormous green slug in a sea of bleached white cement. My heart skipped a beat. Connie took the opportunity to hit me in the arm and call me a narc. I ignored her. “Connie, go get your brothers,” my mother said to my sister. “Yeah, Connie, go get the boys,” I mocked. “Christy Jean, I’m not in the mood,” my mother said. When my mother used your middle name, you knew you were in trouble. I immediately shut my mouth. Mom put the car in park and Bobby walked over to the driver’s side window mumbling something I couldn’t hear. A few moments later my other brothers were standing beside me sans bags. “Boys, get in back with Bobby and push when I say go,” she said to them. “I want to help too!” Connie shrieked. “Me too!” I said. “You’re too little,” my sister dismissed me. “Alright, Connie, get back there. Chris, stand back,” my mother said. I reluctantly stood back and watched as my mother yelled, “Go!” and my older siblings tried to push the monstrous LTD through the thick snow. It sat still for a moment, then lurched half a foot before spinning its tires. Again my heart skipped a beat. I looked up at the sky. Snow was falling on my eyes and I held out my tongue to catch the flakes. It was so beautiful that it’s hard to believe it could be deadly. I spun in place for a moment, reaching out my arms like an airplane. In the short time I had stood still, snow had built up on top of my boots. I tilted my head down and looked around at the endless white blanket and wondered what we were going to do next. I could hear my mother yell, “Stop!” She sat motionless. Again she closed her eyes and put her head on the steering wheel, just like the phone. She mumbled some more to herself and I could tell that she was really worried now. “Again!” my brother Ron shouted from the back of the car. “Let’s try again.” My mother raised her head and stuck it out the window. “It’s no use. It’s not gonna budge.” “It has to,” he said as my mother got out of the car. “It has to, mom.” I thought I saw a tear on his cheek. He wiped his eye with his arm, walked right past my mother and got into the driver’s seat. “What are you doing?” she questioned. “I’m getting us out of here,” Ron said, his 13-year-old voice cracking. “You’re bigger than all of us, you should be pushing,” he continued, not a bit concerned that he might be pissing off our mother. It wasn’t like Ron to take charge of anything. He always let Bobby and Ryan, who was a year younger than him, push him around. I stood watching in amazement. “Alright,” my mom shrugged. “Hit the gas when I say go. You guys push,” she said to Bob, Ryan, and Connie. “On three. One – two – three. Go!” My mother and brothers and sister pushed with all of their might as Ron hit the gas peddle as hard as he could. The tires threw snow everywhere, but they didn’t budge an inch. “Stop!” my mom yelled, but Ron wouldn’t let off the gas. “Stop!” she screamed. My brothers and sister stepped back from the car as snow flew all around them. My mother ran to the driver’s side window. “Ronald Bryan, stop!” He did not relent. “Ronny, stop right now!” she opened the door and pulled him out of the car. Ron fell to the ground as my mother reached in to put the car in park. “What are you doing?!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Ronny, the car isn’t going to budge.” “Yes it is,” he said, “It has to. We have to get out of here.” “I know that, but it’s not gonna be in this car, Ronny.”

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“Yes it is!” he screamed again. I watched perplexed. My mother had never let one of us speak to her in that tone before. I was amazed that Ron wasn’t being spanked with a Hot Wheels track, my mother’s weapon of choice in 1978. “Ron, this car isn’t going anywhere. It’s stuck. It’s stuck, do you hear me? We’re stuck. Now get in the house. We’re going to have double up on clothes.” She turned to address the rest of us, “All of you go inside and put on as much clothing as possible. Make sure you wear your long johns and three pairs of heavy socks. Boys, get your ski masks.” My mother had gotten them a motor-less snow ski for Christmas along with ski masks so their faces didn’t freeze going down the hill over and over again. “Girls wear three pairs of underpants.” “Again with the underpants?” I thought. “Hurry up, now!” she concluded. “No, I won’t!” Ron said as he ran back to the car. My mother just stood by as he closed the door and put the car in drive. “I’m going to get us out of here, mom!” “Let’s go, kids, in you go,” she said calmly. “What about Ronny,” I said, worried that he would get left behind. “He’ll come in when he gets tired,” she said putting her hand on my shoulder and guiding me inside behind the others. As she climbed the steps in front of me I turned to see Ron revving the engine, the tires spinning endlessly. They were now spewing gravel, having no snow left to throw. Tears were now quite visible rolling down his face and he was cursing at the car. “Come on, you bastard, come on!” he half screamed, half cried. “Come on, Chris, he’s not going anywhere,” my mother said as I went inside to change. We all piled on as many layers of clothing as we could. As Connie was trying to push my rubber boots on over three layers of socks and my gym shoes, I could hear my mother on the phone again. She had that same worried tone as before, but I could not hear what she was saying. Eventually we all came out into the living room and sat down on or near the couch. Mom was still on the phone and Bobby had been standing at her side, listening. Ron came in red-faced and threw the car keys down on the floor in front of my mother. He then sulked to his room to change. “Dad? Dad?” she said into the phone as her eyes tracked Ron’s departure. “Shit!” she yelled as she slammed the receiver onto the base. She leaned on it again for stability. Standing upright, she said, “Alright, grab something to eat while I get Cindy ready.” I wasn’t sure where we were walking to on our journey, but I was sure it was going to be quite an adventure. I was the only one who grabbed something to eat out of the kitchen. I grabbed a bag of chips and sat back down to watch the newsmen with my siblings. The men were all talking about how much more snow was expected and how many people were going to be without power. I thought they meant superpowers, like the Wonder Twins. I always loved when the Wonder Twins were on Super Friends, but I always thought that Zan and Jayna chose the stupidest things to turn into. They would say, “Wonder Twins power, activate…in the form of…” then they would say what they wanted to transform into. It was always weird stuff. If I were a super hero I’d turn into something big and scary. They always turned into a bucket of water and a fan or an ice pick and a chimpanzee. I thought they might have been slightly retarded. My cousin, Joey, had Down Syndrome and he was one of my best friends, so I thought it was pretty cool that retarded kids were allowed to be super heroes. We waited, not speaking until my mother returned. When she came back to the living room with my baby sister, Cindy no longer looked like a baby. She was just a big pile of blankets. You couldn’t even see her face. I wondered how my mother knew she was right-side-up. “Where’s Ron?” she asked. Just then Ron walked out of his bedroom wearing every stitch of clothing he owned. He looked like Tweedle Dum after he ate Tweedle Dee. “Ronald!” my mom shouted. “You can’t even walk dressed like that. Go back in there and take that stuff off. You need three pairs of pants and three shirts. Hurry up, we have to go!” I could tell by her expression that she was furious and Ron didn’t offer any argument. I got up off the floor and started walking toward the mudroom. “Where are you going?” my mother asked. “I’m gettin’ my bag,” I said. “We’re not taking any bags,” she replied. “It’s going to be hard enough to walk to the end of the road without needing to carry anything.” “The end of the road?” Bobby questioned as I returned to the living room. “You said we had to walk to Brandon’s house,” he continued. They must have had that conversation while she was on the phone. Brandon was a smaller boy who lived halfway up the road. His house was the closest to ours with the exception of the house across the street, which was empty at the moment. The next closest was the Jones’ which was near the end of the street. There were only five houses on our street, aside from an abandoned house across from Brandon’s. It was still sinking in that the seven of us were going to have to walk two miles in the snow and freezing temperatures. Suddenly, the TV shut off and house went black. Even though it was daytime, the constant sheets of snowfall made it very dark. Ron let out a shriek in his bedroom. I was terrified for the first time that day.

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My mother was calm. “It’s o.k., Ron, just get out here.” She gave my baby sister to Connie, who was on the floor, and went into the bedroom to grab a flashlight from her night stand. I could see the outline of my brother as he approached us, looking much thinner than before. Mom came back to the living room, shining the flashlight in Ron’s face. “Alright, here’s the deal,” she began. “We’re all going to walk to Brandon’s house.They have a wood-burning stove. We can stop to rest and get warm, but then we’re going to have to walk the rest of the way up the street. I don’t want to hear any crying or fighting. It’s going to be cold and the snow drifts are going to be high. They may be taller than Chris. We’re going to stay together, so Ryan, no running ahead. I don’t want any arguments, and I especially don’t want any tears. We can do this. We’re going to do this and we’re all going to make it out of here in one piece. Got it?” We all sat there dumbfounded as my mother gave her pseudo Patton speech. This was so strange to me. Normal people didn’t do this. It was like we were living something that you only see on television. I looked around at my siblings. My sister and I were wearing three layers of clothing that looked like something straight out of “Eight is Enough,” complete with bell bottoms and rainbow-striped shirts. My brothers were three misfit boys wearing the finest bell bottom jeans and cords that K-mart could provide. Bobby had on a John Lennon t-shirt. Ryan was wearing a t-shirt with an iron-on transfer of a frog sitting on a log. It said “I’m so happy here I could just shit.” Classy. Ron was wearing a vest and dress shirt on the outside layer, always the republican. I had just noticed my mother was also wearing jeans, a black wool sweater, and her steal-toed work boots. “I’m not going,” Bobby responded, knocking me out of my reverie. “What?” my mother questioned. “If you pussies want to walk all the way to the end of the street, go right ahead, but I’m staying here,” Bobby continued. “I’ll be fine.” My mother looked infuriated. “You listen to me Robert William,” she began, looking around the room for what I surmised must have been a Hot Wheels track. She was also fond of vacuum cleaner attachments, so I couldn’t be sure. I saw the vacuum cowering in the corner, as afraid of my mother’s wrath as we were. “You’re going to walk to the end of the street with the rest of us. I told you I wasn’t going to put up with any shit.” The two locked eyes and stared for what seemed like a full minute. They were always butting heads like that. The rest of us watched with baited breath. I could have sworn I saw Ryan scoot closer to the other end of the couch, away from Bobby and any lengthy Hot Wheels track that may miss its mark. “This is stupid,” Bobby mumbled. “We have a fireplace.” My mother startled all of us as she quickly grabbed Bobby’s arm and pulled him to his feet. At fourteen he was already taller than her, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. She poked her index finger into his chest and began talking through clenched teeth. “We are in the middle of effing nowhere, thanks to your father.” I let out a muffled shriek. My mom never used the f-word unless she was really furious. “There is no electricity, which means no heat and no hot water. The phones are gone. The pipes are going to freeze. We’ll be stuck here with the little bit of food that’s in the cabinets and nothing to cook it with, because the last time I checked we didn’t have any firewood, unless you’ve cut down a tree since yesterday and sliced it into logs for us,” she half-questioned. Bobby just stood there. He was probably equally amazed that mom had used the f-word. I’m sure he thought he was the only one who ever used that sort of language. “We’ll have nowhere to go to the bathroom, nothing to eat, no water to drink, and no heat. They’ll find us two weeks from now, frozen and rotting on the floor. Is that what you want?” she grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. He looked stunned. Connie and Ron were bawling. Ryan seemed to be enjoying the show. Cindy didn’t make a peep, or maybe we just couldn’t hear her under all of those blankets. “I still think it’s stupid,” he said as he shrugged her hands off of his shoulders and turned to walk to the front door. “Stop crying!” she yelled. “I said no tears, didn’t I?” Ron and Connie tried to suck up their sobs, but fear had already gripped them by the throats. “Your grandpa has notified the authorities that we need help. Someone is going to be waiting for us at the end of the street. All we gotta do is get there.” “Why can’t they come get us?” I asked. “Don’t be stupid, Chris,” Ryan said. “If we can’t get out, how are they supposed to get in?” I looked to my mother, searching for comfort. She was not in a comforting mood. She walked over to Connie and took Cindy out of her arms. “Grab those blankets and wrap them around you,” she said indicating a pile of blankets that had gone unnoticed in front of the balcony door. We all grabbed what we could and headed out the door. Outside the snow was coming down even harder than before. As I stepped down the front stairs, my mother warned me to be careful. The last two steps were hidden beneath snow. When I stepped off the porch I discovered the snow was nearly up to my knees. As soon as I stepped down, snow started slowly seeping into my boots. I was cold and scared and began to cry. That made Ron and Connie open their floodgates once again. “God Almighty, not you too,” mom sighed. “Stop that right now, all of you, or your tears will freeze to your face.” Now my mother always said if we made a face or crossed our eyes it would stay that way too, but somehow this time I believed her. She wiped my face with her gloves. We were quite a motley crew. Over our three layers of clothing, my sister was wearing a long brown coat with white wool lining and trim. She had a hat to match. My coat was chocolate brown with an intricate pattern of different shapes and hues. My mom called it my “coat of many colors,” just like the song. I could barely zip it up over the mounds of clothing I was wearing. My mother had tied the hood down tight to my head so that I looked like I had nothing more than a tiny circular face peeking through the white faux fur trim. My sister and I wore mittens. Everyone else had on gloves. I also had two scarves wrapped around my neck and Connie and I had flannel blankets pinned around our shoulders with safety pins. Bobby had on an army jacket, Ron a brown jacket similar to Connie’s, except shorter, and Ryan was wearing this bright silver coat my mother had just bought him for Christmas. At least the rescue workers would be able to see us from a distance. Ryan and Ron were also wearing scarves. Cindy looked like a big yellow pile of blankets and my mother wore her Volume 2, Issue 3

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blue Monsanto jacket and a black wool cap. She was our commanding officer and we were a sniveling bunch of lost boys trailing behind her. It was like a poor man’s “Lord of the Flies” with a co-ed cast of characters. When my brothers all pulled the ski masks over their faces, we looked more like a gang of thugs going off to rob a bank than a family seeking shelter from a snow storm. “Let’s go,” my mother said as she started struggling through the snow, carrying my baby sister. She headed off toward the road, struggling to walk tall. Bobby headed in a different direction. “Bobby, follow me!” she shouted through the cutting winds. “Why? Cutting through the meadow will be faster,” he argued. “The meadow is covered in snow. There are holes and ditches everywhere and you can’t tell where the pond begins. We’re following the road; it will be the flattest surface. We have to stick together.” I could see Bobby begrudgingly start to cut across the yard toward the road without an argument. He would never admit it, but I don’t think he was prepared to leave us. The rest of us followed behind, Ryan out in front as usual. At first it wasn’t so bad. It was hard for me to walk because I had to lift my legs higher than anyone else every time I took a step. At first my mother had hold of my hand and I thought everything was going to be alright. Eventually she had to shift Cindy from one hip to the other and released my hand. It was a long, slow journey. By the time we reached the big bend almost three-quarters of the way between our house and Brandon’s, we were all miserable. “We should have gone through the meadow,” I heard my mother whisper to herself. “Told ya,” Bobby said. He had stuck to my mother’s side the entire time, helping her every time she stumbled. Ryan was coming to the bottom of the big hill in front of us. My mother shouted at him to wait up, but he either didn’t hear her or didn’t listen and started up the next hill. Connie, who had been crying off and on the entire trip, began sobbing loudly. “Not again,” my mother said. The wind was whipping hard and I felt my ears freezing off even through the scarves and hat. My feet were numb and my heart was beating fast. I could hear Ron weeping softly on my mother’s left. I was too afraid to cry. “Connie, I told you your tears would freeze to your face, look at you.” I pulled the scarves down and looked to my right at my older sister. Sure enough, her face was nearly a solid sheet of ice as her tears had frozen on her cheeks. That realization made her cry even louder. “Mom, I’m tired, can you carry me?” I asked. “I have to carry your sister,” she said. “Can’t Bobby carry Cindy? I inquired. “I’m not carrying anybody. This stupid shit wasn’t my idea,” he snapped. Then I began to cry. My mother yelled at me to shut up. I think she was at her wit’s end. “Snuff it up, Christy Jean!” she shouted. “If you don’t snuff it up right now you’re going to look just like your sister. Is that what you want?” I looked at my sister. She looked pathetic with a frozen tundra for a face and I decided that I didn’t want that for me. So I snuffed it up, grabbed my sister’s hand, and we walked together. Ryan was all the way up the hill in front of Brandon’s house by the time we were heading down the first. That hill was probably the hardest part of the journey because both sides were so steep. Bobby lost his footing and slid all the way down to the bottom. I could hear him cursing in the wind when he stood up and headed up the other side. My mother said nothing, but I could see from her eyes that she was relieved he was not hurt. Ron decided that sliding was easier, so he tried to scoot down on his butt, but the snow was just too deep. He stood up and brushed the snow off his bottom and continued on. My sister and I were slipping off and on all the way down the hill. She would slip and pull me along with her, and then I would slip and pull her. At least gravity was finally on our side. I heard my brother, Ryan, shouting something in the distance, but I couldn’t make it out. All I knew was I freezing and scared and wanted nothing more in the world than to go home even without electricity, water, and food. Bobby had reached the top of the second hill just a few feet from Brandon’s house as we were approaching the bottom of the first. Suddenly I saw my mother slip. I reached for her, but there was nothing I could do. She and my baby sister were sliding toward the bottom of the hill. Then my mother fell backward with her right leg pinned behind her, dragging the ground as she slid. Somehow she managed to keep the baby tight to her chest. Connie and Ron screamed. I tried to run, but the snow wouldn’t let me. I heard Bobby yelling from the top of the opposite hill. Ron reached her first. “Ron, take the baby,” she said with a wince. Cindy didn’t make a sound. I was suddenly terrified that Cindy was dead. She hadn’t made a sound during our entire journey and not even a fall could wake her up. “Mom!” came screaming out of my mouth before I even knew what I was doing. “The baby’s dead. The baby’s dead!” “Chris, the baby is not dead. She’s fine. Stop acting like an idiot and help me up.” But before me and my sister could reach for her, I suddenly realized we were surrounded. I looked up as Brandon’s dad was pulling my mom to her feet. “Can you walk?” he shouted over the increasing winds.

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“I think so,” she shouted back in his ear. Brandon’s dad pulled her arm around his shoulder and helped her the rest of the way to his house. Bobby must have run down the hill when he saw mom fall because he was there too, taking Cindy out of Ron’s hands and starting back up the hill. A man I didn’t know grabbed Connie and me by the hands and practically pulled us all the way to Brandon’s house. Ron followed behind. Ryan was waiting at the top of the hill and walked the rest of the way with us. He must have told Brandon’s parents that we were almost there. Each step seemed to take five minutes. Every foot closer we got to the door, it seemed as if we took two steps back. Rather than getting closer, it was getting farther away. Finally, mercifully, we reached Brandon’s front porch. When we got inside Brandon’s house we were all able to sit in front of the wood burning stove and get warmed up. My mother unwrapped Cindy. “Look, Chris,” she said, “your sister is fine.” Cindy was rosy-cheeked and smiling. She had been wide awake, yet she never made a sound. My mom took her in a different room to feed her. Brandon was excited to see us. “Did you see any polar bears?” he asked, wide-eyed, waving around a wooden sword he received for Christmas a month earlier. “Don’t be stupid,” Ryan snorted. Brandon’s enthusiasm was too great to be quenched by Ryan’s rudeness. “I thought I saw something,” I replied, still uneasy from our journey. “Then you’re stupid,” Ryan retorted, poking me in the gut. “Was it big and white with huge fangs?” Brandon asked, ignoring Ryan again. “I don’t know,” I lied. “I wish I coulda been there with you. I woulda lent you my sword,” he said as he waved his sword in my direction. “Yeah,” I said, suddenly grateful for the conversation, however odd. “You’re both retards,” Ryan laughed. “Ryan!” Connie shouted. Since my cousin Joey had Down syndrome, we were not allowed to use the word “retard.” Ryan knew this, but when my mom wasn’t around he didn’t care. “You’re retarded!” Brandon shouted. “Brandon Alexander!” his mother shouted. Brandon’s mom had entered the living room to bring us all lunch. I didn’t realize until that moment that my mother wasn’t the only one who used your middle name when you were in trouble. “Maybe all moms did it,” I thought. Brandon’s mom was explaining to Bobby that their electricity was still working on account of a generator. I had never heard of such a thing. As Brandon’s mom passed out plates, she also collected clothing. She put all of our socks and our top layer of clothing in the dryer. By the time we were finished eating I could feel my toes again. After lunch she brought out clothes, hot from the dryer, and my siblings began to get dressed. “Why are you getting dressed again?” I asked. “Because we have to get to the end of the street before dark,” Bobby said. I asked him why we couldn’t just stay with Brandon if they had electricity. “Because we don’t need charity,” was his reply. Charity was a word I had heard many times. When we moved in with my grandparents and my mom’s aunt and uncle during the divorce my mother complained about “living on the charity of family.” When a friend of the family built our custom bunk beds for free because he knew we needed them, it was out of charity. A few days later when the community would give us clothes to wear in the emergency shelter, it was due to charity. A few years after that when the woman across the street would buy us groceries because she felt bad that we weren’t eating three meals a day, they would call that charity too. My grandpa Fritsch talked a lot about charity. He hated it, so I hated it too. But I hated needing it even more. My mom said it was because my dad didn’t pay child support. Cindy’s dad paid child support. He was a good dad. Cindy didn’t usually need charity, but on that day, we all could have used it. I cried as I put my top layer of clothing back on and pulled on three pairs of socks. “Are you crying cause your scar-ded,” Brandon asked. “No kid, she’s crying because she doesn’t want to freeze her…” “Bobby,” my mom interrupted him mid-sentence. She left Cindy with Brandon’s mom so she could make sure the rest of us were getting ready. She told Connie to help me with my boots and coverings then she went back to the kitchen to talk with Brandon’s dad and the man who pulled me and Connie up the hill. I found out that he was Brandon’s grandpa. They told mom rescue workers were waiting for us at the Jones’ house. Brandon’s dad and grandpa were going to take us halfway there. My mom tried to talk them out of it. Was she nuts? It was probably about charity again and I wasn’t allowed to argue. Then Brandon’s mom shocked everyone by offering to let Cindy stay with them. “Thanks, but no,” was my mother’s quick response.

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“My Amber is just a little older than Cindy, so I have all of the supplies she might need,” Brandon’s mom protested. “I couldn’t bear to think of her out there in a blizzard at two-months old,” she stared at my mother in disbelief. “I’m still breast feeding,” my mother said and it was clear to Brandon’s mom that she was ending the conversation. Mom began to wrap Cindy back up in her blanket fortress. Mom looked like she wanted to punch Brandon’s mom in the nose. I was a little angry that Brandon’s mom hadn’t included me in the proposal. I could see by their expressions that each of my siblings felt second-best too. When everyone was ready, Brandon and I said our good-byes. “Do you want my sword to fight off the polar bears?” he asked, enthusiastically, pushing the handle into my hand. “No, that’s o.k.,” I said, “Ryan’s breath can fend off any monster.” Brandon and I both broke down into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. Ryan looked as if he wanted to hit me. I’m sure he would have if I wasn’t standing right next to my mother. Brandon’s mom handed Cindy to her, all freshly wrapped like a surprise package. My mom took a mental count of all of us. The lost boys were ready to roll once again. “Bye!” Brandon shouted. “Watch out for those polar bears!” his voice was lost in the howling wind. The next leg of our journey was difficult, but not as hilly. My mom was limping a little on her right leg, but she wouldn’t let Brandon’s grandpa carry Cindy. It was as if she couldn’t let go of Cindy and still go on herself. Brandon’s dad had to carry me because the snow was now over my knees. I dug my face into his shoulder to shield it from the viscous winds. It was below zero and the snow hadn’t let up, but at least there was no more crying. We knew we were halfway there and there was no turning back. We were cold, frostbitten, and frightened, but the added supervision was a comfort. We also knew for certain that there was someone waiting to take us to safety. Brandon’s dad and grandpa kept their word, taking us a little more than halfway there. When Brandon’s dad put me down, we could see the rescue workers coming down the street near the Jones’ driveway. The snow was almost like a solid wall by that time. Our heads were accumulating a few inches every few minutes. The rescue workers met us a few yards from the end of the street and helped us the rest of the way. My mother still refused to give my sister to someone else and she carried her the entire way to the end of the street. When we finally reached the end of the road we were exhausted. We were too tired to cry with relief as we walked on to a school bus full of people. Robert and Stephen Jones were there with their parents, and Connie and Ryan went to sit by them in the back. Bobby and Ron collapsed side-by-side in one of the chairs that sat over the wheel well. I stayed glued to my mother’s side, near the front of the bus. The man who sat in front of us offered to take Cindy from my mom. He was one of the men who helped us during the last leg of our journey. My mother again refused. “Miss, you’ve come a long way. I know you’re cold, wet, and tired. Let me take that baby off of your hands so you can lean your head on the window and relax for five minutes until we get to the shelter.” He must have been convincing because my mother finally handed my sister over the top of the seat. Cindy, as during the entire journey, never made a peep. The man kept her wrapped tightly in the warmth of the blankets on the way to the shelter. As the feeling began to come back in my feet I wished I was wrapped in blankets like Cindy. The bus must have been sitting there for a long time because the heater was nice and warm. I could feel the tip of my nose begin to warm up. My fingers started to tingle back to life too. The other man who helped us reach the bus sat in the driver’s seat and turned sideways. “We’re going to the United Methodist Church of Moores Hill, folks. I know you’ve had a long, tiring day. The roads are bad, but I promise I’m going to get you there in one piece.” The man smiled and then turned around to face forward. As he backed the bus out of the end of our street I could see that there were no cars on the road at all. Just a giant school bus filled with refugees bound for an emergency shelter a few miles away. We were all exhausted, physically and emotionally, but we had all made it out in one piece, just like my mom had promised. And we all made it to the shelter in one piece, just like the bus driver promised, too. As the bus began it’s descent down Highway 350, I looked at my baby sister. She was sleeping soundly, completely oblivious to the blizzard all around us. When she got older I would tell her about our journey, especially the part about how I saved her from the polar bear that nearly snatched her from our mother’s arms. But that was later. At that moment, for the second time in my life, I ended another harrowing journey by laying my head against my mother’s shoulder and falling fast asleep.

The Good Husband Sandra Dorsett: “I lost my first husband to lung cancer after thirty years of marriage. I think it's safe to say that I truly did become a different person after that. In most ways I'd say I'm a better person. I know I view life differently and I cherish it. Afterward, my existence was measured out in meager scraps of reality. I was too old for silly games and too young for the rocking chair. I suddenly felt like a fifth-wheel with my married friends and began searching for a new definition of normal. When a friend suggested that I subscribe to Match.com. The idea was totally foreign to me because I thought, ‘I can't do that ... I'm married.’ I can truly relate to an amputee that still feels the missing leg. To make a long story short; I met Steve (also widowed by cancer) in Match and we were married a year ago. I'm not a youngster, but I feel young and alive in every way including sexually. I can't help but feel that there are other women out there of all ages who feel the same way who haven't had cancer blow up in their life. My mother's generation would probably never admit it, but I think women have always been sensual beings. Of course, Mom would've had another word for it.” Email your comments to: Dogcat4630@aol.com Page 62

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The big cop’s name is Michael Young, but he looks like Don Ho and I have to bite the inside corner of my mouth to keep from singing Tiny Bubbles. The other cop is Henry Jeeves. Jeeves hairs up quick and he’s wearing a five o’clock shadow; every now and then he runs a hand over the stubble. They’ve been playing good cop – bad cop, and now Young says they’re finished jacking with me. Young slides a folder across the table. I don’t want to open it, but I do – and the contents slip out in front of me. They are glossy black and whites. There are seven of them. Ming’s lime green carpet is tan in the photos, except where the bloodstains darken it to black. In one picture I can see Ben’s hideous old-man tie. The bumble bee stripes are splattered brown and gray. I hated that tie. I wish he’d worn one of his pretty silk ones instead. Ben’s face is gone. I want to turn my eyes from the photos, but I can’t. It’s like watching a picture of daisies that’ll turn into a space ship if you stare at it long enough. Young wants to know if I think they’re pretty pictures. He has a particular sneer in his tone. I don’t like Michael Young. In another photo, a chair is up-ended into a pool of goldfish where a waterfall slips around fake rocks. The picture on top covers the one with the stone Buddha where the girl is laying dead like a human sacrifice. I can just see her stocking feet. I knocked her clean out of her white high-heeled shoes. My mouth feels like a dentist’s tool has sucked it dry. I want to swallow, but I don’t remember how. I’m afraid to speak and let the cops hear my voice crack. They’d really like that. I ask for water and they look at each other. A silent cop-telepathy sends Young out. While I’m waiting for my water I look at the smoky mirror and wonder how many people are in there watching me. Jeeves is nicer when Young isn’t around. I could cry now, if I wanted to. Jeeves might even pat my back and say something kind. But I don’t want to cry yet, because when I start to cry I know I’m never going to stop. The door opens and in walks Young with a white foam cup and hands it over. I take a sip and wonder if he’s spit in it. I ask for a cigarette. Jeeves drags out his pack, hands me a smoke and Young lights me up. For three days nobody’s paid any attention to the NO SMOKING sign hanging on the wall. This is the longest they’ve kept me in here. I suspect they think they’re wearing me down. I haven’t responded to their cheap interrogation tactics for seventy-two hours. I smoke the cigarette until it’s a nub before I tell them I’m ready to talk. Jeeves says I should have my lawyer here for that. I drop the butt into the water, that I’m pretty sure Young has spit in, and tell them I don’t want a lawyer. I watch my cigarette sizzle out and tell the cops it’s been seven years since I quit smoking, and ain’t it a wonder how easy it is to pick them right back up. No sense in worrying about my lungs now. Jeeves asks if I’d like to write out a statement. I think it over, and then ask if they have one of those tape recorder thingies. Young acts like I’ve asked him if his kids are pretty and he reaches into his pocket for a machine about the size of a band-aide box. He switches the gadget on and mutters into it just like a cop on TV. He sits the recorder on the table in front of me and waves his hands over it like it’s a plate of cheese and crackers and I should help myself. I sit up straight and clear my throat. I’ve remembered how to swallow. The cops lean in like I’m going to tell them where I buried the loot. I tell them that Ben and I were married for eighteen years in September. I grew up dirt poor in a little east Texas town that’s still only got one street light and will probably never make it to the state map. I met Ben when I was waiting tables at Earl’s Bar and Grill. Earl’s was like everything else in Sagebrush – old and dusty. I say it’s hard to believe now, but I used to be a looker. I wait for one of the cops to say that I’m still a looker, but neither of them utters a word. Michael Young could at least smile after spitting in my water. I tell them that we moved to Los Angeles in 1983 and Ben got a job with Randolph Advertising. I ask the cops if they ever saw that singing potato chip commercial on TV. It’s a classic now. That was one of Ben’s. Young interrupts me and asks if we could move it along. He wants to know about the notes. Volume 2, Issue 3

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I ask for more water. I don’t care if Young spits in it or scoops it from the toilet. I need something to swallow the golf ball in my throat. Jeeves goes for the water this time. Young and I share an uneasy silence until Jeeves pops back in. He’s brought a clean cup and extra water. I wish the water was poison. Poison would save California a whole lot of money. I sip the water and it slips around the lump in my throat. It’s a pretty good bet that the lump is a permanent fixture. The cops are watching me again, waiting for me to go on. I clear my throat. I’ve discovered that I’m unusually brilliant at speaking around the lump. Now, where was I, I ask the cops. The notes – yes; I never saw Ben without a notepad. It was as much a part of him as the nose on his face. He was constantly writing stuff down. Ideas, he said. I couldn’t tell you how many times he’d get up in the middle of the night and fetch that notepad. Ben said the ideas never came back the same way. Jeeves wants to know if that’s how I found out about the girl and I tell him it’s how I found out about the first one. Young wants me to elaborate. He actually uses that word and I want to ask him how he knows such a word – him being a big old dummy, and all. Annabelle Peterson, I say her name and even now it draws my brow into a pucker. The rings around Michael Young’s neck are white and pulsing. It’s fascinating to watch. I’m waiting for his head to spin off his shoulders. Young snatches up one of the photos and shoves it in my face. It’s of the girl without her shoes. Her long blonde hair is flecked with blood and brain matter and Chinese food. The food is from the table next to them. Ben and Rebecca never had a chance to order. Her dead eyes stare back at me and I want to scream. Young yells at me now and sprays me with the stuff I’m pretty sure he’s put in my water. His eyes are huge. He wiggles the picture and says he wants to know about this girl. Young tells me her name was Rebecca Thompson, and it’s hard to tell from this picture, but she was young and pretty – newly married only seven months ago. He wants to know why I decided she had to die. As he’s yelling at me, he’s inching closer and closer. I could bite his nose, if I wanted to. Young slams the picture in front of me and I close my eyes and bite my tongue until I taste blood. The room rings with silence. Young recovers. He lights a cigarette and sits in his chair again. I’m guessing the adrenalin rush was quite vicious. I tell the cops that they have to know about Annabelle Peterson to understand why I killed Ben and the girl. My voice is cracking now. Maybe the cops can’t hear it, but I can. My timer to blastoff is tick-tick-ticking. Jeeves is back to rubbing his stubble. His beady eyes are bloodshot and I think he needs a stiff drink. Young leans back, folds his hands over his barrel chest and says he’s all ears. It was ten years ago, I tell them, that I found out about Annabelle Peterson. She was a secretary where Ben worked. Okay, I guess I got a little too comfortable and let myself go. My boobs went south along with my butt and I was best pals with Lady Clairol. Does that make it okay for Ben to find a younger woman? Neither of them cares to respond. With the help of a good girdle and expensive makeup I might hold my own with women my own age, but I could never compete with Annabelle Peterson – tight little butt, long legs that didn’t look like a kid drew blue lines on them, eyes without bags, flawless skin; all the gifts of frivolous youth. Why can’t we be born old and get young? In the beginning I didn’t pay any attention to the notes. I’d pile them on his desk or stick them on the fridge, like always. It wasn’t until I found the notes from her that I started to read them. Young wants to know how I knew they were from another woman. He’s got a tone now, and an attitude to go with it. I tell the cop that I knew Ben’s handwriting and besides, she always signed her notes. Jeeves wants to know what kind of mistress signs love notes? Page 64

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I tell Jeeves that Annabelle Peterson signed her notes with her ruby red lips. I stashed the notes after that and by the time Christmas rolled around, I had a good collection. I put all her little lipstick notes into a box with a green ribbon tied around it and put it under the tree for Ben. We almost ended up in divorce court over Annabelle Peterson. But we worked it out, sort of. I tell the cops that the marriage was hard work after Annabelle Peterson. Jeeves wants to know if I forgave Ben. I ask for another cigarette and Jeeves give me one and Young gives me a light. Forgive is not the right word, I tell him. In the post-Annabelle years there was no trust and there were times when I could barely stand to look at him. I’m watching the little wheels of the tape recorder go ’round and wish that aliens would swoop down and carry me off for lab testing in their silver spaceship. Three months ago I found the first note – January 10. I tell the cops I know the date because that’s the night I started a journal. Such venom I wrote and all those four-letter words! I blush at the thought of my journal being an exhibit in the trial. Who knows how many people will have read it by then. But wasn’t it liberating. Young wants to know about the gun. I tell him we had that gun since we lived in Texas – and oh my, yes, I know all about the firearm laws in California and the gazillion laws we broke and how they could toss me in the cooler and throw away the key – if I wasn’t going to swing for murder in the first. I’m reduced to pathetic now as I tell the cops how I read every single thing Ben wrote after his affair with Annabelle. It was really degrading to dig in the trash and go through his pockets – smelling his clothes and looking for lipstick smudges, or the hint of woman’s cologne. I hated myself. I hated Ben. It didn’t matter that he promised he would never do it again. It didn’t even matter that I wanted to believe him. And then – Young prompts. I take a deep breath. I try to say her name, but I can’t. I wonder if they can see me cringe. I want to hurry it along now, so they can take me back to my cell. I tell the cops that one of the notes had her name and address on it. I was tempted to call her. She lived in Houston and I figured Ben met her on one of his business trips. I started gathering the notes and stashed them away, like before. By March I had a fistful. In April I found her flight information. Yes, I answer Jeeves’ questioning eyes. Ben was flying her to Los Angeles, non-stop, first class. I was furious that he spent that kind of money on her with my birthday coming up. Young wants to know if that’s when I spit-shined the gun and bought bullets. I’d like to say something witty and ego-crushing and watch it splash all over Michael Young, but I’m too weary. I take another sip of water. It tastes like pee and stings the place where the lump is burrowed in my throat like an old pinecone. She flew in last Thursday, I tell the cops. I followed Ben to the airport. When he hugged her I wanted to shoot them where they stood. I might have if I’d brought the gun from the glove-box of my car, but I knew I wouldn’t get past the airport security with a gun in my purse. Jeeves asks what I did next. I close my eyes for a moment and the cops let me gather my thoughts. I followed them to Ming’s. I tell the cops that Ming’s was a special place for me and Ben. We celebrated many anniversaries and birthdays there. I ask the cops if they’ve ever been there. They shake their heads. I try to describe the atmosphere; lovely Chinese music, dimmed lights, delicious food, and tons of romance. I doubt they’d understand that Ben taking her there was like him screwing her in our bed and then letting her shower with my special soap and dusting her body with my perfumed powder. Young takes out a notepad, opens it, and flips through the pages and chills crawl up my spine. Young says Dr. and Mrs. Ryan were sitting at the table next to me and asks if I remember them. I tell him that naked people could’ve been sitting there waiting for takeout and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Volume 2, Issue 3

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Young says I spoke to them. I shake my head. Body language is about all I can manage now. Young says that I handed Mrs. Ryan my cell phone and asked her to call the police. I don’t recall the conversation, I tell Young. I only remember the way Ben was holding her hand and the familiar way they were looking at each other. Young turns another page of his notepad. He says I got up and walked over to Ben’s table and the Ryan’s say I was laughing like a loon. Young asks if I remember that. I say I don’t. But I close my eyes now and I can see her face; the delicate curve of her lips when she smiled and the dimple in her chin. I can remember the light all around her. When Ben saw me he got up. He said something to me. I think he called my name. I shot him in the face. I don’t think he even knew what happened. She did, though. She got up to run. I shot her in the back and when she swung around I shot her again in the chest where her baby would’ve suckled in another eight months. I close my eyes and can’t stop the tears. Two construction workers on lunch break wrestled me to the ground and took the gun. I don’t remember this, but Jeeves says it’s in the report. I remember all the rest most vividly. Everybody was screaming and I ended up in the back seat of a cruiser with my hands cuffed behind me. I was in the infirmary for awhile after that. The construction guys broke three of my ribs. I’m quiet for a long time. Young asks if that’s it – that’s my statement. I nod. Young says I have to reply for the record. And so I do. Young switches off the recorder and slips it into his pocket. He smiles. Some time later two matronly ladies in gray uniforms come to lock me up where I’ll probably stay until the trial. I can’t think of one person who will post bail. They wouldn’t let me go to Ben’s funeral. We have plots all paid for at Rose Hills. I wonder if they’ll still let me have that spot next to him. I wonder if it matters. I sense the cops watching me as the guards lead me back to my cell. I can feel their eyes burning a hole in my back. Penny, one of my cellmates, is having another fit. She’s torn up her cot again and now she’s pacing. Penny’s a big girl. She wants her lawyer. She wants bail. She wants to know why everyone is picking on her. Penny accidentally stabbed her boyfriend twenty-seven times. Delores Huffman sits and won’t say boo to anyone. Penny taunts Delores, when she’s not taunting me, that is. Delores let her live-in boyfriend shake her two-year-old son until he died. Alice Campbell robbed a liquor store with a sawed-off shotgun and Tiny Brickmore was extradited from Chicago on drug charges. We’re all on the fifth floor. That’s where they keep the violent inmates. I figure I’m in good company here. I lay here on my little cot and watch the ceiling and wonder how Ben found her. Rebecca. I can say her name now because I welcome the pain it brings to the wound that will never heal. I didn’t recognize Jessica Ritchie when she came to see me in jail after the infirmary. When the jailer told me I had a visitor, I thought for sure it was another reporter or my court-appointed attorney. I never expected to see Jessica Ritchie again. Not after I put my baby daughter in her arms thirty years ago. It wasn’t a pleasant visit. They had to drag Jessica screaming from the little cubicle. I heard her for along time as they led her away. I hear her still. We’re in the day room and Peggy’s asking me if I think I’m the white queen. It’s my turn again. Penny drags me from my chair and she beats me. I don’t defend myself and welcome each heavy blow. At last I can scream and cry, until the guards come to pull Penny away.

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I close my eyes and see Rebecca. I would’ve named her Megan. Sometimes she’s a tiny thing taken from my body all those years ago. Sometimes she’s sitting at the table just before I killed her. Sometimes I imagine all the years in-between.

Getting Your Freak On Racheal Doyle is a regular contributor who lives in South Portland, Maine. She 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 prosex attitude. You can reach Racheal with your comments at: rdoyle1@maine.rr.com “It doesn’t make any difference what you do in the bedroom as long as you don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses.” – Mrs. Patrick Campbell (a.k.a., Beatrice Stella Tanner) I’m a big supporter of sexual freedom and intelligence. Having an active and healthy sex life is worth the effort, and sometimes it does take some effort, particularly if you are in a monogamous relationship. Things can get boring after a while, and that is a reality for most folks. So learning how to get your freak on while being good in bed, giving with your partner, and game for anything is important to having a healthy and stimulating sex life. We all should have fantasies provoked by a healthy sexual imagination, and some of us even have fetishes that really get us hot. Sexual fantasies are normal, whether they are of the relatively mild variety or of the way-beyond mainstream porn-star variety. People are doing some wild and sometimes disgusting stuff in the bedroom, and I say, for consenting folks who are imaginative and respectful in what gets their blood pumping hot, more power to you. So here are the rules, as I see them, in how to be good, giving, and game in the bedroom. Being good is not a difficult one to figure out: be good to your partner, treat her/him well, be respectful and caring, and most important, learn how to be good in the sack. Who wants to have mediocre or just plain bad sex? And who wants to do it with a disrespectful a-hole? I’d rather masturbate than engage someone who is lousy in bed or treats me less than human after the fact. If a session of sex isn’t able to provide me with material for masturbation for at least a couple of days after an encounter, or worse, it interferes with my masturbatory practices, then it isn’t worth repeating. But some folks have the potential to be good sex partners, they just haven’t had enough practice or the right kind of positive learning experiences – they need to be taught how to do the things they haven’t a clue about yet and need to feel comfortable doing so. Sometimes it is worth your time and effort to pursue this, sometimes it’s not – only you can decide when that is the case. Some people actually enjoy playing the role of teacher in the bedroom, with or without the costume, and providing new skills for those with a nascent understanding of various sexual pleasures. Sex during a one-night stand while tipsy from an evening of alcohol indulgence isn’t necessarily worth trying to teach someone that licking your face isn’t kissing or that a man spent most of the encounter humping the mattress because he couldn’t tell his dick wasn’t inside your pussy. Nor is it necessarily worth the effort to try explaining the fine art of fellatio to a woman pickled on too many cosmopolitans who painfully sucks at your prick without any regard for the teeth scraping your shaft, and manages to get more saliva up her nose than she seems to have lubricating her tongue as she licks unsuccessfully at your rigid member. Being good also means not being an a--hole during or after your partner has been good, giving, and game with you. Here’s an excellent example for you. If you’ve made bedroom videos with your partner, and the relationship ends, and you decide to take those videos on to your next relationship when your ex-partner has requested that they be destroyed because you are no longer together and that bedroom play was a part of the intimacy that you no longer share, and you refuse to abide those wishes or give a shit about your ex’s concerns regarding them, then you are a HUGE a-hole. Not only are you disrespecting the person who was willing to engage in a very personal sexual activity with you, but it is also very likely that you are not respecting your new partner, who probably does not want you to have pornographic reminders of your ex in your possession. If your ex doesn’t mind you having copies of the videos to continue enjoying, then fine, have yourself a ball, and enjoy the reminders of the time you spent together getting naughty. But if not, then have some decency and sensitivity, and respect the person who was good enough to be giving and game with you in the bedroom. Being giving in the bedroom is also important. It isn’t all about you, after all. For all of the people who have told me that they do not like to perform oral sex (something I frankly consider to be part of normal sexual activity bordering on what encompasses vanilla sex, and an important part of foreplay), I say, get over it already. What is it that you really don’t like about giving head or eating pussy? What are your hang-ups? Locate them, and find a way to fix them. One woman told me that she thinks dicks are ugly and disgusting. I realize this may be a matter of “there’s no accounting for taste” or perhaps it’s the men she’s playing with and they have some personal hygiene issues. But if you are a hetero chick and you can’t find something nice about a cock, you’ve got a hang-up that needs to be addressed. I think there are some perfectly beautiful penises out there (not all of them, but it’s really nice when you find one). Hetero men who won’t eat pussy, who categorize pussy in a negative or even misogynistic manner, they don’t deserve to get any. Many women cannot reach orgasm through penetration alone, their clitoris needs some attention, and cunnilingus is one of the best ways to bring a woman to orgasm. Even if you feel tepidly about an aspect of sexual activity, it’s important to realize that your partner may really like that activity, and being good enough to give your partner what they actually want in the bedroom, perhaps even what they need to be satisfied, rather than what you think is appropriate for them to want, is exactly what makes it an activity for both of you to enjoy in a healthy manner. Reciprocity is very important – without it, people go unfulfilled, desire diminishes, and resentment begins to form, especially if your partner is giving you exactly what you want or need in the bedroom to get your rocks off without the same regard in return. So be prepared to give pleasure, and try to find a way to enjoy the pleasure you are providing someone. When giving pleasure is an important part of what turns you on, you are going to enjoy sex more. Seeing your partner’s eyes roll up into his/her head, hearing a moan or sigh released from his/her lips, filthy language coming out of his/her mouth, and watching his/her body clench, shiver, and squirm around in ecstasy is absolutely fantastic, and should make you Volume 2, Issue 3

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dripping wet or hard enough to pound nails. If you aren’t enjoying your partner’s pleasure, then why the hell are you bothering to get naked and sweaty with that person? Being game is also important to keeping things real and exciting in the bedroom, and important to fulfilling your partner’s desires as well as finding new ones of your own. A good rule is try anything at least once, preferably twice, just to make sure you liked it. Now that doesn’t mean you have to do everything your partner fantasizes about. Some people have fetishes that could endanger a partner, either emotionally or physically, and you are not required to indulge in fantasies that may hurt you in some way or another. For example, some men like being cuckolded (watching another man having sex with his partner or being told about it after the fact). While this could make for some interesting variety for a woman in her occasional sex partners, screwing someone else may not be something she wants to do. You don’t have to engage another person just to make your partner happy. But if your partner wants you to piss all over the place while he has his fingers shoved up your pussy, get in the tub and try that shit out at least once. You might find that you actually like it, and it isn’t going to hurt you. If you really don’t like it, say so, and don’t do it again. If you don’t care about it either way, but it turns your partner on, then do it again and enjoy the pleasure it provides him/her. The rule is, don’t knock it until you try it, but don’t endanger yourself or others. Anal sex is one of those things that some folks don’t feel comfortable trying out. Fear about pain or nastiness may keep you from going there. Men want to stick their dicks in your ass, ladies, it’s a fact. It’s tight, it’s naughty, they get a great view during the act, and when you let them do it, they usually love it. It can also be a lot of fun if you are doing it correctly. If you aren’t, then it can cause a trip to the ER. It is one of those activities where you must be able to trust your partner, as well as understand that you might not fully enjoy it until you figure out the dynamics of it correctly, and that takes practice. Just be sure to use a lot of lube and take your time. For anal sex, I would recommend using a silicone lube because it is the slipperiest and doesn’t disappear like waterbased lubes shortly after utilizing it (it can be used safely with condoms, just keep it away from your sex toys because it will melt some of them – especially silicone and cyber skin toys). Using a vibrator for clitoral stimulation during anal sex is also fantastic and may allow a woman to realize how much pleasure can be obtained from the activity while her body is shaking with the ecstasy of this dual stimulation. But if a woman is good, giving, and game when it comes to a man shoving his dick up her ass, and then if she decides some day that she might like pegging (anal sex with a man using with a strap-on dildo), then reciprocity in being game is requisite. There is no difference between the two, except that men often associate their a-hole with homosexual acts, and hetero men are often homophobes when it comes to their own ass play. If you’re a man in bed with a woman, even if she does shove something up your ass, then that is a heterosexual activity. You need another man involved for it to be labeled otherwise, so get a grip. And if it’s ok for you to shove your dick in her ass, then it should be ok for her to do the same. If either of you don’t like either activity after trying it out, then just don’t do it again. There are a lot of other activities that people sexualize and fantasize about, and they can be afraid to share their fantasies with a partner because they are not sure of the reaction it will elicit. Nobody wants to be made to feel like a degenerate for their sexual fantasies, especially from their partner. It is important to not freak out when your partner wants to share a new fantasy with you, even if you initially find it to be absolutely repulsive. Remember that it takes a certain amount of trust, courage, and comfort to share, and therefore it may be risky to share sexual fantasies and desires with your partner. Being receptive and encouraging to hearing what your partner likes or fantasizes about in a safe manner that does not judge is very important (unless those fantasies involve children, animals, or dead people – none of which can actually consent to sexual activity, which is why engaging them is criminal and sickly perverted, and frankly deserving of harsh judgment). When you are open to trying new things to keep your sex life interesting and exciting, you will find that openness allows your sexual tastes and fantasies to change and grow with you throughout life, and you will encounter less boredom with a partner and more fulfillment, particularly if you only have one partner, are in a monogamous relationship and intend to stay there. If you aren’t doing the monogamy thing, well then, you’ll just have more things in your little bag of tricks to keep the ardent attention of those you are engaging in the bedroom, which is something that never hurts…

The Guardian Rhona Westbrook loves animals (except for apes cuz yanno, they eat their own poop and throw it at you) reading, horseback riding, music and her family. Writing has become her passion. To date, she has been published, or scheduled for publication in the following magazines: Angels on Earth, Horizon, Hope for Women, Gull Lake Visitor Guide, Peridot Books, Allegory, Beyond Centauri, and Aoife’s Kiss. Recently, she completed the revisions on her first Dark Fantasy Novel and is eagerly waiting word from some reputable agents. If you’d like to know more about Rhona Westbrook, she’d love to have you stop by her blog! http://rhonawestbrook.livejournal.com/Rhona@jrdw.com I am Cherokee Indian, but I didn't choose to become the guardian. The night I saw her die branded itself across my being. I remember everything. *

Bitter cold burned my cheeks and demanded that I give up and turn around, but I couldn't. The dream had been too real, the urge to get up and come out into the freezing California winter impossible to deny. I had to find her and knew exactly where to look: a deep ravine just off Highway 2. I'd seen it driving up here yesterday. A sharp stone sliced through my tennis shoe and I cursed. Part of me raged at the craziness of the whole situation. In all my twenty-four years, I'd never before been to Big Bear California. I'd never gone hiking in the middle of the night, and certainly never in search of a mountain lion. Regardless, I trudged onward through the darkness. She called me in a dream. I saw her standing on a rock, the moon behind her, the darkness bringing out the yellow light in her eyes as the power of the night caressed her tawny hide. Page 68

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"I know you Nadia," she purred, "It is time you knew me." She said no more. The dream vanished and left a strong, undeniable urge in its wake that I couldn't ignore. Something cracked in the distance, a gunshot? I scrambled up a small incline and peered into the darkness, but couldn't see anything. Bang! Another gunshot and this one seemed closer. I shook my head and scrambled down the other side of the knoll. Without warning, her pain seared through my body. I had to reach her now! Urgency pulsed through me and suddenly, I couldn't see. I fell at least a dozen times, thorns bit into my skin, one shoe remained in a hole, and still, I ran. I had to get there before it was too late. It became almost impossible to draw air into my burning lungs. I scrambled up the last hill and tumbled into the ravine. Trembling in shock and exhaustion, gasping for air and fighting to see through the growing fog, I reached out and touched her paw, afraid I was too late. The lioness's face lay inches from my own and I found myself spiraling down, down through those deep yellow eyes into the core of her being. It felt cold here, and distant. We knew her body would soon die, but it didn't matter now. The three of us had much to discuss and little time in which to do it. I could feel the other woman here and thought I sensed a bit of pity in her fading essence. I wanted to talk to her, to ask what it was like, but the other pushed her away and demanded my full attention. "She will be gone soon and you have much to learn before then," the third being said. Suddenly, I stood atop a mountain looking down on a vast multitude of dwellings. They were Indian tepees my mind told me, but how could that be? "This is where it began," she said. "A woman summoned me to avenge the rape of her daughter. She wove the spell of the lioness, of the spirit guardian, and sealed it with her blood." I stared down at the Indian dwellings. How could I see them so well in the dark? Her voice penetrated the fog of confusion with more impossible words. "You are a pure daughter of Amadahy, as this woman was. She is dying now, and I must join with you before it is too late." Suddenly, everything disappeared. Something seared through my veins, and began to explore my body. It felt like being swallowed, one blood cell at a time, by something so powerful, it radiated heat from every particle. I laughed when she discovered my small breasts and sniffed in disappointment. Shame flooded my being when she found my virginity and once finished, she had become all that I was. *

The sun woke me and I sat straight up in shock and surprise. Something coarse pricked my right hand and a quick glance revealed the dead mountain lion. I gasped and leapt to my feet. Another glance determined I stood alone in a ravine wearing only one shoe, badly tattered pajamas, and filled with more energy than I'd ever had before. I studied the lion again. Her yellow eyes looked empty now; the human expression I'd seen on that face hours ago was gone. Maybe I'd imagined it. I turned to leave, but this felt wrong. I needed to burn the body and release her. How did I know this? I searched for kindling and then dragged the lioness's body to the heap I'd built. The bullet had pierced her left shoulder and traveled straight into her heart. I felt sorrow for what she'd suffered and what she'd lost, but I didn't know why. Damn! There were no matches. I'd found all this wood and even moved the dead lioness, but couldn't do what I needed so desperately to do before the humans found her. Double damn! I turned and ran towards my hotel room in Big Bear. I'd always kept myself in good physical condition, but when I hadn't grown tired after the third hill, I knew something had changed. My burning urge to deal with the body hadn't given me time to think through what had happened over the past few hours. I resolved to test my new ability as soon as possible. Then I'd pinch myself and wake up. The hotel came into view as I topped the last scrubby hill. Just before I crossed the freeway, a girl summoned me from miles away, deep in the heart of Los Angeles. I heard her as clearly as if she'd been running next to me. Her request shot through me like a bolt of white hot lightning and my body responded in kind. A picture of the man who forced himself on her rose clear in my mind and I snarled. Fists balled at my sides, I fought to keep my claws sheathed. The knowledge of what I'd become settled over me like a strange, comforting blanket. I craved darkness now, the power of the night and the blood of a human male.

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I drove back to the ravine and carried matches to the pyre. Once the fire took hold of the wood I stood back and watched. When the flames touched the lioness, her features began to change. Just before the fire swallowed her, I saw a woman. Long tawny blond hair, a lean figure, small breasts, and a dainty waist, she was me. I saw her rise from the fire and felt her gratitude. Just before her image faded into the smoke and drifted away on the wind, her words whispered through my mind. "You must remain with the humans if you want to remember who you are. If you forget, there is no other to avenge our daughters." When the flames died, I found no bones, lion or human, in the pile of ash. *

The girl lived in a large condominium near the beach. I found it just before sunset. Hunger gnawed at my stomach and what I was about to do terrified me, but I did not hesitate. I parked my car across the street and glided over to stand next to the perfectly manicured lawn. A seagull screamed and a cool wet breeze from the ocean swirled around me. He would come out this evening for his habitual jog down the beach, and I'd hunt. The fact that I'd never seen this man before didn't matter; his face and scent burned in my mind just as they did in his own daughter's heart. He came out at nine thirty. I checked my watch and nodded, then dropped it on the sidewalk. He stood at least six feet tall in jogging shorts and a white sleeveless top. I ran my tongue over dry lips. That muscular shoulder would taste like heaven. He stretched, ran a hand across his balding head and set out down the street toward the open beach. I followed at a walk. He was her father, but used her anytime he wished it. She couldn't fight back, this eleven years old daughter of my blood, but she'd summoned one who could. I took my shoes off once I reached the sand and jogged after him. The breeze teased me with his warm sweaty flesh, the sand begged me to race and the moon touched me, as it never had before. While I ran, I slipped out of the blouse, the bra, and without missing a stride, my pants and underwear. Once naked, the urge could not be ignored. I didn't miss a step; merely reached forward and took the next stride on four legs instead of two. The sand no longer crunched beneath me; now, it made soft plopping sounds when my paws touched it. I had to slow my pace or I'd reach him before he ran past the lights on the beach. It wouldn't do to be interrupted before I finished eating. No, that wouldn't do at all. I snarled and licked my fangs when his scent swirled through my sensitive nostrils. Two more bounds and he'd be past the lights. My body began to tense in anticipation. Heart pounding with fervor I hadn't known existed, joy radiating through my consciousness, I sprang for the back of his neck. He fell forward and crumpled under me as my fangs pierced his neck. Warm blood pulsed into my mouth and I fought the urge to lap it up. Instead, I gave one quick shake of his head to snap his neck. Now, to get the body off the jogging path before someone interrupted my dinner. I let go of his neck and grabbed that meaty shoulder in my jaws. A few steps backward and we hid in the shallow weeds along the cliff. I crouched over his bleeding body and snarled at an approaching jogger. Once she passed, I ripped the shoulder open and fed. It tasted better than anything I'd imagined. Once satisfied, I licked my lips and padded back down the beach toward the car. I paused near the light and called the change. It came so quickly I stumbled at first. The two legged body seemed so much clumsier, but I needed it to carry out my purpose. Gathering my clothes and dressing didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take long, but just before I reached the car, another girl summoned me. She lived in Grass Valley, at least eight hours away. No matter, I'd be there tomorrow night. Part of me cried silently for the life she'd lost, and quivered in terror at what she had become. I smiled and paused for a moment to drink in the sea and the moon before stepping into the car. That part would keep me human and remind me not to forget. That part would die someday, but I'd find it again, in another daughter of my blood. *

Sometimes I walk among humans just to remember. There are few of her daughters left. I have protected those who call me, but over the years their blood has thinned and their calls weakened. Sometimes, I cannot hear them at all; instead, I receive a vague sense of their troubles. I try to find them, to avenge them as I must, but this is not always possible. Part of me is glad. I long to return to the mountains and live as a lioness, finally free of the guardian spell cast so long ago. Another part of me remembers the woman's words and clings to the humans, only now, I can't remember why. A piercing shriek echoes through the store. I freeze and locate her immediately. She is small, probably only nine or ten years old. He holds her in his arms and hugs her too tight. She kicks at him, tears rolling down her cheeks, desperation in her eyes, but no one pays attention. He is her father and they think she must be throwing a petty fit. I don't see the picture in her mind, she doesn't carry my blood, but I smell dried body fluids from what he did last night. I feel her terror and read the plea in her eyes. Page 70

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They leave the store and drive away in a blue pickup truck. I follow them in my car. They park beside a trailer and I leave my car down the street. I walk toward the trailer as the sun begins to set, run my tongue across dry lips, and smile. I remember now, and this time, I choose.

Undeadly Sinful: A Jeana Keller, Killer Vamp â&#x20AC;&#x201C; er, Vampire Killer â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Story When she's not writing, V.J. Chambers works as a high school English teacher, which serves her well, given her tendency to read and write horror, since high school can be pretty horrific! She and her pet snake Skippy currently reside in West Virginia. Send your fan mail to: chambers.valerie@gmail.com Of all the places I had planned to spend my Saturday evening, the crypt of the Head Vampire of the city was not one I'd even considered. But here I was. Two of Aidan's goons had grabbed me. Right out of the strip club where I was working undercover. No, I'm not a cop. I'm a reporter. I'm also a vampire killer. My name is Jeana Keller. Aidan Noir was the Head Vampire, and it was at his behest I was in his crypt. He needed my help, or so he said. He was in for a surprise, however. I wasn't inclined to help vampires. I killed vampires. Even vampires who looked like Aidan Noir. Aidan was gorgeous. He had long, wavy black hair, eyes the color of the sky before a storm, and enormous muscles. He dressed like something out of the 18th century--minus the white wig, of course, because they were very tacky. Over the top, really. Even for the 18th century. Aidan wore a black velvet suit, tailored to fit him perfectly. The black softness hugged every curve and caressed every muscle in his body. His white shirt had frothy lace at the throat, and it spilled out over his chest. He wore black leather boots that came to his knees. Also, he had silver cufflinks set with diamonds and emeralds. His watch was a Rolex, which also had diamonds--one for every number on the clock. He had about five rings, platinum and white gold, set with rubies, diamonds, and emeralds. He had painted his fingernails black, which in some ways did make him look sort of feminine, but since he was a vampire and all, part of his allure was his androgynous appearance and homoerotic overtone. Every time I saw him, my breath caught in my throat, my heart dropped into my stomach, and my legs quivered and threatened to give way. This was probably because he used his mental powers to disturb my body internally. Aidan wouldn't admit it, but he was frightened of me. I was a formidable vampire killer, who'd killed some of his oldest subjects. Were it not for the new law that protected vampires from murder, I'd have killed even more. As it was, now I only killed in self-defense. I eyed Aidan, trying to figure out why he'd summoned me here. I wouldn't have come if I hadn't been curious. Aidan's goons were no match for me. "My help?" I asked Aidan. Aidan leaned forward, his beautiful eyes gazing into mine. "Yes, my pretty one," he said. He had an accent of some kind. I couldn't ever place it. But it was sexy. I gritted my teeth. "I told you. Never call me that." "My apologies," he said. "My pretty one." I was a very tough woman, and I didn't appreciate being told I was pretty. It was demeaning. I wanted to be recognized for my abilities, not my looks. Of course, in my undercover stripper outfit, I did look pretty hot. I decided to let it slide. What could Aidan want my help with? Maybe with taking off his frothy white shirt using my teeth? I shook the thought from my head, trying to get a grip on myself. I couldn't let Aidan affect me like this, for God's sake. He was the enemy. I would stake him any chance I got. "You're skating on thin ice, Aidan," I told him. "Tell me why I'm here, or I start dropping your goons like flies." Aidan made a confused face. "Dropping my..." He trailed off. Aidan sometimes had problems with English. "Never mind. It is not important. I have brought you here because my cover is under attack. Several of our members have been killed." I raised an eyebrow. "And I care because?" Dead vampires were good vampires as far as I was concerned. "The perpetrator of these crimes is a deadly vampire. He is an old adversary of mine, and I think, my pretty one, that this is something we share." "What?" I said. "Gus Rink," said Aidan. "You have fought with him before, yes?" Gus Rink. Yes, I knew who that was. I'd been trying to kill that bastard even before he'd become a vampire. He'd done terrible things to me, including cutting me off in traffic, ripping my blouse, putting bite marks in my high-heeled leather boots, destroying my television, breaking into my house, getting blood all over my bed sheets, and murdering my husband. I had sworn to make Gus Rink pay. Those boots had been my favorites. "Where is he?" I growled. Volume 2, Issue 3

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"I thought you might be interested. You might help me as I am the enemy of your enemy." Oh, I was interested all right. But it had nothing to do with Aidan's vampires. It had to with Gus and those boots. Oh, and my husband, Noah. That had been pretty tough, too. I felt tears welling in my eyes just thinking about it, but I swallowed them. I didn't cry. Not anymore. Crying didn't help anything. "Tell me where he is, Aidan. Tell me where he is, and I will kill him." "Unfortunately, my pretty one, I do not know. But he is in the city, and I know that now that you know what I know you will not rest until you find Gus and destroy him." He was right. Aidan knew me so well. If only he weren't a vampire. His gorgeous body and face were a waste of attractive features on a monster's body. He was undead. He was a monster. He should look like one. I simply nodded, and Aidan's goons dropped my arms. Without looking back, I burst out of Aidan's crypt and into the cool darkness of the cemetery where it was located. Away from Aidan, I was able to catch my breath. I felt like I was coming down from a hallucinogenic drug. Part of me wished I were still in his presence. Part of me was simply glad that sensations were back to normal. I took a few moments there in the cemetery, resting against a tombstone, drawing cool, night air into my lungs. Then I was off. I had to find Gus Rink, and I had to stop him. I headed back to my office to gather some supplies. I work for The Daily Investigator, the newspaper that outed vampires fifteen years ago. Back then, The Investigator was your run-of-the-mill tabloid newspaper, complete with stories about babies with three heads and crop circles. One of the stories they ran was about vampires. It couldn't have been the first. But an organization of vamps--V.A.B.P. (Vampires Against Bad Publicity)--took The Investigator to court on a libel charge. The Investigator won the case initially. V.A.B.P. won on appeal. However, the end result was that vampires were officially real, much to everyone's surprise and chagrin. Well, everyone's surprise except mine. And a bunch of weird, freaky people from New Orleans, who had been claiming to be vampires on specials on the Sci-Fi Channel and A&E and E!. Pretty much any channel that does documentaries except the reliable ones, like the Discovery Channel and TLC. Although, all TLC does anymore is makeover shows. They makeover people, they makeover rooms, and they makeover houses. I kind of don't understand why it's even called The Learning Channel anymore, because I don't see what is so important about learning to make stuff over. I mean, I guess makeovers are kind of neat. I would makeover Aidan the vampire if I could. Or maybe I wouldn't. He is pretty yummy. Anyway, I digressed. Vampires had killed my entire family when I was a small girl. I had always known they existed. Sometimes I thought I was cursed. First my mother and father and two sisters and one brother and four aunts and three uncles and nine cousins and my grandmother and my grandfather and my great-aunt and my second cousin, and then my husband. And my boots. The door to the newspaper office was open, and the lights were still on inside, even though it was quite late. The newspaper never sleeps. Also, I'm in and out of the office at all hours, because I have a pretty hectic schedule what with raising zombies, bounty hunting, performing witchcraft at fairs and festivals, and waiting tables to make ends meet. In the end, I have a lot of jobs, but I spend very little time at them. Mostly, I just agonize over whether or not I've become too slutty. It's a thing that bothers me. It's amazing I even collect a paycheck. I went inside the office and rushed back to my desk. Opening a large drawer on the bottom left-hand side, I began to pull weapons out of it. A few stakes. A crossbow. A gun with silver bullets in it. I put the gun back. Silver was good for weres, but it didn't do shit to vampires. I just hated it when people got stuff like that mixed up. They were always mixing the monsters up. What worked to kill one did not work for the others. Vampires were killed or harmed by stakes in the heart, garlic, holy water, crosses, and sunlight. That wasn't difficult to remember, was it? "Jeana," said the voice of Henry, my assistant, "Porter's been looking for you all day. I'm gonna give him a call on his cell and let him know--" I caught Henry's arm and slowly raised my face to look him square in the eye. "Don't you dare," I said. "I've got a lead on Gus Rink. Whatever story Porter needs covering, it can wait." Henry nodded. "Okay." He was an okay guy, except for the fact he was terrified of me. Really. Little old me. And him a wereprairie dog. After the vampires had come out of hiding, most of the other monsters had followed them out into the light. I had heard of werewolves before the monsters came out, but I had no idea the massive scope of weres. There were werecows, werebuffalos, werechipmunks, werealligators, and, my personal favorite, werehummingbirds. All of these weres only changed on the full moon. That was another thing that people were always getting confused about. They were worried that weres could shift at any time they wanted. Weres couldn't do that. They only shifted on a full moon. Shape shifters, on the other hand, could shift at will. Weres and shape shifters were not the same. Oh, and the silver? The silver only worked on the weres. I did make that clear, didn't I? It wasn't a full moon, so Henry wouldn't be much help to me tonight when I was dealing with Gus. His abilities were one of the reasons I had hired him to be my assistant. I had also hired him because he could type 90 words per minute. Henry preferred the term "assistant" to "secretary," so I humored him. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be using his typing or his wereprairie dog powers tonight. Didn't matter. I preferred to work alone.

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"Do you have a draft on the stripper piece?" Henry asked. "No, Henry," I said. "I don't. Why don't you go home?" He looked at me like a small child who's just been told he can have a huge chocolate bar for dinner. He was grateful. I smiled. "Off with you," I said. Henry hurriedly gathered up his coat and briefcase from his desk. He started for the door and then stopped. "Oh," he said, turning. "I almost forgot. A package came for you." A package? "Really?" I said. Henry retrieved a white box from his desk chair. It looked like a box for roses. It was long and thin, and wrapped with a large, red bow. "Thanks," I told Henry, but he was gone, having sprinted out the door to freedom. Lucky him. He didn't have vampires to stake. I turned back to the box. For a few moments, I just looked at it. Then I tentatively reached for it and undid the red bow. The ribbon fell to either side of the box. Taking a deep breath, I removed the lid from the box and pushed aside the tissue paper. At the sight of what was inside, I shrieked, backing away from the box with my hand over my mouth. I felt like fainting, but I held myself together. I couldn't faint. Fainting didn't solve anything. Besides, I was a very tough woman. After taking a few more deep breaths to steady myself, I approached the box again. I couldn't believe it. That bastard Gus Rink had sent me my boots! They were ruined of course. Twisted leather, punctured by dozens of fang bites. Just the sight of them turned my stomach. Brought the memory of Gus Rink destroying them to the front of my brain where it burned like incense. And the fact that Gus had sent them to me meant only one thing. He'd been in my apartment. I'd kept those boots. They'd been buried in the back of my closet, because I just couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bear the thought of throwing them away. So Gus had broken in, found them, and sent them to me. He was sending me a message. And that message was-"Keller!" barked a voice. I gritted my teeth. Goddamn it. It was my boss, Geoffrey Porter. Porter wasn't crazy about the fact that I was a vampire killer. He'd hired me to be a reporter and that was what he expected me to do. It was completely unfair of him. He was so closed-minded. "What do you want, Porter?" I demanded. But I knew what he wanted. He wanted a draft on the stripper piece. He was going to have to wait. *

The sheriff didn't want me there. He never did. He was of the opinion that if details about crimes leaked to the public, it helped to shield the perpetrator from being caught. I thought that was nonsense. The people had a right to know the truth. I was the voice of the people. I'd only gone to the crime scene (a boat tied to the dock on the river) because Porter had twisted my arm. It still hurt. I'd taken some ibuprofen, in fact. There had to be some kind of law against using physical force against one's employee. I tried to ask the sheriff about it, but since he didn't want me there, he wasn't very forthcoming. He also didn't want to talk about the crime. I knew that another stripper had been murdered, but that was all. The sheriff wouldn't give me any details. So I stood at the edge of the dock, staring into the blue-black water glistening in the streetlights, and I tried to listen in to the conversation the policemen were having behind me. I heard them say something about heroin, when the sheriff grabbed me from behind and told me to get out of his crime scene. I whirled on him. "The people have a right to know, Sheriff." "Why don't you just go and kill your fairies and elves or whatever it is you do," he said through clenched teeth. "Vampires, Sheriff," I said. "Vampires. Fairies and vampires don't mix. They're completely different species from completely different story-telling traditions. You don't have fairies in the same place as you have vampires. Besides, fairies aren't even real." "Oh, but vampires are, my pretty one," said another voice. Aidan? The hunky master vampire swept the sheriff out of my way with the flick of his wrist. The sheriff landed in the river with a loud splash. "Was that man bothering you, pretty one?" asked Aidan.

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I shook my head, ready to tell Aidan that he was a jerk-monster and that I was about to stake him, but instead I looked deep into his eyes, and I couldn't move. He had fixed me with his gaze. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even wiggle my toes. Aidan approached me quickly, and stopped when he was inches from my body. He brought his face close to mine. "Ah, my pretty one," he said, "how long I have waited for you to look into my eyes." And he took me into his arms and pressed his lips against mine. I lost myself in his kiss, in the soft pressure of his lips and the silk slide of his tongue on mine. It was as if I were falling deep into a canyon of delight. A soft moan escaped me, and I heard it echoed from Aidan's lips. We were entwined like a vine and the tree it had grown around. His limbs were tangled among my limbs. His hands were tangled in my hair, so that when he moved them, it yanked my head. And there was pain. But even the pain was sweet because Aidan, the prince of the night, the master of the darkness administered it to me. I gave myself over to him, mind and body. His kisses spread across my body like wildfire. His fangs tickled the skin of my neck. I would have begged, pleaded, cried out for him to sink them deep into my neck, but I was unable to speak, for I was unable to move. Aidan was the master of my body. Of myself. He tore off his frothy white shirt and revealed the hardness of his chest beneath it. His skin was dusky, olive-colored and smooth. I longed to run my fingers over every chiseled inch of him, but I was frozen. I was stuck. He removed my shirt as well, but his hands were free to dance against my skin, to caress me, to tease and touch. The force of the sensation overwhelmed me. I wished that I could speak, so that I could shout, could scream at the feel of his expert, masterly touch. But I could not, so I simply moaned and moaned. And moaned. He pressed his hips against mine, and I could feel the swell of him. He wanted me as much as I wanted him. Oh, to be able to tell him to take me! I so wished that my lips could move. I couldn't dream of anything better than to make love to Aidan. To feel him inside me, to feel his naked skin against mine. If only I could tell him. If only... He held me tightly against him, his fangs gently brushing against my neck-And suddenly it came to me that I was in the embrace of a monstrous vampire and that I was paralyzed. Far from being a cavern of pleasure, this experience was danger incarnate. I had to tear myself out of this spell, this web of carnal delights that Aidan had spun me into. Oh! But he was so freaking hot. If only he weren't a vampire. If only we could just get him a soul, make him a tortured do-gooder! But I knew that was impossible. I had to extricate myself from the influence of Aidan or he was going to bite me and drain me of blood. I focused my brain on something--anything but Aidan! My boots! I thought of my beautiful boots, now mutilated. Aidan still held sway over my mind, but it was as if with this new focus, I was chinking away at his power over me. It was as if pieces of it were falling away, letting the light of my own sanity back through the holes. "Ah, my pretty one," said Aidan. "You are so strong." I was wrenching my mind from his control. Just a little farther... I roared in triumph. And then everything went black. *

"While you were having sex with Aidan," Henry was saying. "I did not have sex with him," I countered from my hospital bed. Henry was at the foot, explaining what had happened. I had just come to a few hours ago. "The police were able to figure out that Gus Rink was the one killing the strippers as well as the vampires, and they arrested him," Henry finished. "Your sexual appetites just distracted you from the important stuff that was going on." "We didn't have sex," I insisted. Henry shrugged. "If you say so, Jeana." Wereprairie dogs. They're such know-it-alls. Well, that sucked. Gus Rink was supposed to be mine. I was the vampire killer here, wasn't I? If I only hadn't been distracted by that long sexual interlude with Aidan. That thing with Aidan had nothing to do with the story. The one I was working on for the paper. That story. And nothing to do with my vendetta against Gus. It just made me wonder why it had happened at all. "Did they kill Gus?" I asked Henry. He shook his head. "He's on trial." I smiled. There was hope yet. My boots would be avenged.

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Exam Room One Sydney Louise has a medical and legal background. She has a grown daughter and lives with her husband in East Texas. She's looking forward to retirement in three years at which time she hopes to finish that best-selling novel she's been working on for the past year. Send your comments to: poetryhere@sbcglobal.net. Part I: The Patient As ordered, the subject presented to my office for further evaluation. I immediately noticed her subtle, sweet scent when I entered the exam room. She was already sitting on the exam table in the gown provided her by the nurse. She had a natural beauty which I, frankly, wasn’t prepared for. Her eyes were captivating; her smile, infectious. We exchanged pleasantries and then, as if to maintain a sense of professionalism, I randomly flipped through her medical file – stalling. At my instruction, she laid face down onto the exam table. I untied the single string holding the loose, oversized gown on her body and exposed her back. Against the instruction of the nurse before me, she had left her panties on – low-cut, but otherwise plain lavender panties. Beginning at the foot of the table, I cradled her left foot in my hands. Her feet were well proportioned, soft and feminine. I examined each toe. Firmly rolling both thumbs slowly up from her toes, over her arch to her heel. Then, the right foot. I slowly drug the tips of my ten fingers from her ankle up her leg. I traced the outline of her diamond-shaped calf, twice. I specifically noticed the softness and warmth of her skin. I followed the gradual growth of girth of her thigh with my finger tips on opposing sides of her left leg, stopping just short of her buttock. Then, the right leg. This time, though, as my hands were nearing the middle of her thigh, she separated her legs – just slightly. Was she merely readjusting herself for her own comfort? Was it a subtle invitation? Against my better judgment, I assumed the latter. I allowed my hands to slowly travel farther than before, until my left hand came into contact with the bottom of her panties. Warmth exuded from her and this particular area felt distinctly warmer. Moist. The panties, of course, were going to have to come off. But, the fact she had them on implied a bit of discomfort. That, together with the inappropriateness of my actions under the circumstances, stimulated my decision to avoid removing them – for the moment. I placed my finger tips on the small of her back and slowly traveled up the center of her spine, then down slightly farther apart, and back up until finally my hands were on opposite sides of her back. I traced the round form of her breasts, pressed against the table paper. I gently massaged the back of her neck then raked my fingers over her scalp, tangling them through her thick hair. At my instruction, she calmly turned over, making no attempt to cover herself. The crinkling of the paper on the table deafened the faint stringed classical music coming from overhead. Her eyes remained closed as I intently watched her every move. It was purely accidental that the gown fell to the floor as she repositioned herself. She, nor I, made any effort whatsoever to retrieve it. She was seemingly completely unbothered. The table paper crackled again as she settled her head. Again, at the foot of the table, my finger tips traveled slowly from her toes over her left foot and ankle, her calf, and around her thigh. Then, her right leg. Again, my left hand – firmer this time – didn’t stop until it came into contact with the bottom of her panties. Warmth. With an index finger, I traced her navel in a circular motion. Then, I traveled up the center of her stomach to the nape of her neck, down again and back up – each time gradually widening the area I was touching. As my hand slowly traveled over each breast, I felt her nipple travel underneath the palm of my hand – beginning near my wrist and ending between my index and middle finger. I continued until my hands were on opposing sides of her torso, over her armpits and shoulders, and down her arms. I placed her right hand palm-down into my right– palm to palm. Her fingertips at the heel of my palm, and mine extending above her wrist. I studied her hand – feminine, soft, slender. I repeated with her left. As I moved to her neck, she slowly lifted her chin upward, slightly. Perhaps I misread her queues, but it seemed to me she was lost in what I was doing to her. I felt her neck and face, tracing the contours of her ears with my thumbs, down to her bare, pierced lobes. I didn’t want the examination to conclude. I removed my hands from her and stood there, studying her. Her form, tone, beauty. I noted the unusually clear consistency of her skin tone over the entirety of her body. Her olive complexion revealed a slight hint of a bikini tan line. She had a natural beauty about her – one that would be cheapened by adornment or makeup. There she was, on my table – vulnerable, exposed. With the exception of her plain, low-cut panties, she was absolutely, completely, positively naked. No earrings, jewelry, or strong perfume – she didn’t need any of that. Only a well-chosen shade of lipstick, tastefully polished nails, and a sweet fragrance. The fragrance wasn’t that of a perfume. Perhaps it was a lotion, or her shampoo, or both. Subtle, but noticeable. I don’t believe she opened her eyes from the moment the examination began. I knelt over, inches away from her, and smelled her hair. I filled my lungs with her scent. I stood beside the table, motionless, studying her facial features. Thick, manicured brows, long lashes. Her chin was still positioned upward. As she lowered her chin, her lips – full – separated slightly. I was compelled to kiss her, but resisted. Gazing on her for what must have been several moments. Her only movement was from her breathing. Then, she opened her eyes. Part II: The Doctor Why hadn’t he kissed me? I could sense he wanted to. From behind my closed lids I had known desire was evident in his own eyes. I didn’t have to see, to know it was there. I didn’t have to see it because I could feel it radiating from him. It warmed my body in the otherwise chilly room. The intensity of his stare had weighed on me like a warm, yet lightweight, blanket. He had been so close to me I could feel his breath on my face. On my lips. I could smell the faint Volume 2, Issue 3

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scent of peppermint with each silent breath he expelled. It caused my senses to tingle and my heart to thump wildly against my chest. Surely I had not been imagining it. Yes, his touch had been clinical, at first. But as clinical and detached as he, at first was, I still reacted to his strong and capable hands. Strong and firm, yet gentle. I had found myself imagining what it would be like if I were lying next to him in bed. His hands working their magic on me because of his desire for me – not because of his obligation to a medical examination. I had fantasized about whether it could possibly feel any better were he touching me as a lover and not as a patient. All of this had gone through my mind during the first few minutes of his clinical, detached examination. I had just begun to make love with him, in my mind, when something changed. A subtle difference in the way his hands were working their way over my body. No longer clinical and detached. Slightly, ever so slightly, his hands had slowed their progress over my thigh until they had finally hesitated just below my panties. I could feel his fingertips touching the edge of the silky material. Had he somehow felt the desire I was trying to keep secret behind the thin, lavender fabric? For a moment I had thought he might remove the garment. But he didn’t. Instead he continued up my back. Tracing a trail up my spine. Goose flesh erupted, following the trail he was making with his fingertips. When I felt his hands on the sides of each of my breasts, my breath caught. I held it under control before finally, slowly, releasing it. Then, he had massaged his fingers up the back of my neck before finally burying them in my freshly shampooed hair. He tangled his fingers in the thick mass and made a fist with each hand. For a fleeting moment I imagined him pulling me toward him, by the tangle of my hair in each of his fists, and whispering his desire in my ear. I wanted him to do so. But, he did not. Instead, he quietly cleared his throat and asked me to turn over. When he spoke his voice was huskier than it had been before. I had eagerly complied with his request, forgetting that my breasts were bare. And when my gown had fallen to the floor, as I sat up, I hadn’t cared. I simply kept my eyes shut and lay back down. Starting with my feet again, his touch became a massage. Slow, firm, and gentle. Before I realized it, his hands had found their way to the edge of my panties again. Once more he had a chance to remove them. He had hesitated and I thought this time he surely would. Rather, his fingers continued, delicately, to my abdomen. For some reason he had traced a circle around my navel. So lightly I would not have felt it were my body not now so keenly attuned to his mesmerizing touch. After his fingers had finished their erotic dance around my navel, he pressed more firmly and trailed up the center of my stomach to my neck, back down again and then back up to my chest. There, his fingers had spread until his two hands covered the entire width of my chest. Then, as he this time ran his hands back down my body, he touched my nipples. They automatically hardened beneath his touch and I felt dizzy with excitement. Did I imagine it or had his hands remained on my breasts, with my nipples resting between his fingers, for several moments before going back up to my shoulders and then down the length of my arms? When he got to my hands, he lifted each between his. I had felt his hands completely engulf mine as he lifted first one, for closer examination, and then the other. For some reason, feeling each of my hands pressed between the two of his was the most sensual experience I had ever known. I felt a deep sense of disappointment when he finally released my left hand, gently laying it to rest on my hip. When I felt him touch my face, I instinctively lifted my chin. He traced my cheekbones and fondled my earlobes and I just knew he was going to kiss me. My lips parted in anticipation. I was so lost in the moment I hadn’t realized he had taken his hands off me. I must have lay there like that; breasts exposed, chin up, lips slightly parted and barely breathing for several moments before I realized he had not, in fact, touched his lips to mine. He was still close, though. He was breathing me in. I could feel his heat. I could feel his desire. I found myself wanting to look at him. Needing to see his desire for me. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. Part III: The Doctor and the Patient When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see his back was to her. He was flipping aimlessly through her chart. “Excuse me, doctor.” she whispered. When he did not respond she repeated. “Doctor, excuse me. Is the examination complete?” He placed my chart on the counter and turned to face her. He regarded her for a moment before replying “Um no. We’re going to have to remove your undergarment.” “Excuse me?” She asked. “Your panties.” He said, cautiously. They need to be removed so I can finish the examination.” Her response was a simple, “Oh”. “Do you want me to finish the exam?” He asked. Again, “Oh… Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry. The nurse mentioned I needed to remove them. But I- I’m sorry.” She began to sit up but he moved toward her, placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled. “It’s okay. Relax. I know this is a little uncomfortable.” Page 76

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“Oh, I’m fine.” And she lay back against the exam table. She noticed him glance down at her bare breasts. She instinctively wanted to cover them but when she made a move to do so he stopped her by taking each of her hands into his own. He stared intently at her left hand. He must have noticed the circle of lighter skin around her ring finger. He looked questioningly into her eyes and she averted his gaze. Finally, he released her hands, moved around the exam table, bent down and picked up the gown that had fallen to the floor. He laid the gown across her bare chest, smoothed the fabric over her body and said, “If you do not feel comfortable with continuing-.” “No, it’s fine. Really, it is.” She quickly interrupted in a soft voice. “Well, as I mentioned, the undergarment is going to have to come off.” She nodded but made no effort to remove her panties. Instead, she closed my eyes. Finally, after several moments ticked slowly by she felt him slide his hands underneath the flimsy gown and find the silk covered, elastic waist band. He slipped the tips of his fingers under the elastic that rested just under each of her hip bones and gently tugged. The lavender colored silk slid smoothly down her legs clearing her ankles and heels until finally they were completely removed. Almost immediately she, again, felt his warm touch upon her flesh. He placed his hands on either side of her waist, squeezed and then slid them down to her upper thighs - thumbs gently raking the inside of them. Close, very close to... She parted her lips and let out a soft, wispy sigh. In response, his fingers tightened around her thighs. She felt dizzy with desire. Vulnerable, needy, and passionate, so she placed her hands atop his before he could release his grip. They stayed like that for what seemed an eternity. He, bent over her with his hands gripping her thighs - thumbs massaging. And she, with her fingers desperately clinging to him. Colors danced behind her eyelids. Her hips began to move and she arched her back, slightly. The faint sound of classical music was drowned out by her heavy breathing. Her head rolled to one side and she bit my lower lip. Hard. She took one, final, deep breath before releasing it through parted lips. The flashes of color, behind her lids, sparked and then faded. She became aware of her heart pounding against her chest. Her lip felt swollen and her breathing was ragged. The doctor touched a finger to her bruised lip. She felt his lips against her ear and he whispered, “The examination is now complete. You can open your eyes.”

The Secret Within the Diary Michelle Passante is from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She is single with no kids and lives alone with her pets. She currently works as an estimator in the sales department of a printing company. This is Michelle’s first published story. She comments, “ I actually mostly write ghost stories, so this is one of the few non-creepy stories I have written.” Send your comments to: clari1997@tds.net The obituary read the following: Reed, Charlotte M. (Nee Herman) Found Eternal Rest on June 4, 2005, at the age of 89. Preceded in death by her beloved husband, Jonathon. She is survived by her dear nephew, Thomas, and other relatives. Visitation is Monday, June 8, at 5:00 p.m. at St. Peter’s Catholic Church, followed by a mass at 7:00 p.m. I placed the newspaper on my kitchen table, shaking my head. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Reed in almost twenty years, but I had been a frequent visitor to her house as a child. She lived in a beautiful Queen Anne Victorian on Chestnut Street, just a few blocks away from where I grew up. She was a sweet old lady, but there was definitely an aura of mystique surrounding her. It was even rumored many years ago that she held a deep, dark secret from people. As a child, my friends and I used to pick daisies and tulips from people’s yards to give to Mrs. Reed. She used to reward me and my friends with candy or freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. She also used to let me come over to play with her cats whenever I pleased. Mrs. Reed was definitely an important part of my childhood. Mrs. Reed was a widow with no children. I believe she always viewed us neighbor children as the children and grandchildren she never had. It appears that not many people had known her late husband, Jonathon Reed. When I knew her, her husband had been dead for several years. He reportedly died from a heart attack long before most people in the neighborhood had made Mrs. Reed’s acquaintance. She never talked about her late husband; it was almost like he never existed, although someone told me that he had been a traveling salesman during most of their marriage. Mrs. Reed seemed to be a lonely old woman, not going out much and not really having much of a social life. Perhaps that is what created the aura of mystique surrounding her? I skipped Mrs. Reed’s funeral, mainly because I hated funerals and always felt uncomfortable in large social situations. The cause of death was heart failure, so I heard from the grocery clerk who used to live on my block. According to her, Mrs. Reed spent her last six months in a nursing home just outside of town. Mrs. Reed’s nephew, Thomas, inherited the house and most likely everything else, even though he supposedly barely knew his aunt. Driving through my old neighborhood one sunny afternoon in late June, I decided to take a ride past Mrs. Reed’s house on Chestnut Street. As a child, I was simply captivated by the house’s beauty and charm. Driving up the block, I could see that a For Sale by Owner sign now stood on the unkempt lawn full of weeds and dandelions. Volume 2, Issue 3

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Not surprisingly, Mrs. Reed’s nephew decided to sell the house. After all, the house probably didn’t mean anything to him. Stepping out of my car onto the sidewalk, I wistfully looked up at the house that I fell in love with as a child. Of course, most people would now consider it to be dilapidated and a dump, but I still considered it to be the most beautiful house I had ever seen. Lace curtains still draped each upstairs window. The black shutters were literally falling off their hinges, evidently in need of repair. It had been years since the house had been painted, so much so that the paint was peeling everywhere, and the bright white color was now faded to a light gray. It had been at least twenty years since I was last inside the house, but the memories were still vivid in my mind. I remembered the sitting room with the antique settee and fainting couch. Mrs. Reed would let me sit on the fainting couch whenever I visited. She had told me that it was used in the nineteenth century when women would faint in hot weather due to the tight corsets they wore back then. The Persian rugs that covered the hardwood floors had also captivated me. They had belonged to her grandmother at one time, so she claimed. I so badly wanted to get into the house to take a look around. Perhaps I could call for an appointment to see it? There were no flyers, just a phone number on the For Sale by Owner sign. However, I would then have to pretend that I was interested in buying it, and I really didn’t want to waste anyone’s time. I wrote down the phone number on a slip of paper in my purse just in case. For the next few minutes, I stood there on the lawn of overgrown grass filled with dandelions, remembering my childhood visits in the beautiful old house. I felt a burning desire to enter the house to get one last look. Walking up the steps to the veranda porch, I could feel the wood creaking underneath my feet. Looking around the porch, I could still see Mrs. Reed rocking on her rocking chair, her orange tabby cat sitting on her lap. Trying the front door, I found that it was locked. No surprise there, since it was highly unlikely that they were going to leave the house unlocked. I walked around back, and I found that the back door was ajar. Was someone there? I hesitated for a moment. Perhaps I could go in pretending that I was there to view the house? But what if I was accused of trespassing? Of course, there wasn’t a No Trespassing sign posted anywhere from what I could see. Opening the back door, I was met with a very musty odor. Walking into the kitchen, I saw that it had been nearly gutted. The porcelain stationary tub that had once served as a sink was no longer there, and the old-fashioned gas stove was also gone; only a dark round spot on the kitchen floor showed where the stove once stood. Walking into the sitting room, I saw to my great delight that the fainting couch was still there. The pink-rose fabric was much faded, but after sitting down, it felt as comfortable as I remembered. I was practically giddy with delight! Looking down at the hardwood floors, I saw that the beautiful Persian rugs were gone. Also, the lavender-flowered wallpaper that I fell in love with many years ago was now much faded and peeling in certain areas. The front parlor was mostly empty except for an oak desk, obviously a place where Mrs. Reed did most of her correspondence years ago. The dining room was completely empty, with even the built-in cabinets totally empty of the fine China dishes that once inhabited them. Looking at the empty cabinets, I remembered Mrs. Reed serving me hot cocoa and fudge brownies on one cold winter day when I had helped shovel her snow. I certainly hoped that the China dishes went to someone who appreciated them. I remembered her telling me that they had been a wedding gift from her brother, Michael, who lived far away in sunny California. Walking up the staircase, I could feel the steps creak underneath my shoes. Reaching the top of the landing, I stood in the hallway, looking around. The rose-pattern carpeting underneath my feet was very worn and soiled. Looking into each of the four bedrooms, each appeared to be empty except for one. Entering the room that I remembered having been Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, I saw that most of the furniture still remained. Her pink canopy bed still stood in the middle of the room, the pillows propped up. The antique wardrobe also still remained, along with a bureau and a dresser. The dresser appeared to be mahogany with an attached oval mirror. Hesitantly, I opened up the dresser drawers to see if there was anything left inside. To my surprise, the top dresser drawer held a small book with an open latch, possibly a diary. The book was old from what I could tell, the front cover a faded blue with a picture of a dove. Opening it up, the pages were tattered and yellowed from over the years. Reading the inscription, it was indeed Mrs. Reed’s diary. Could the deep, dark secret that people talked about, I wondered, be disclosed in this diary? I leafed through the pages, but I didn’t feel comfortable reading it. But she’s dead, I told myself. And besides, it would probably get thrown out along with everything else since she had no children or grandchildren. After debating for a few minutes, I took the diary and exited the room. I then decided to leave the house, since there wasn’t much left for me to explore. A few hours later, I sat at my kitchen table in an attempt to read through Mrs. Reed’s diary. Part of me felt that I was being intrusive, but the other part of me felt that she wouldn’t mind me reading her personal thoughts. The diary spanned about two years, and it appeared to have been written when Mrs. Reed was in her early thirties. Her handwriting varied from neat to messy, and some of it was difficult to decipher. Most of what she wrote was simply about the mundane things in life that everyone goes through, but in the middle of the diary something caught my attention. It read as follows: Sunday, April 25, 1948 Charlie left today. He didn’t even say good-bye. He was gone when I awoke this morning. He left his coffee mug on the kitchen table. I don’t know if he will return. Please God, please bring him back. Tuesday, April 27, 1948 I miss you Charlie. I miss your company. I hope you return soon. The flowers that we planted together last summer have almost started blooming in this warm weather we are currently having. Please come back. Wednesday, April 28, 1948 My life is so lonely now. Somehow, I don’t feel a need to live anymore. I don’t have anyone or anything to live for. Jon won’t be back for another month. Meanwhile, I am left here in my loneliness. Charlie, please come back soon. Friday, April 30, 1948 Page 78

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Michael called today. He wanted to know what our mother’s maiden name was. I can’t believe he didn’t remember it. I told him how lonely I was and asked when he and Mary and the kids would be visiting next. He didn’t know. Monday, May 3, 1948 I got a letter from Charlie today. He wrote that he would visit again soon, but he didn’t know when. Something tells me that he will never return. Putting down the diary, I was greatly moved. Who was Charlie? Did Mrs. Reed have an extra-marital affair at one time? It was almost incredulous to believe that such a sweet old lady as Mrs. Reed would cheat on her husband, although it is likely that he had cheated on her plenty while working as a traveling salesman. Perhaps her nephew would know who Charlie was? But perhaps he would be unwilling to talk about him if it had been an illicit affair? Skimming through the diary, I didn’t see any more entries about Charlie. Did he simply disappear from Mrs. Reed’s life, I wondered, or did she simply decide not to write about him anymore? I made a call to her nephew that very evening. I asked him how much he was asking for the house. After hearing the amount, I cleared my throat and said, “I’m interested.” We arranged to meet the following Thursday to tour the house. About to say good-bye, I hesitated and asked, “Um, can I ask you a question?” “Sure,” he replied, a bit impatiently I could tell. “Do you know if your aunt was friends with someone named Charlie?” He paused a second. “No, I don’t,” he replied. I didn’t push it any further. After all, I don’t think he knew his aunt all that well, so it would be unlikely that he would know anything about Charlie. We chatted briefly for a few more minutes. I told him a little bit about my memories of his aunt, but he didn’t seem too interested. A few days later, I ended up canceling my appointment with him for the following Thursday, since I didn’t have any real intentions of buying the house. However, the memories of Mrs. Reed remained strong, especially since there was now a new mystery to be solved. Who could Charlie be? Remembering back, I didn’t recall Mrs. Reed ever mentioning a long-lost love. However, I was just a child then, so it is highly unlikely that she would have talked about an illicit love affair. There was one memory, though, that stood out from the rest. When I was in fifth grade, I made the Catholic sacrament of reconciliation, and I remembered telling Mrs. Reed about what I had told the priest in confession. Mrs. Reed playfully admonished me for disclosing that to her, since what is said within the confessional is supposed to remain private. I then asked her if she ever went to confession. She shook her head and said, “No, the last time I went to confession was after my husband died.” She paused a moment. “Afterwards, I was told by the priest that I wasn’t allowed back at the church. Ever.” “What did you confess?” I asked her. “I can’t tell you that,” she said, winking. She then lowered her head. “It was pretty bad,” she continued, lifting her head. “But I certainly don’t regret it,” she ended with a smile. Whether she meant that she didn’t regret confessing or regret what she confessed, I will never know. Perhaps she confessed an illicit affair with Charlie? It certainly is likely, since the priest banned her from the church. About a month later, I received a call from Mrs. Reed’s nephew one evening saying that he had some boxes of his aunt’s belongings that he wanted to give me. “Mostly knickknacks and stuff,” he replied when I asked what he was getting rid of. “Sure, I’ll take it,” I said excitedly. “But are you sure that you really want to get rid of it?” He replied that he was going to give it to the Goodwill if I didn’t take it. He was offering it to me since I had been friends with his aunt. Of course, I didn’t view myself as Mrs. Reed’s friend, but I took that to be a compliment. A few days later, he pulled up one evening unannounced. In the trunk of his car were four large boxes full of his aunt’s stuff that he was getting rid of. His visit was short, simply dumping the boxes in my living room and leaving. I was able to ask him before he left, however, if there had been any offers on the house. “Some young couple,” he replied. “The loan hasn’t gone through yet, though. We’ll see.” Looking through all of the boxes, to my delight, her nephew had given me all of her fine China dishes! There were also several knickknacks that I had remembered and a few pictures. Rummaging through all of the tissue paper, I also came across a picture of Mrs. Reed as a fairly young woman with a man who appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties. They were standing in front of a tree, his arm around her waist. The man was dressed in a suit and was wearing a fedora. Mrs. Reed wore a long flowered dress and a summer hat. Having seen a few pictures of Jonathon Reed years ago, I didn’t believe the man in the picture to be her husband. Could this, I wondered, be Charlie in the picture? Turning over the picture, I discovered a date written on the back: April 12, 1948. Ah, that was the year and month that she was writing about Charlie, I remembered. Looking at the picture more closely, I could see that both of them were smiling—they appeared from the faded photograph to be very happy. Yes, I told myself, this definitely is Charlie. I’m sure the picture was a remembrance from a happy time of Mrs. Reed’s life, which is probably why she kept it. I also felt that she wanted the memory of this happy time of her life to live on. Volume 2, Issue 3

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I kept Mrs. Reed’s diary. After all, who would want it? I’m sure Mrs. Reed would be glad to know that it fell into safe hands. Unfortunately, I never found out who Charlie was. Of course, it really doesn’t matter. If Mrs. Reed did indeed have an affair with Charlie, what’s it to any of us? It was such a long time ago, and my only hope is that she has now found happiness in her new life. The picture, however, sits in a frame on the mantelpiece in my living room. When people ask me who is in the picture, I tell them that the woman was an old friend of mine who has since passed away and that the man was a good friend of hers. There is certainly no need to get into particulars. We are all entitled to secrets in life, and I am almost glad that Mrs. Reed’s secret died with her.

House of Plenty Graeme Stone is a writer living in Los Angeles. Look for his article in this month’s inaugural issue of Bond magazine. In 2005, he sold his screenplay “the Devil’s Pocket” to Regent Entertainment, and is now at work on his novel, a thriller, “A Night in the Park.” Send your comments to: Graeme@graemestone.com Darian Mulvaney woke with a kick inside her, the pain of a contraction. Reaching down she felt her still-flat belly and realized she had only been dreaming. It wasn’t pregnancy then, just the fear of it. 4:30 AM. Richard was still asleep, the smell of alcohol still in the room. Darian settled, trying not to rock the bed, safe on her side of the mattress. 4:31 now. The clock’s numbers had flipped just as she had woken, but she'd caught them before they’d changed. Just like last night. And the night before, and the night before that. Too late to really get back to sleep. Too early to have really rested. The dreams of births, of contractions had been coming regularly now because it was almost March. The sensation of a kick in the night was a physical memory of her past two pregnancies, both of which had been in March. And nothing terrified Darian Morgan-Mulvaney more than another pregnancy; it meant he’d start in on her again. Insisting on doctor’s visits. Exams. The poking, the prodding. Round-the-clock attention to every detail. A wake-up regimen, special vitamin drinks, and therapy every day. Oh God, the therapyDarian stopped herself. She refused to think about it by thinking about something else. Breakfast. Butter to the edge of the toast, the very edge. Coffee with one spoonful of milk (a measuring teaspoon). Whole milk. And eggs, exactly between runny and firm. Sunnyside upNo. Over easy. It was over easy wasn't it? Or was that what he had liked before? It used to be over easy because he bought her the new spatula to flip it properly right? (Actually she had to turn the egg, not flip it). Oh, God! She couldn't remember. He'd be up in an hour and she couldn't remember if it were sunny side up, or over easy. Move on, she thought, move on and then come back. She found it best to progress, rather than wasting time on things that would only frustrate her. Dr. Wiley said to do it that way. ‘Forward motion, positive thinking, a good diet, and a good night's sleep.’ That's why she didn't want to disturb Richard, he was sleeping so soundly. Darian breathed a sigh of relief, enjoying the few moments she would have alone before Richard got up to wake the kids. The bathroom was ready. Fresh soap, shampoo (unscented with conditioner), and toothpaste (spearmint tartar control with whiteners). She had washed the shower curtain on Monday, done the tile and grout, scrubbed the bowl. Toilet paper! No- she'd gotten some. It had taken some doing, but she'd gotten new toilet paper two days before while at the library with the kids. She could breathe; theirs was a house of plenty. Richard stirred in his sleep and Darian absentmindedly began to pull at a white curl of hair that grew in secret at the nape of her neck, just under a heavy fall of black tresses. It had always been there, a birthmark of sorts. But with control, she pulled her hand away. Doctor said to avoid habits, 'remain flexible, be open to new ideas.' Progress. "You up?" he said, and Darian actually gasped. "You scared me," she said, startled. As he rolled to face her, Richard's eyes were open and wide, taking inventory of the whole room. "Yep- yes, just woke up." She swallowed the gasp and smiled a big smile. 'Smile, it shows you're comfortable.' Richard rolled back over and looked at the clock on the bedside table. She had dusted, and the glass was clean and free of streaks. Old newspaper had saved her hours of dealing with the lint from cloths and paper towels. "A half-hour," he said. "I'm up a half-hour early. Why?" He focused on her with hard, gray eyes, and Darian looked down. He raised a hand and she immediately looked back up, fighting the impulse to find the hiding curl at the back of her neck. "I'm sorry," was all she could manage, and he turned away from her. 'Make suggestions, this can never hurt and shows you're thinking of each other.' But Darian couldn't. She knew it wasn't working. She would wait this half-hour like a child awaiting punishment: still, silent, unmoving. If she didn't move a muscle, he might not notice, he might forget, he might fall asleep and the half-hour pass forgotten into sleep. ‘Pediatricians need their sleep.' But Richard never fell asleep after he was awake; he was a one-way valve. Darian wondered what he thought about in those moments before they were officially awake, because it was the only time that she knew of him to wait for anything. It was the only equality in their marriage. In the morning, before there was any light to see by, before the presence of neighbors shrank their world just a little, the Mulvaneys were the only people on Earth, and she didn't know whether to be terrified or to laugh. If he was waiting too, waiting out that awkward morning time, then what was she so afraid of? But then he moved, and she knewshe was afraid of the things he would find in the daylight, things she had forgotten to take care of. Page 80

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Darian reviewed the house in her mind, checking a mental inventory of everything imaginable. 'Try to an-ti-ci-pate. That's the name of the game.' But then Richard got up and the test began. Once the bathroom door shut, Darian prayed he wouldn't find a hair on the floor, or the strand of a web she'd missed in the ceiling's corners in her haste to get it all done each day. She really prayed, curled forehead-to-knees prayed. But beyond the prayers was the breakfast. The children were already up and doing what their father was doing: preparing for breakfast. Theirs was an orderly household. A household that ran like a clock. But Darian had her own clock inside, and it was ticking faster than the one that Richard ran on. Because Darian was waiting for a phone call, a phone call that shouldn’t come before 9 AM, but what if it did? Wednesday, exactly a week before, she had gone to a health clinic after phoning in her grocery order. She’d learned she could buy a half hour, sometimes 45 minutes by just phoning it in. From a pay phone, no way to trace it. She used change she found in places outside the home. Theater floors, under bleachers at the kids’ soccer games, bathroom floors in restaurants. She had hidden enough money to use for call-in orders if she needed time in an emergency. Carol, the delivery manager, would have the order ready, and it took about as long as if she had actually gone herself. Once or twice, when she’d gotten really desperate, she’d had them delivered. Used up $25 on trip and tip. But the danger was if the store was out of stock for what she’d ordered, she didn’t know until she put the groceries away. And then she had to make up an excuse for not buying the pre-approved alternatives. But the grocery/delivery option offered the most time. And it was a tactic necessary to find out if she were pregnant before Richard did. It was this hell of waiting from which she had awaken at 4:30 every morning since the previous Thursday. Even her panic ran on time. Once Richard closed the bathroom door, it was Darian’s sign to ‘wake up,’ too. She slipped on her robe which covered fading bruises. He’d joked at a cocktail party once that he liked to hold onto love a little too tight in the bedroom sometimes. And he got away with it. Ami, his partner’s wife confessed in the kitchen during bar-b-que cleanup that she wished Brad would do it a little rough sometimes. Darian feigned a naughty giggle but felt sick inside. Downstairs, the lights came on in the kitchen; they were automatic, allowing no entry without the announcement of light. Inside was the sparkling realm of many of Darian's hours. The brick tile floor was red, the counters white, the refrigerator a spotless, canary yellow. Light streamed in through spotless windows, caressing the perfect green leaves and unblemished buds of her homemade cedar window boxes. ‘Cedar keeps the bugs at bay.’ Richard loved fresh flowers at dinner. Store-bought smelled of chemicals and he said they were unclean. ‘Who knows who’s had their hands on them all day.’ Like a pyramid turned on its head, the household balanced on specific events, and first of which was breakfast. She had to suspend the four of them for that half-hour of etiquette, poise, and culinary perfection. The table was all angles, lines, straightened forks and tidy placemats. But flavor, that was something every tongue found different, and it was always Richard's call whether the meal was a success or not. Darian opened the refrigerator just as the taps in the upstairs bathroom - the master bathroom - went off. Perfect timing. Now she could wash the peaches without changing the water pressure, without affecting his water. Maybe like her, he liked to shower alone, to believe that he was alone for that time. The shower was her refuge, a place of true cleanliness. Richard said it was a place to prepare herself for him, to make sure she was clean. But she made it her secret, like the white curl, that she enjoyed the shower for her. Sometimes she even touched herself and pretended there was still love. Bacon in the Calfelon pan, water in the chrome kettle, navels in the juicer, bread in the toaster, and eggs in the bowl to the right of the stove. While the bacon cooked down, she thought about those pans, those wonderful, wonderful Calfelon pans. A gift from her sister-in-law Josette. Without the pans, she would have to worry about the chips on the Teflon, on the Silverstone. No matter how careful she had been, the pans had given way to normal wear and tear. But Richard didn’t understand that and waited until the kids were at a neighbors before taking her over to the sink, to the dark hole of the garbage disposal, ‘Put your hand in bitch-’ and she’d done it, reached in and grabbed onto the blades of a thing that could have pulled her in to her wrist if Richard had so much as leaned on the switch. "Darian!" She moved quickly to the bottom of the stairs, sure to carry the whisk with her, so he could see she was busy. "Yes honey," she said, looking up to him. 'Use affection in your voice, even if you’re not touching. Phone calls are the perfect time.' He glared at her, holding up two socks. "Where's the matching sock,” he said, holding up two identical dark socks. “You’re going to make me late.” He glared, splayed, angry hands showing exasperation. One's black, one's navy!" Immediately her mind scanned yesterday's chores. "Left-hand drawer, right corner, lower stack. I'm sorry, I must have mixed up the navy and the black. The new 40 watt bulbs make it more difficult to see well." Richard turned away from her, stomping back to the wardrobe room. The 40 watts were his idea. They could save $125 a year if they switched. So New Year’s Day was ‘New Lightbulb Day.’ Darian moved quickly back to the kitchen. He would be down any minute, and he liked the eggs poured just as he was sitting down. Said he loved the hiss of the griddle, reminded him of home. The paper! Darian whipped the eggs, adding just a touch of water. ‘Makes ‘em fluffier.’ Salt and pepper, she thought, letting herself out the front door to get the paper. Had to have the paper. It was getting late already and she had to think about the kids. What did they need for lunch? Wednesday… 'Calm, try to remain calm in every situation.' Darian waved to Mrs. Troy across the street. The elderly gardening nut wanted to talk, but Darian just held up her hand in the shape of a phone. Mrs. Troy nodded and Darian hoped that she would call because Darian certainly couldn't. No outgoing calls. He checked. The paper hit the table just as Richard began to take the stairs. "Cory! Lynn! Come down stairs, breakfast is almost ready." Their little feet sounded just above her and Darian opened the cabinet, whipping out the salt and pepper. Ready. She was ready. Volume 2, Issue 3

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She could hear Richard behind her, the footfalls of those hard shoes. They sounded like golf cleats on the tiles and it always scared her, made her think of what a kick would feel like. His hands pressed her waist, then the kiss. "Good morning," he said. "Good morning," she said, and began pouring. "Mmm, smells good," he said, and pulled out his heavy oak chair. Cory, 10, ran to the table, remembering to walk when he got to the tile floor. ‘Slow means fewer falls.’ He pulled out his chair, Richard giving him a look over the paper. Lynn, 8, was just behind him, and tucked a loose curl back into the pale ribbon of her ponytail. "Got practice today sport?" asked Richard. Cory nodded and said ‘mmm hmm’, glancing to his mother. Darian mouthed 'yes' to him and gave him her shoulder signal for posture. He sat up just as Richard looked over the top of his paper. "Yes," said Cory, enunciating, and then added "sir," before anyone even caught it. He had almost forgotten, but he hadn't, and Richard smiled and winked. Darian got the juice from the fridge, set the pitcher down and served Richard a glass, then one for each of the children. They said 'thank you, Mom' and she told them 'you're welcome.' She loved them so much she thought it must show, and it scared her. Did Richard know how much she loved them? The eggs were done, the bacon was thin and crisp, and the toast would pop up any second. All she had to do was serve. "Nothing like hot eggs," said Richard, and Darian just smiled as she served the plate: bacon vertical on the left, eggs to the right, and the toast cut diagonally ‘like the roof on a house‘. He raised his fork and tasted. "Mmm," he said. Sometimes it was followed by 'perfect,' but not this morning. Darian didn't wait for it, serving the kids just as he'd taken a sip of juice. 'Don't expect things, don't take for granted,' Dr. Wiley said. That was the hardest one for Darian. She was always 'anticipating’; that’s what she called it. But she suspected that it was the same thing as 'expecting' to Richard- to Dr. Wiley that is. As they ate breakfast, she got lunch ready for Cory and Lynn. They both got the same thing on Wednesdays. Peanut butter (smooth) on whole wheat (cut in half) with a banana, thermos of milk. And asthma medication; they had both been born premature. Darian made her way to cabinets and drawers silently, long ago learning the exact amount of pressure it took to open and close everything with a whisper. ‘Loud noises are annoying.’ It was the only way to run a household, she found herself saying. But it wasn't one of her own ideas. It was Richard's saying. Well, his mother's saying actually. Or was it one of Dr. Wiley’s? My God, thought Darian, you're just full this morning, all these thoughts, racing everywhere. Richard would be done in a minute, and she had to have the lunches ready by then. Richard had to check the lunches, make sure his kids were well fed. He was, after all, a pediatrician of note in their city. The banana was already sliced, the open faces of bread waiting. Darian reached inside the fridge for the jam and the morning suddenly stopped. The jam was almost all gone. It wasn't just at half or a quarter, it was almost completely empty, thin enough to see through in places. Last night— she'd heard Richard get up, but she was so tired, she fell back asleep. He must have come down and fixed himself something. But did he really have the jam, or just wash it down the drain? She wanted to count the slices of bread that would tell her. But then he’d see her and he’d know. ‘Focus.’ The jar was almost empty, what was she going to do? The paper rustled and Darian was shaken from her contemplation. There was just enough jam to make the sandwiches if she pushed it to the edges so it would show a purple hairline, a vein. That’s right, she would just go on as if the jar were full. Like a surgeon, Darian scraped out the jam along the unforgiving interior of the jar. Too much noise and he would hear the emptiness of the jar. Not fast enough and she'd be caught behind in her chores. Richard turned the pages a few times, almost finished. Darian glanced back and knew she would see the clean plate, the tines turned down in the dark breadcrumbs saying ‘take it away.’ Putting the sandwiches blindly in baggies, Darian looked to the children who were also finished. They sensed it already, and she damned herself for not having a tighter reign on her emotions. 'Children are sensitive, don't hide your feelings from them, explain to them.' Darian smiled disarmingly and put the empty jar back in the fridge before anyone saw a thing. The knife still had jam on it, and there was even a spot to clean on the counter. It didn't look like she'd had to skimp on the sandwiches. But she would have to tell the kids- no, not tell- she would have to 'explain' somehow before they got into the car with Richard. "Well, I've got to get to the office. They don't give tardy slips in the real world," said Richard. The kids laughed dutifully, but with surprising feeling. They were mustering it from somewhere, and that worried Darian. She could fool herself into believing everyone took a bit of refuge in the shower. But her kids...she didn’t want to see that they were learning so quickly. And they were better than her, more convincing, more believable. They weren't just pretending, they were living the role. Richard gave her a small kiss as she walked him to the door, handing him his briefcase. He went to warm up the car and she imagined it exploding, imagined the breath of freedom as a fireball singed the trees, imagined the insurance agent she’d serve coffee to: oh such a tragedy, more crème? “Ok, let’s go!” shouted Richard from the car window. He revved the engine once.

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Cory and Lynn grabbed their lunch boxes and ran for the door. Richard revved the car again, but Darian grabbed each of their hands. She needed just a moment to tell them they were brave, to apologize for the lack of jam on the sandwiches. They gave her small kisses too, then left with their father. Did they know how much she loved them? Could they tell through all the layers of perfection she wove around the house? Would they grow up to leave and hate her for what she was about to do? She’d promised herself when Cory was out of diapers that she’d run. And then she’d gotten pregnant with Lynn. And then she promised herself that when Lynn was out of diapers that she’d run, take them all away. But then Cory’d gotten into early kindergarten (Richard’s idea) and it seemed too late, they were ‘in the system.’ So then she’d promised that when Cory was 10 and Lynn 8 that they would be old enough to run with her, old enough not to make a mistake and blab, old enough to lie like their mother. Well they were 10 and 8 and she still hadn’t run. Would they ever be ready for what she was going to ask them to do? Would she? They waved from the back seat, already joking inside the car with their Dad. Nobody in the world would guess they were hiding something they knew would be very dangerous for their mother if it were found out. A little thing like talking about their sandwiches might turn into bruises on their mother’s shoulders, into the sound of the growling blades of the garbage disposal cutting through the night. But the phone call, from the clinic. She couldn’t run if she were pregnant again. It was a lasso that Richard threw with precision. Summer's sultry hand slid around Darian's ankles as the new car hummed out of the driveway. Neighbors drove past their house, waving their warm good-mornings. Darian waved, smiling her pageant smile. Richard pulled out, blew a kiss, drove off. Sure, Darian had the others fooled, the Troys, the Carstens, the Mullers, the Whites. But had she fooled him? Had he looked at the jam before he left? Right now, was he asking the kids to tell him what she’d said to them? Would he just pull over and look in their lunches to see what she’d done? Darian closed the door and sank down against it in the salmon colored hallway. Brass touches and hardwood floors spread around her in crisp, unfeeling good taste. The jam. How was she going to replace the jam? A week and two days before she could go shopping again and already something was empty. It had to be him. Richard had to have done it so that he could catch her failure in an impromptu inspection. ‘It’s important to keep on top of your duties, it gives you a sense of responsibility.’ But Darian couldn't just leave the house to get more because someone always saw her, and invariably at a party or at church, it got back to Richard. And she couldn't take the old car because cars have odometers don't they? And she couldn't call the delivery service at Morton's because phone companies can send itemized lists of local calls can’t they? Today was not an ‘out day,’ and there wouldn’t be another until the weekend. Over a week and she’d have to fake the jam if anyone wanted any and she knew it wouldn’t hold up. Maybe on Saturday or Sunday she could take jam from a breakfast place that Richard would take them to. Or she could slip back into a restaurant kitchen at their Saturday night date and just ask for some packets of jam. She’d torn a hole in the bottom lining of her purse and could hide most any small thing: packets of jam, a key, a razor blade if it came to that. And she didn’t mean suicide. No, she and her kids would be free; she just didn’t know exactly how. But if it came down to it, she’d kill. Darian walked toward the kitchen, toward the table of clean plates, the stove of cooling pans, toward the monstrous eye of the garbage disposal, and she prayed that Mrs. Troy would have the sense to call. That after small talk and recipe swapping and gossip, she could slip in a request for jam, ‘just something I forgot, would you mind?’ Darian felt another pain, like the one she had had first thing in the morning. It was just her stomach rebelling; the others all ate before her and hunger pangs weren’t uncommon. ‘Service is your job.’ It was Dr. Wiley’s voice, but Richard’s face saying it. Because Richard was Dr. Wiley. He was psychiatrist, psychologist, and obstetrician all rolled into one. Nobody would believe her, but in their basement was his ‘other practice.’ Where he had made sure she was pregnant by June so that she bore him children in March. ‘Mother says babies born in March are the strongest.’ The old recliner was where he got her to talk to ‘Dr. Wiley, therapist. If Richard didn’t catch her mistakes from one week to the next, then Dr. Wiley got it out of her. There was little he couldn’t ferret out. There may not have been a garbage disposal in the basement, but there was an old radiator that leaked steam like a volcanic fissure. And nothing burns quite like steam— The phone rang. When Darian lifted the receiver and heard the familiar sound of phones ringing and patients coughing, she knew it was the clinic calling. “Mrs. Mulvaney . . . congratulations!” She hung up the phone. Before she knew it, she had grabbed the car keys, her purse, and their checkbook. Mrs. Troy crossed the street anxiously, trying to flag her down as she pulled out the car. “But Darian, where are you going, I thought we were going to talk.” “Tell him I went out for jam,” she said and floored the accelerator. First the bank. Then the school. Then the open road. It was one week before school got out; nobody would think anything of a mom and two kids on vacation. Nobody that is but Richard. Darian knew that it wouldn’t be long before he and Dr. Wiley came after her. Volume 2, Issue 3

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