Musings Vol 2

Musings
A Magazine of Words
Volume: 1 Issue: 2
MUSINGS 1 A Magazine of Words

TABLE OF CONTENTS
First Bookend
FiCtIoN
Realties Real/5
Crow Dreams Vibrant/10
Bus of the Dead/14
13/19
Crossroads/23
Religion/27
Poetry
House of Sorrow/32
Film of Tomorrow/32
Humans Can't Fly/33
Infectious Dreams/33
REVIEWS
Corpse Bride/35
Lost Girls and Love Hotels/37
Widdershins/39
Someplace To Be Flying/41
PROSE
Potters Web: Part Two/45
Second Bookend

First Bookend
After being a writer for many years, there is one thing that I know is true. It is this: There
is power in words.
They have the power to take you to far away lands, to make you believe in magic (think
of a certain boy wizard), the power to make you emotional. Words have a way of helping
us to travel to distant lands, experience many things and live through many adventures.
Words are a power that all of us possess. There are words, phrases, and sentences inside
all of us and there are many ways to let them out; many different ways to shape the words
into something that moves, that entrances.
Words are really like a dance, as they can take many forms. Behind each word---indeed,
behind each poem, story, column, and novel---there is a Muse. Something that inspires us
to put that word on paper, to shape the sentences to sound just so. There is a force that
drives our words to dance.
Thus the idea for MUSINGS: A Magazine of Words. Inside these pages, you will find
fiction, poetry, short stories, reviews; any form that words take is welcome here and we
encourage many shapes. This is a starting place for words, a sounding board of ideas.
Welcome to the second issue of MUSINGS! This month is a special issue, dedicated to
my favorite of holidays, HALLOWEEN! This months issue is dedicated to everything
scary: fright, the dead, the black shape of crows as they move against the sky. May you
find something scary within these pages.
Halloween was always a favorite time of year for me. The leaves would be crunching
underneath my feet, I could see my breath in the air in front of me; and I could dress up
as anything I wanted.
Imagination is a powerful thing and for that one night, I was who ever (sometimes
whatever) I wanted to be. Imagination and fear, like words, can take us anywhere.
Each month, we will feature some of the best fiction, non-fiction, poetry, reviews and
prose. Next month, I hope to have a bigger, better issue! Send in anything you would like
to submit to jamiesonwolf@gmail.com and I will put it in next month's issue.
May the Muse be with you!
Jamieson Wolf
I'll bet living in a nudist colony takes all the fun
out of Halloween. ~Author Unknown

Realities Real
Jamieson Wolf
I am walking through a wasteland. There is rubble everywhere around me and I have to

step carefully so I don’t trip and land face down in a pile of rock and mortar. Hopscotch
amongst a ruin. The smell of decay fills my nostrils with a scent not unlike death. It sends
a shiver down my spine to be here, to see this. The Game has taken a disastrous
turn. Something is hunting the players.
I am standing in a deserted parking lot. Cars, overturned and useless, are like turtles on
their backs, red, blue, yellow chrome shining like beacons in the afternoon sun. Tire
tracks stretch and curve along the pavement and I spend a few moments tracing the
violent black marks in front of me. It’s as if a fencing duel had taken place and both were
losers.
There is a house in front of me. This may seem funny to some, being that I am standing
in a parking lot, but really it is The House, a home where twelve individuals have been
thrown together and stranded out in the middle of nowhere, all in the hopes of garnering
high television ratings. Welcome to the new world of reality TV. The House is a massive
affair; tall gables and large picture windows, sandy beige stucco walls with large
doorways. A beautiful house. But not anymore.
Something has slashed through the thick wooden doors, breaking the locks clean; the
windows were shattered, glass pieces decorating the ground like diamonds or sugar
candy, wide scratch marks across the garage door.
Two days ago, the signal for “Home Sweet Home-The New Reality” shut off, leaving
viewers, and station execs wondering what the hell had happened. All contact with the
cast in the house had been broken off and no one had been able to get in touch with
anyone.
The game worked around the premise of taking twelve people with strong beliefs, say for
example a homophobic with a homosexual, and seeing how their relationship would
develop. The one person who pissed off enough of the other housemates would be voted
off. One person would be voted off per week. Not an entirely original premise for a
reality TV show, but if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

I gazed at The House, its columns and windows blinking at me like secrets in the sand.
Trees covered the property and I passed these now. Spruce, Balsam fir, Oak, Maple, Pine.
Even reality needed privacy. Their smell penetrated my nostrils, taking me back to
childhood days in swings and the high nests of tree limbs.
I was a consultant employed by the television station to monitor The House. Two days
ago we had lost all contact with those locked inside. And now I was here, standing before
the large structure, contemplating what went wrong. I was also stalling. I was a champion
procrastinator. I didn’t want to go in that house. My stomach told me that.
My cell phone shrilled in my pocket. I dug it out, instinctively covering it with my hands
to drown out the high-pitched squeal that it made. I flipped it open.
“Yes?”
“Hillary?” My boss, Louis Vellome, bellowed down the phone. No hello, hi how are you
pleasantries with him. Vellome was all business.
“Yes Louis?”
“Have you arrived?”
“Didn’t you receive my page?”
“Yes but I wanted to confirm it with you.”
“Well I’m here.”
“You go in yet?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You’d have to be here to understand. This place looks like it was ripped apart by Satan
having PMS on a bad hair day. I don’t think it’s safe.”
“We’re not paying you to think.”
“I know.”
“We’re paying you to do, Hillary.”
“I know Louis.”
“You’re our security consultant, if any of this gets out to the press-“

“I’ll deal with it, Louis.”
“But Hillary-“
“I said I’d deal with it.” I snapped the phone shut. God I hated men. Never knew when to
keep their mouths shut.
Now that the contact with Vellome had been ended, I wished I had kept him on the line a
bit longer. There was no sound except for the occasional breeze dancing in the leaves and
grass, a soft whisper my only company. The sun glinted off some shards of glass still
remaining in the windowpane and it blinded me for a moment. I closed my eyes,
wishing the blindness to last a little longer, just a minute; an hour, a second. I saw the
redness on the insides of my eyelids, the soft fuzzy blackness of eyes shocked by sun.
And opened my eyes again.
The House was still there. With the wind flowing through the cracks in the walls and the
broken windows, the place seemed to breathe, a high banshee wail that curled itself
around my hearing, blocking my thought. I came to the front door.
I paused there, knowing for certain that whatever I would see beyond this door would
change my life forever. I looked to the left of me. There was a steep rock incline, almost
a wall really; rocks falling down or peeking through the dirt. It would be impossible to
climb. I knew that if I had to get away, the only place I could run to was my car.
I opened the door.
It creaked open with a slowness that was reminiscent of molasses in January. Got to love
those old horror clichés. I felt like I was in a B-horror movie. If so, I should probably
have bigger breasts. My petite A cup would just have to do, though. I put a mock grimace
on my face to confront whatever would be in there and pushed the door open
wider, stepping quickly inside and closing the door before I lost my nerve.
The stench was overwhelming. I switched to breathing through my mouth, not that that
made things any better. Whereas before I was just smelling the stench, now I had tasted
it. It rested at the back of my throat, threatening to make me vomit. Ah the joys of life are
plenty, I thought wryly.
I closed my eyes, concentrating on my breathing, willing myself not to vomit, to think of

anything else but the smell in this house. Coffee, parties, the state of free trade, the Eiffel
Tower in Paris, push up bras, cotton candy, gum drop Sundays and afternoons reading a
Stephen King novel. My heat was racing, pumping, beating, pulsating. I reminded
myself not to have a heart attack, waiting until my breathing leveled out and opened my
eyes.
I was in the foyer. What was left of it. There was a large oval mirror facing me.

Something large had hit the glass in the centre; a fist. An object. Vein-like cracks
sprouted from this centre point, the cracks running along the glass until they all met at the
frame. I was looking at thousands of me, perfect clones of the original, if a bit smaller.
My thin black hair hung past my shoulders in straight locks, bangs allowing my blue eyes
to peek out from under their fringe. My pale skin looked even paler in the half-light of the
foyer and I felt so much smaller than my own five seven. I didn’t know if I was up for
this, for whatever it was that had made the cracks in the mirror. I wondered, vaguely,
whether or not I would get seven years bad luck looking into the mirror, even though I
didn’t break it. I was procrastinating again. A talent shaped by years of skill. I shook
myself and looked to the left, to the living room.
That’s when I saw the blood.
There were great huge smears of it, slashed deep into the bright orange fuzz of carpet.
The blood looked almost playful against the orange backdrop, a child’s playtime canvass
in primary colours.
The blood looked fresh, but drying. I walked over, slowly, painfully, to stand before it; I
didn’t look at anything else yet, I wasn’t sure I would like what I saw. I bent down and
touched it, watching as the blood smeared my fingers into the colour of cinnamon hearts
and cherry gumdrops. I rubbed my fingers on the carpet; I doubted whether or not a little
bit more blood would harm it.
I stood up, telling myself that it was Okay to look around, that there was nothing to be
afraid of. I closed my eyes for a second, breathed deep, opened them and looked into the
living room.
The head of a black man looked up at me from the floor, over by the recliner. The body
was lying several feet away, the feet visible behind the couch. The heads face had a
shocked look on it, almost a surprised one. But there was fear etched in the eyes which
had turned white after death. Blood had dried around the wound. I could see his neck
bone.
I am going to die, I am going to die; I kept hearing this, as if it was a premonition, an

omen, of what was to happen. I felt my heart skip a beat and forced myself to look deeper
into the room.
Lying sprawled on top of the living room coffee table was the dead body of a woman
with coffee coloured skin. She had been the slut girl for the show, forever showing her
breasts, wiggling her butt. She had been a stripper. When she was alive. She had what
looked like a rung from the stairwell which led to the second floor slammed in her back.
Or, by the looks of it, she had been impaled on it.
I turned from her, bile rising in my throat, bringing me face to face with the body of
Cody, the honors student that was supposed to be the shows academia. He was seated in

the living rooms Lazy-Boy, his throat slit and his left leg missing.
Sounds from the kitchen. Growls and rasps, spittle deep in the throat. Whatever had taken
Cody’s leg was eating it now. Ten paces from me. I heard its breathing catch even as I
tried to stop myself from throwing up. I vomited all over Cody’s face. It’s hard to be a
lady in the face of death. Let anyone tell me otherwise.
I could hear whatever it was sniff the air. It squealed high and long, like nails on a
chalkboard. I heard what I assumed were claws clicking on the tiled kitchen floor;
tickticktickticktickticktick. Ticktickticktickticktick. Another wail, nails on a chalkboard, a
screech of tires in a car collision. My heart skipped, skipped, tripped. I had stopped
breathing, moving, thinking.
I saw parts of my life flash before my eyes. I know, terribly cliché, but there it is. I could
hear the thing at the door, something, its tail maybe, sending dishes on the table to the
floor. There was a hiss and talons slashed through the wall in front of me. The thing
looked at me, its eyes black as night through those thin, long holes. It smelled me more
clearly now.
I was contemplating running for the door when it happened. My pager went off with a
shrill, loud beeeeeeep, beeeeeeeep, beeeeeep, its tone matching the shrill scream of the
animal, the thing, as it crashed through the wall and jumped straight for my throat. The
beep of the pager had distracted me long enough so that the thing had made its move. The
last thing I saw, before the thing crushed my windpipe with its long black lizard like tail
was the name of the person who had paged me. Louis Vellome. Just couldn’t leave me
alone to do my job, could he?
Bastard.

Crow Dreams Vibrant
The crow had returned.
Poppy locked eyes with it through the thin glass of her bedroom window. A shiver
always passed down her spine when she saw it and she felt it now; cold, icy. Intoxicating.
Even fear could be an aphrodisiac.
She wondered what it wanted from her. It returned to her window ledge day in, day out. It
made no sound but a fluttering of wings and black feathers, a rustling of shadows and
darkness. Part of her wanted to open the window and let it in, but she was wary to do so.
There was something about the crow, perhaps the intelligence in its eyes that chilled her,
even as it excited her. In fact, the crow made her slightly horny.
Poppy put her left hand against the glass, palm flat, fingers spread out, as if she could
reach through the glass and ruffle the birds' feathers. The crow cocked its head to the
right, blinked and began to peck at the glass.
She kept her hand there, hoping, for some unknown reason, that the carrion birds' beak
would break through and pierce her skin, the blood from her palm sliding across the
glass. She envisioned secrets pouring from it's beak into her bloodstream, filling her head
with dreams and visions. She would become a visionary, much like the Delphi Oracle,
revealing bits of the future by telling parts of the past.
The crow looked at Poppy with dark red eyes, cawed once and smashed a hole through
the glass. It happened so fast; Poppy was shocked to see that her fantasy had come true.
She was bleeding from a deep, round gouge that the crows' beak had made in the centre
of her palm. The blood trickled down towards her wrist and, without thinking; she put her
hand to her mouth and licked the wound.
The crow cawed again. You could hear the wind blowing outside, the sound made more
eerie by the hole in the glass. To Poppy, it sounded as if spirits had come to her,
whispering their secrets to her, though she could not understand them.

Her hand began to throb and sting as if it had fallen asleep and she had shaken the blood
within it. Her blood tasted dark, seductive, sexual. She looked at the blood that now ran
down her arm and ran her tongue from elbow to palm in hopes of swallowing, tasting,
herself. She felt that she could eat herself whole, from the inside out, reveling in her own
blood for the sake of becoming something other than herself.
The throbbing in Poppy's hand dulled and was replaced with a low grade hum. A subtle
Mmmmmmmmmmmm that filled her bones with warmth; like honey poured over her skin,
Poppy felt as if she were inside a womb, a bubble. Her skin began to grow hot and sweat
began to pour off her brow. "What's happening to me?" she said out loud. That sounded
cliché, even to her. "What's going on?" No, she thought, that was no better. She would
not fare well as a horror movie heroine, she thought wryly.
The hum sounded like the buzzing of bees, or like electricity thumping through her at full
volume. Her body seemed to pulsate with that hum, those vibrations. The crow still stared
at her with its red eyes. It cawed again, as if to say it knew exactly what was going on.
"Then tell me, damn you." Poppy said. The crow blinked back at her and remained silent.
"ANSWER ME!" she screeched, her voice raising several octaves, the smokiness of her
voice becoming shrill and crass; until it wasn't a voice at all. She was cawing. With a
clarity that bordered on awe, Poppy realized that she was different, that she was
changing. She was becoming.
The hum that ran through her body began to scream; pain shot up her arm and slashed
into her head with a sound not unlike a police siren. Poppy fell to the ground, clutching
her head in her hands, blood now running from her eyes like tears. She felt that her entire
body would explode from the inside out.
Make it stop, she thought. It became a mantra, all running together.

Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop. And, with a brilliant flash of light, her wish was
answered. Poppy opened her eyes to discover everything that had been in colour was now
in shades of black and grey and white. It was as if someone had popped out her eyes and
placed a black and white television in her sockets instead. The world was devoid of
colour.
The crow cawed at her from the windowsill. It smashed it's beak into the glass, making
the hole in the pane larger. Her blood decorated the serrated edges of the glass and the
crow stuck out its little black tongue and licked, no, savoured her blood.
When the crows tongue made contact with Poppy's blood, a sound, a clack, resounded
inside Poppy's head. The world seemed a little bit clearer. A little bit more bearable.
Something was different. The wind whistled past the hole in the window. Except now it
sounded like music, notes hung in the air falling to the ground and shattering round her.
She looked down at herself and cawed in surprise. She had grown feathers. And clawed
feet. And she heard voices.

No, that wasn't quite right. It was a voice, repeated a million times. It was as if the owner
of the voice didn't know which voice he was comfortable with, or as if the voice itself
was surrounded by water. There was a rush of air before the voice spoke.
"...You are angry with me..."
Poppy shook her head and cawed. And realised something else. Much like Alice through
the Rabbit-hole, she had changed, became, developed. She was a crow, black winged and
raven feathered.
Poppy tried to speak, but could only caw. Then she understood. The voice she was
hearing was inside of her head. Inside her.
How can I be angry if I don't even know what's happened? she thought.
"...I have made you into the stuff of dreams... and nightmares..."
"You've transformed me."
"...Correct..."
"Why?"
"...Because…it was your wish…by the sacrifice of your blood…you have become the
stuff of shadows..." The crow said.
"But I didn't ask for this…why did you change me?" Red tears formed in the black
feathers around her eyes. They fell to the floor to mingle with the blood that had slipped
in amongst the cracks in the floorboards of her room.
"...Through your blood, we are connected... change is necessary in life... but you will
always remain what you were... You were chosen..."
"For what?"
"To be a Guardian for the Souls of the Dead."
Poppy had heard tales of crows who were guardians for the souls of those who had died,
taking their souls from the land of the living to the land of the dead. The crow saw that
she understood and nodded.
"But what about my human form?" The voice in her head had reached a fever pitch.
"...You will learn to change on command…just think on it, breathe your other form, and
the change will happen..."

Poppy did this now, stretching her wings, imagining that her feathers were fingers,
imagined pushing out of her bird form, forcing the shell of feathers off of her. She
watched, in amazement, as shadows lingered slowly across the floor, stretching and
bending, twisting themselves in to a parody of flesh. In a flash of light, blood red pain
and a screech from her throat, she was herself again. But not herself. She could still hear
the rush of air, her connection with the crow forever lodged within her bloodstream.
"...I will come for you tomorrow night..." The crow said. "We have work to do." And
with a flutter of black, the crow was gone.
Poppy looked down at her hand. Where the crow had bitten her was a small black mark,
shaped like a wing. She approached the glass, and pressed her forehead against it. It was
cool against her skin.
The night called to her now. And tomorrow, she would claim it as her own.

Bus of the Dead
Thick fog rolled along the ground in waves. Clouds of it billowed around Claudia like
cloth or cotton candy. A dark sky stood watch over the streets streaked wet with rain, coal
black and gray. Lights shimmered in amongst the fog, orbs of light that blinked like eyes
when a breeze forced the fog to change position.
It was early in the morning and the sun was still hiding behind its hills and plains, waiting
patiently to rise again and reclaim her throne. But there were still a few more hours to
daylight. Claudia didn't mind the night however; she welcomed it, wrapped it around her
like a warm winter jacket. She felt safe in the dark. She felt anonymous. She craved
anonymity like she craved chocolate. Both were her passion.
She was waiting for the number 8 bus, tired but ready to start another day at the office
where she sold her soul each and every week. Claudia hated working in the corporate
atmosphere, but it paid the bills. Even if she did sacrifice her vision and her art to do it.
She kicked herself in the but mentally for not finishing that canvass last night, but it had
been close to midnight and she had had to get up at 5am to get ready to go to work. She
stared longingly at the canvass over breakfast, bold slashes of blue, bright flashes of
yellow and red. It called to her, begged her to pick up her brushes and her pastels; but she
just didn't have the time.
That was the problem with a lot of things these days. It all came down to not having
enough time. She remembered when she was able to spend whole days on her art,
scratching away with a pencil or a paintbrush. Not so anymore. It saddened her to admit
that her art had been moved to the back burner, and she made a promise to herself to
correct that.
She looked at her watch. Ten past 6 am. The bus was late again. Typical. Busses in
Garden City were less than reliable. The streets were terribly quiet without any cars on
them either. Claudia shivered and burrowed deeper into her jacket. For the first time in as

long as she could remember, Claudia felt afraid. She knew that she could handle herself if
it came down to it, but normally standing at a bus stop at all hours of the night didn't
bother her one bit. It did today, and perhaps she should have listened to her inner self and
gone right home; but a day missed was money out of her pocket and things were tight
enough as it was.
Fog rolled along the streets, billowing smoke that snaked across the pavement. Claudia
looked up from her book to see a bus approaching her. Finally, she thought, she was
freezing her ass off out here. She hated busses in Garden City. They were either really
early or late. Either way you ended up waiting for them.
Instead of the bus displaying the number 8 in orange-yellow lights, the bus had instead a
word. This in itself was not unusual; busses regularly had things like "Charter" or "Out of
service" displayed. What was strange, though, was the word this bus displayed. It said,
simply, "Hope". Great, Claudia thought. Now I'll have to wait longer for the damn bus.
She looked at her watch. She wasn't too worried about being late; she always left herself
plenty of time to get to work.
She stuck her nose back in her book and stepped back from the curb, so the bus driver
would know she didn't want to get on. To her surprise, the bus did stop, the doors opened
and the bus driver called out to her: "I'll take you where you need to go." He said.
Claudia blinked in surprise. The bus looked like there was smoke issuing from its open
door. Probably more damn fog, Claudia thought. Must be more tired than I thought. "No
thanks," she said. "I'm waiting for the number eight."
"I'll take you where you need to go." The driver said again.
Claudia shrugged and figured a warm bus was a warm bus and hopped on. The doors
closed behind her and she flipped open her bus pass for the bus driver to see. "No need."
He said. "Thanks though." He smiled at her.
She shrugged again and headed down the isle of the bus to find a seat. The bus was pretty
full so she ended up sitting beside an older woman who was dressed in an old pink silk
dress; her hair was done up in a white bun that rested comfortably at the top of her head
and half moon spectacles sat on the end of her nose.
To her left was a man with skin so black, it was darker than dreams itself. He smiled at
her, three of his front teeth golden. He wore large, dark sunglasses and smelt faintly of
lemons and jasmine.
Claudia looked out the window and saw nothing but blackness. No lights, no Ottawa side
walks. Nothing. Just one large, black landscape of nothing. Claudia walked up to the bus
driver. "Um, excuse me," she said. "Where exactly are we? I need to get to Hull for seven
in the morning."

"We don't talk about time here." The driver said.
"But I need to get to work; my boss is going to be pretty pissed if I don't show up on
time."
"That doesn't matter anymore, Claudia."
She gasped. "How did you know my name?"
"I know pretty much everything there is to know." The Driver said. "You're on the Bus of
the Dead."
She stood there for what seemed an eternity, not sure she heard correctly. It wasn't until
she became aware of a warm pair of hands taking a hold of her that she realized she had
lost track of herself. She turned to see the old woman leading her back to her seat.
"Now Harold," the old woman chided, "you don't go spewing it all out in your first
breath, now you've scared the poor woman. Just died and all, and you're trying to kill her
again."
"But I'm not dead!" Claudia screeched, "What makes you say I'm dead?"
"Calm yourself, dear, calm yourself. My names Eulalee." The old woman smiled. "Let's
get you a cuppa tea and calm yourself down."
Claudia was vaguely aware of Eulalee leading her back to her seat and a hot cup of tea
being pressed to her lips. Where they had gotten the tea for her was anyone's guess, but
she drank it anyway, letting the hot tea scald and burn her mouth. Unfortunately, even
when the tears caused by the hot tea cleared, she was still on the bus.
More tea was handed to her. It smelt of honey and cloves. The scent seemed to bring her
back to reality. Whatever that was.
"So where am I?"
"It's as Harold told you, dear. You're on the Bus of the Dead. It's a bit melodramatic
sounding, I know it, but it's true. I myself have been riding this bus for near thirty years."
Claudia was quiet for a few moments, her head pondering over what she had just been
told. Finally, she turned to Eulalee. "So, how long have you been dead?"
"Thirty years."
"You've been riding the bus for thirty years."
"Not just any bus, dear. This bus. It's where you go when you're not able to cross over."

"Why can't you cross over?"
"I don't know. I guess I will once I figure that out. But I find I'm able to talk to tons of
wonderful people this way, staying in limbo. You, for instance."
"But I'm not dead."
"This is the Bus of the Dead. How can you be on it if you haven't died?"
"Wouldn't I remember dying?"
"Of course. Everyone remembers their death."
"Well I don't have a memory of mine."
"Then perhaps you're not dead."
"But you just said-"
"Never mind what I said, listen to what I'm saying. Perhaps you're not dead. The only
way to find out is to step off of this bus."
"I'll do that now, then."
Eulalee put a hand on her arm. "You won't want to be doing that."
"Why not?"
"Because, if you are dead, this bus is the only thing that keeps you alive. Until you cross
over if you ever do. If you step out of this bus as a dead woman, you would melt into
nothing. I've seen it happen. The skin goes first. Then the eyes."
"But I was alive when I stepped onto the bus."
"And so is everyone else."
"So where does that leave me?"
"Where ever you want to be."
"Are you always so confusing?"
"The world is naught but confusion, Claudia. Best to remember that."
Claudia thought for a moment. The situation she had found herself in was right out of a
novel, or a bad horror movie. She knew that she had been alive when she had stepped

onto the bus twenty minutes ago. Or had she been? Would she be on the Bus of the Dead
if she was still alive?
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained." Said a voice.
Claudia turned to her left to see the black man smiling at her. "I'm sorry?" she said.
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You won't know until you try. I speak from
experience."
"Now Claude," Eulalee said. "Don't go confusing the poor girl. She was just making up
her mind to stay on the bus."
"Don't put words into her mouth that ain't there, Eulalee. You have a big mouth and it's
annoyed me for years. Let the girl decide for herself." Claude turned to her. "Listen, I've
been riding this bus for longer than anyone, forty years and then some. I don't remember
why I can't cross over and can't say I mind this bus much either. But you have the chance
to live, Claudia. To really live. Why would you deny yourself that??"
Claudia, with tears in her eyes, squeezed Claude's hand. "Stop the bus!" she shouted.
"What are you doing?" Eulalee said.
"Learning to live." Claudia replied.
Claudia walked up to the open bus door. She knew that if she was dead, she would be
nothing. On the other hand, if she wasn't…
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and stepped out of the bus.

13
The Edison Tower was built in the 1980’s, during a time when modern things made a
huge leap towards popularity. Concrete buildings popped up all over, much to the dismay
of Green Peace activists and tree-hugging environmentalists.
The Edison Tower stood, tall and phallic, in the downtown core of downtown Garden
City and was home to many businesses. It was also home to the largest horde of pigeons
this side of kingdom come. Hence the building’s nickname: Dive Bomb Alley.
The building was a huge monstrosity. A massive modern structure of brick, mortar,
concrete and glass. But it differed from other monstrosities of its kind in one notable way.
It had a thirteenth floor. Not a thirteenth floor that is labeled the fourteenth; but an actual
floor numbered thirteen.
It is common knowledge that few buildings have a thirteenth floor, due to the unpopular
and unlucky qualities the number processes. But the architect of the Edison Building, one
Harold Robinson, didn’t subscribe to something so namby-pamby as superstition. He was
a sensible man after all, and sensible men kept their heads above their shoulders and
above water.
Oddly enough, though, superstition believed in Harold Robinson.
The circumstances surrounding his disappearance are still debated to this day. No one is
really sure what happened to the uptight, grumpy man who used to wander around his
creations looking for faults. He would be seen many a lunch hour, looking up at the
marble in the lobby, the DayGlo paint in the first-floor smokers lounge, the tinted glass
windows in the penthouse office. He was always around, which is why it was so odd that
one day, he just wasn’t there at all.
Marjorie Velquist, the receptionist in the lobby, was the first person to suspect some sort
of foul play. On June 9th, 1987, three years after the buildings creation and two weeks
after the disappearance of it’s creator, Marjorie approached her boss.
Valerie Stevens was a little blond harlot who had slept her way to her present position as
head of Human Resources. Marjorie hated her. Valerie was an uptight, snobbish, prudish

egocentric with too much make up and far too much hair spray in her teased bob of
bottled blond sunshine. She was also an outright bitch and wouldn’t think twice about
stabbing anyone in the back to get what she wanted. Marjorie was not alone in hating her.
Some even loathed her. One person actually wanted to kill her.
Marjorie knocked on the door, opening it when she heard the terse “Come!” from inside
Valerie’s office. Today, the harlot was wearing a black power suit with a skirt so short
the whole world was her gynecologist. Hate bubbled under Marjorie’s skin.
“Ms. Stevens?”
“What is it Madge?”
“Marjorie. It’s about Mr. Robinson.”
“The architect? What about him?”
“He seems to have disappeared.”
“Look, Midge,”
“Marjorie.”
“Whatever. I don’t have time to worry about one lost architect. You go look for him
yourself. Do it on your lunch break, mind. I don’t want you wasting company time.”
Marjorie bit her tongue, closed Valerie’s office door and headed out for a cigarette. She
needed to breathe in fresh air and kill her lungs a bit at the same time. She was always
very good at multi-tasking.
She lit a cigarette, struck once more by how warm it was for an early October day in
Garden City (thank you Global Warming) and took a puff. Smoke invaded her lungs and
she was grateful for it. Despite what her doctor said about smoking being bad for her, it
calmed her and reduced her stress level. She paid homage to the Nicotine Goddess daily.
Several times daily.
As she smoked, she began to think about Harold Robinson. Where the hell would he have
gone? Before talking to Valerie, she had phoned his home, his office and his mothers, all
with no answer except for Mrs. Robinson. His mother had sounded distraught.
“Have you found my son?” she asked.
“No, but I’m going to find him.” Marjorie reassured her.
“Please,” Ms. Robinson said. “Please, anything you can do…please…”

The woman seemed to repeat the word as if it were her new mantra, begging. It was the
please that made Harold stick in Marjorie’s memory so vividly. Dark whip of hair, dark
eyes, pale skin. Kind of sexy in a cannibalistic bad boy sort of way. She wouldn’t rest
until she found him. Or had at least tried her best. You couldn’t expect a miracle on a
half-hour lunch break, she thought.
But where should she start? There were a number of places, she was sure, that a person
could disappear to, but she had no idea about the kind of places that Harold favored, let
alone frequented. She decided to start in the spot that Harold was famous for: the 13th
Floor. It sounds so ominous, she thought, as she stubbed out her cigarette. Like it’s a
curse or something. She chuckled to herself, watching the elevator numbers light up, as
the elevator made it’s decent. Her chariot was here.
The doors opened with a bing and she stepped inside. She pressed the number “13” and
watched as the doors closed. Marjorie had never been to the 13th Floor. There had never
been any need to go there. She supposed she ought to have checked it out sooner, but
there weren’t even any offices up there, everyone being wary of the lore surrounding it.
She wasn’t sure what she was expecting to see, but certainly not what her eyes beheld
when the doors slid open.
In the center of the room was a large, round mirror. It had silver scrollwork around its
edges and words written amongst the design. She approached it slowly.
There was nothing else on the entire vast floor but this mirror, no light but from a few
cracks in the hundreds of blinds where sunshine was sneaking its way in. But the great,
empty room, especially the area in front of the mirror, seemed to glow, the floor itself
shinning in a silver frost. Marjorie found herself aching to touch this frosty stillness, this
glowing beacon. But she approached it slowly. Carefully, bending close but keeping her
hands to herself, she read the writing.
Desire bleeds into fantasy and fantasy is nothing but dreams made into reality.
Marjorie puzzled over this. Surely it was a strange thing to write around a mirror? She
stared at it for some time, waiting for some inspiration or sign to come to her. When none
did, she reached out and touched it.
Two things happened: The air around her suddenly became chillingly cold and still. And
her hand sank into the mirror.
She pulled back in shock, her skin cold and clammy. She stared at her hand as if it were
some foreign object that belonged not to her body, but someone else’s. She was left with
a feeling of awe. And one of certainty.

She was certain that Harold Robinson had stepped into this mirror. Perhaps he had
stumbled upon a gate to another world, to some great expanse of imagination. Perhaps
this was also the reason that there were no thirteenth floors in buildings, they tore the
fabric of time and space. It was a shot in the dark, but she didn’t have that many bullets to
begin with and she might as well make the shots count. What’s on the other side? She
thought.
Knowing she could not turn back now and having nothing much to live for (a dead end
job, no family, no boyfriend, no savings), Marjorie Velquist made a decision. Feeling a
bit like Alice through the looking glass, she stepped into the mirror…
…And into the world of dreams made into a reality.
THE GARDEN CITY TRIBUNE
“... the circumstances surrounding her disappearance are vague. Witnesses report
seeing Ms. Velquist enter the main elevator from the lobby of the building around
11:30 a.m. on the 9th of June. She never returned.
When interviewed about Ms. Velquist's disappearance, her former employer Valerie
Stevens said that she is sorry for the loss. “Midge was a great employee. She will be
missed.”
Police ask that anyone who has any information concerning Ms. Velquist’s
disappearance to contact….
The 13 Floor remains cold and cool. Mist still dances on the floor when light reflects off
of the mirror. Some say that, if you listen closely, you can hear a man and a woman
laughing somewhere in the distance…

Crossroads
Jamieson Wolf Villeneuve
She handed me a book. I looked at the brown paper cover and noticed a rip in the front of
it. There seemed to be words written on the original cover underneath; pencil scratches,
symbols. It didn’t look like any kind of writing I had ever seen before.
“Pay no mind to that. You don’t need to read that.” Karma said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing important. The important thing is that we’ve rekindled our friendship. Isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I said, not really sure whether or not I agreed with her.
“I forgive you for what you’ve done, Owen. I really do. This book is just a token of my
affection. We’ve been friends for such a long time.”
In truth, it was Karma who needed my forgiveness. But Karma had a way of rewriting
things, stretching the truth to suit her. Instead of pointing this out, I kept quiet. Why argue
with a stone wall? “Five years, give or take.” I said instead.
“So, should we not bury the hatchet?”
Want as I was to do so, I still could not shake the feeling that there was something else at
work here. Something that I didn’t quite understand. I nodded, mumbled some
acknowledgement and ascended the stairs to my apartment.
Once upstairs, I put the book on the table by the phone and went into the living room to
have a smoke. Lighting up the cigarette, I studied the flame from my lighter. How could
such a small flame cause so much destruction? I watched as the flame twisted and turned,
bending this way and that in the air currents around it. The flame seemed to lick the air,
coating it in hot secrets.
I watched as Mave, my cat, looked at the book and hissed at it. “What’s wrong, baby?” I
cooed. She growled deep in her throat and stalked towards me. Bending down to pick her
up, I looked into her eyes. Reflected in them, I saw the book, it’s archaic symbols poking
through the holes in the paper. It looked harmless enough; an ordinary volume of words
wrapped in brown paper. But somehow, I knew better.

That night, I dreamt.
The sky above me was dark with smoky wisps of cloud drifting slowly by, creating a
sparse landscape. Sometimes, even the sky is quiet. A few stars winked on and off in the
blue-black canvass, seemingly guiding my way.
And it seemed indeed I was being guided. I walked across a great expanse of grass,
feeling the dew on it’s blades soak my feet within seconds. I made my way toward a large
tree, it’s trunk long and knotted, bending first to the right and then to the left, erupting in
a score of branches that seemed to stretch into forever.
I felt softness at my legs. I looked down to find Mave’s lamp-like eyes glowing up at me.
I picked her up and she nestled comfortably against my shoulder and chest. “Are you
dreaming too?” I asked. I received a deep purr in response. She nuzzled my neck and
turned her gaze to the branches of the tree. She meowed with urgency and I followed her
gaze.
There, in the branches of the ancient tree, was a little girl. She was pretty in an ordinary
way. Sapphire eyes complimented a too small snub nose and a petite pretty mouth. White
blond hair wrapped around her face. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” She said.
“Are you a ghost?” I asked.
“I am time forgotten. My body is there.” She pointed to a branch closer to where Mave
and I stood and I wondered how I could have missed the corpse handing from the tree by
a rough length of rope. The girls’ body hung limp from the cord, twisting and turning in
the wind that seemed to be slowly gathering strength. Her dead eyes were still open and
seemed to pierce my skin; a shiny penetrating gleam. I felt very cold all of a sudden, as if
water ran in my body instead of blood.
“Why are you showing me this?” My voice was a whisper.
“What else is there to see?” The girl retorted. She smiled down at me. “While there is
little to see, there is plenty to hear. Listen,” She said, cupping a hand to her ear. “Their
voices ride the wind like horses through time. Listen,” She said again. “Close your eyes.”

“I did and I felt Mave begin to shiver. I held her closer and muttered sweet nothings to
her, which seemed to calm her. Soon, she was purring again.
I strained my ears toward the silence, the sound of nothing, the sound of lifeless night.
The air was quiet. Not a peep came out of the surrounding woods. That seemed odd.
Even a dream forest must have some life to it?
I felt a weight in my hands that was heavier than Mave. Where she had been, I was
clutching a book in my hands. The Book. I looked up at the girl questioningly. “Open the
paper, Owen.” I did so without waiting to ask how she knew my name.
On the hard cover of the book were symbols drawn in a cruel hand; swirls and shapes,
lines and marks. A language that made no sense to my mundane brain, trapped as it was
in the throws of sleep. “What is it?” I asked.
The girl held a finger to her lips, silencing me. As I watched, three women made their
way toward the tree over a wide expanse of hilltop. They were all shaped like Karma in
different stages of her life. All three of them had a black cloud around the, an aura of gray
that made their skin seem pallid and bland.
“There is no love there.” The girl whispered. “There is no hope.”
“What am I to do?” I asked.
“Do not give power to those that do not deserve it.” She said. She began to fade slowly,
as if she were only a photograph slowly tearing itself loose from the world, forming back
in the world that had pasted it into ours.
“Wait!” I whispered urgently.
“Yes?” She smiled softly, the curves of her mouth pulling back to reveal beautiful white
teeth.
“Who…what are you?” I asked.
“Whatever you need me to be.” Said the girl. And then she was gone.

Awake again.
I watched Mave scratching intently at the book, ripping away the brown paper with her
claws. Revealing, bit-by-bit, pieces of that awful writing. It made my blood burn to see it,
set my eyes afire.
Taking the book out to the back of the house, I pulled out the can of gasoline that was
always under the porch for the lawnmower. I pulled out a pack of matches. Karma must
have sense something, some untold current in the air. She came out the back door, just as
I had finished dousing the book with the gas.
“Owen?” She said. There was a tremor in her voice, a tremor of fear. “What are you
doing? What are you doing with the book?
“I am at a crossroads.” I said. I broke a match from the pack and struck it on the brown
strip of flint. It caught fire with a chick-fizz sound. I recalled the dancing flame of my
lighter and thought of this flame as its mate. “Our paths go in different directions. This is
where we part ways.”
I dropped the match. Time seemed to slow down as we watched it fall. At the last instant
before the match touched the books cover, I heard Karma utter a horrified “NO!” and
waited for the book to catch fire.
The book erupted in a spurt of flame that seemed to fly off of the book in snake’s
tongues. As the book burned, so did Karma. The flame erupted around her in much the
same way; a large tongue of flame that engulfed her in one blow. The book and it’s
maker burned at the same time, somehow linked together, somehow one.
As the book and it’s maker burned, I could hear Karma calling me filthy names, words
too dirty to cross my lips, words I had never heard before, spoken no doubt in that
language that covered the books covers. The fire was so bright, I had to shield my eyes
from its glare and step back lest the fire reach out its fingers to set me alight.
I reached inside my shirt pocket and took out a cigarette. I heard the chick-fizz sound of
the flame, as it burnt brightly, touched it’s tip to the cigarette and pictured myself
drawing its flame into my body. I took a drag of the smoke and waited.
When the fire had run itself out, when there was only a pile of ash to be blown by the
winds fingers, I smiled.

Religion
Jamieson Wolf Villeneuve
The following story is based on true events…
“Jason said he’s going to start a new religion on the spot.” Clay said.
Clay snapped his gum. I was calling him from work on my lunch break. It had been a
long day and the last thing I wanted to do was start talking about religion. It always
seemed to stir people up. My mother once told me: “There are two things you don’t talk
about: religion and politics. Best to keep those to yourself”.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You know that book you got from Lynn? The one I love so much?”
“The book with the yellow cover? I don’t know; I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.”
“Well, Jason’s been flipping through it and he says he’s going to be a Buddhist now.”
“Really?” I replied. “He must love the book. What’s it called?”
“The Buddha Within.”
“Hmm…” I said. “Is it good?”
“Good? Good?!” Clay replied. “It’s so great, it’s amazing. Everything in it makes so
much sense. I think I’m going to convert.”
“You’re an Atheist.”
“Well, then it’s about time I pick a religion isn’t it?”

“I suppose, but isn’t this all rather sudden?”
“What do you mean?”
“First you believe in nothing and now you’re a Buddhist?”
“Jason’s a Buddhist.”
“Yeah, after reading that book.”
“So why can’t I be a Buddhist?” He whined. I wasn’t in the mood for whining. It had
been a long day.
“Whatever Clay, listen, I’ll be home later alright?”
“Sure. Love you.”
“Love you too.” I hung up the phone and shook my head. If Clay wanted to be a Buddhist
that was fine with me, who was I to criticize? A religion would do him good, I thought.
Give him something to live for aside from soap opera’s and bon bon’s.
On the bus on the way home, I noticed three other people reading their copies of “The
Buddha Within”. Walking home from the bus stop, I saw two others reading it. Odd, I
thought. Seems to be a popular book.
I got home late. Warily, I climbed the stairs to my apartment and shuffled into my home.
My cat, Mave, greeted me. “Hi, baby.” I said. “Clay!” I called out, “I’m home!”
“I’m in the living room!” he shouted back.
The living room was unrecognizable. In the space of a day it had gone from comfortable
to what I now saw: a veritable oriental palace. The walls were covered in red fabric;
black trim decorated the edges of the window frames, Chinese lanterns hung from the
ceiling. Clay was seated on the floor on a large red pillow in the classic stance of
meditation.
“What the hell did you do?” I asked.
“I decorated. Like it?” Clay replied.
I had to admit that I did and said as much to him. “Jason built a meditation garden out
back, go look.” He said.
“This is all because of the book, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it said to make your home a shrine. You have to read it, hon. It helps everything
make sense.”
“Some other time,” I grumbled. I went downstairs and out to the backyard to where
Jason was seated in his meditation garden, in as much the same position as Clay upstairs.
“Hey Jason.” I said.
“Owen,” he said, “how was work?”
“Boring. You’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, Lee’s helped out too. What do you think?” The backyard was now an oasis of
calm. Palms had been erected at its entrance; terraces covered with Chinese lanterns,
stones led the way to a fountain at the yard centre in front of which Jason meditated.
“Lee helped?”
“Yeah, she’s read The Book too.”
“The Book?”
“You know, The Buddha Within. You should read it Owen, everything makes sense.
Lee’s a Buddhist now too.”
As long as I had known her, Lee had been a devout Pagan. Buddhism was the farthest
thing from her mind. Or so I thought. However, Jeason’s statements were confirmed
when Lee came out to the backyard dressed in a kimono. “Buddha blesses you Owen!”
she said.
“What?” I replied, shocked.
“Buddha blesses you! He loves all of his children.”
“But you’re Pagan.”
Lee and Jeff all but hissed at the mention of Paganism. “We do not acknowledge any
other religion other than Buddhism. Paganism is dead to me.” She said. “Buddha is my
way of life.”
“After you read the book...”
“Yes, after I read the book.” Lee smiled. “It helped everything make sense, Owen! Have
you read “The Buddha Within” yet?”
“No, I haven’t.”

“But why not? You must read The Book; it’s too good to put down!”
“It’s all good; I have other stuff to read right now.” I said. I was beginning to feel
something growing in the pit of my stomach. It was fear. Something was wrong here.
“You gotta read the book, man.” Jeff said. “Here,” he said handing me his copy, “read
mine.”
“No, really, it’s all good.”
“I insist.” He said.
“It’s alright.” I said and ran to the front of the house. There was a group of people in the
street and they were fast approaching me. Eight or nine people in total. Each held a copy
of “The Buddha Within” in their hands. It looked as if they were using them as talismans
against a foe.
“Have you read the book?” One woman called out.
“He hasn’t,” Said a man. “You can see it in his eyes.”
I turned around, intent on going inside the house, only to find Lee, Jason and Clay
blocking my path. Each had their copy of “The Buddha Within” clasped to their chests.
Their eyes glowed yellow.
I felt the fear in my stomach tighten. It was going to be a long night.

Where there is no imagination there is no
Horror.
Arthur Conan Doyle, Sr.

House of Sorrow
There stands
The House of Sorrow;
Crosses lined up
Like picket fences
Decorate the sacred ground.
Flat rocks
Like over turned tomb stones
Leads a pathway
To the recently deceased;
While a choir,
Singing sweetly of death,
Laments their passing,
Bathed in the blood red
Of stained glass. Film of Tomorrow
Black and white film

Runs through my vision
Blinding me to the present
As I am treated to the past.
I blink in surprise,
Stopping the film
For a brief second,
When I see someone
Who looks like me
Walk away
With my future.

Infectious Dreams
Sometimes at night
I can feel it running through my system,
The thoughts and desires
That some call dreams.
I long to realize them,
Fulfill them,
Drink them up like cheap champagne
That coats my tongue like smoke.
HUMANS CAN'T FLY I long to fly,
To feel my heart race
Bliss can be found With anticipation.
In the oddest of moments: All I can feel, though,
That feeling of accomplishment Are my dreams,
When you think you can fly; Racing through me,
Or that sweet, sensual As I lie beneath
Moment of pleasure A mound of earth.
Before the pain sets in

A grandmother pretends she doesn't know
who you are on Halloween.
Erma Bombeck

Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride
Warner Brothers, 2005
I LOVE Tim Burton flicks. I’ve seen each and every one of his films time and time again.
However, each and every time, I’ve been surprised with his movies. They have always
been more than I expected. They entrance, they amaze and “Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride”
is no exception.
Based on a European folk tale, “Corpse Bride” is the story of Victor. Living in a small
Victorian town in the 1800’s, he is engaged to be married to a woman named Victoria
whom he has never met. When he does meet Victoria, however, he realizes how much he
DOES want to be married to her, that love at first sight does exist. There is only one
problem: The Corpse Bride.
After fumbling with the vows during the wedding rehearsal, Victor runs to the forest and
practices his vows until he gets them right; and places the ring on the outstretched hand
of the Corpse Bride. She takes his practice vows for the real thing and takes Victor down
to the Underworld. Emily loves Victor, the man who can love her even in death. But what
will happen when Victor tries to get back to the woman he loves in the world of the
living? Only death will tell….
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I went to see “Corpse Bride” the first time.
Now, I made a fatal mistake here: I went expecting the film to be like a non-musical
version of one of my all time favorite Tim Burton flicks “The Nightmare Before
Christmas”. How wrong I was. For, while the film WAS done in stop animation, “Corpse
Bride” was NOTHING like it’s predecessor. I judged the film by what I saw in the
previews AND I formed preconceived expectations of what I would be seeing. That’s a
big Tim Burton No No.
I was astonished, therefore, within the first five minutes of the film to realize that it WAS
in fact a musical. It didn’t have nowhere near the number of songs and huge numbers that
“Nightmare” had, but it WAS a musical. If there’s anything I’ve learnt with Tim Burton
films it’s this: Don’t go to the theatre with preconceived notions; they will be blown into

smithereens. “Corpse Bride” shattered all of them for me. The film, while certainly not as
lively as “Nightmare” was beautiful, haunting, gorgeous, lyrical, and heartbreaking.
At first, I was really put off by “Corpse Bride”. It wasn’t what I thought it was going to
be, and I was a little pissed off. Even as I left the theatre, I was still ticked at the non-
splashy ending. It was only after I thought about the film for a good week that I realized
that there was nothing bad about it. “Corpse Bride” may have been told in stop motion
animation, but it had a deeper message than “Nightmare”. It was a beautiful, lyrical film
and it was only my own preconceived expectations that were getting in the way of the
films enjoyment. I can’t express in words how much this film moved me, after I got my
expectations out of the way.
I went to see the film a second time, just to give it a fair shot. I am SO glad I did. I was
blown away by how beautiful the movie was and left the theatre thinking of “Corpse
Bride” again; this time in an excellent light. More profound than “A Nightmare Before
Christmas”, “Corpse Bride” really IS art in motion.
“Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride” continues to haunt me. I may even go see it for a third
time. It’s the perfect movie for Halloween and makes even death look beautiful. Go see
this while it’s still in theatres. You won’t be sorry.
Jamieson Wolf

Catherine Hanrahan
Lost Girls and Love Hotels
“I sell my time and kill my body…”
Margaret is a woman who lives for the downward spiral. Fleeing from Canada to escape
her past, Margaret settles in Tokyo to work for Air-Pro Stewardess Training Institute.
There, she immerses herself in drugs and sex to forget her family and repress memories
of her brother Frank: The brother who tried to kill her.
Sharing an apartment with her friend Ines, another fellow Canadian, Margaret ingests
illegal substances, drinks herself into stupors and tries to ignore her past and where she
came from. Drugs and booze will only blind for a moment; sex gives her another outlet,
another way to forget, while hands are caressing her body.
Margaret? Margaret I need you to call me. There’s

been an accident-
Margaret trains doll-like Japanese women to be stewardesses, to fly high in the skies.
“Air Pro: Putting young women in the air. Where they belong.” But her past still gnaws at
her, still tries to push forth into her consciousness. More drugs and booze don’t help; the
cocaine and beer concoction no longer purify her thoughts, no longer help her to forget.
She is no longer able to stay lost. That all changes when Margaret meets Kazu.
Kazu is a mysterious gangster; tattoos mark his muscled body and his eyes are dark and
full of shadows. They engage in sex, in lust. Kazu takes Margaret to a Love Hotel. There
are hundreds of Love Hotels in Tokyo, lurid places with themed rooms and no human
attendants. You choose a room from a lit up display and have a rest (three hours) or a stay
(all night). Which room will you choose?
Immortality is not an option

Margaret becomes obsessed with the pictures, the face, of a girl reported to be dead.
Abducted and killed, if rumor is to be believed. But Margaret sees her face everywhere:
in alleyways, on posters, in the subway. Margaret begins to search for the lost girl,
realizing that she is one herself.
Despite her best intentions, Margaret finds herself falling for the tattooed Kazu, but their
love comes with complications. Margaret can no longer pretend she does not love Kazu,
but he has not been honest with her. He is married, and in Tokyo, it is best not to battle
with the wife. Mistresses have been known to perish at the hands of knife handling wives.
Don’t fight a Japanese wife…so sharp, you don’t even feel it…
Kazu tells Margaret to leave, to go back to Canada. But how can Margaret leave the man
she loves? She continues to pine for Kazu, who tries to keep his distance. She sees the
missing girl everywhere now. She fills Margaret’s dreams, her waking hours.
Before her stay in Tokyo is over, Margaret must confront her past if she is to survive. She
also must confront herself, to free herself before the downward spiral claims her, or be
lost forever.
“Lost Girls and Love Hotels” is Christine Hanrahan’s first novel and that’s a crying
shame. After I had finished the book, I scoured the Internet to find out if she had written
anything else I could get my hands on, to no avail. As soon as I finished reading “Lost
Girls and Love Hotels”, I started reading it again. I’m now reading it for a third time. The
book is just that good. It’s the best book I’ve read in years.
From the first page, the story is just so consuming, so engrossing, that you can do nothing
but turn the pages and continue on it’s wild, lustful ride. She uses writing devices (like
flash backs and talking in third person whenever Margaret is on a drug binge) like a pro.
Hanrahan is a natural at creating mood, using words to her advantage and letting us see
inside her protagonist’s head. “Lost Girls and Love Hotels” is proof of her skill and it’s
one damn great book.
What makes the novel so interesting is that it doesn’t hold back any secrets. We know
everything (or almost everything) from the beginning; Hanrahan has set up a line of
dominoes, long and curvy, and is about to flick the first one. All we have to do is watch
the rest of the line fall; and be amazed.
All I can say is: Read this book. It’s amazing, the ending is a shocker and it will be the
best book you have read in years. I, for one, can’t wait for Hanrahans next offering.
Jamieson Wolf

Widdershins
Charles De Lint
wid·der·shins (w d r-sh nz ) or with·er·shins (w th -)

adv.
In a contrary or counterclockwise direction: “The coracle whirled round,
clockwise, then widdershins” (Anthony Bailey).
What would you do for love? Would you write a sonnet? Would you climb mountains for
it? Would you battle for it? What about traveling to an alternate universe inside of the
woman that you love, to battle beings from her past? This is just what Geordie Riddell
has to do to save the love of his life, Jilly Coppercorn.
Fans of Charles De Lint’s Newford books have been waiting with bated breath for Jilly
and Geordie to get together and realize the one thing that everyone else knows: They love
each other. But they’ll have a lot to get through before they even realize their love exists.
There is trouble brewing on the streets of Newford and, as usual, the Fey are involved.
Animosity is building between the Fey clans: The Native American Spirits that have
lived since before time began and the New Spirits: those that have come later or
immigrated on ships and barges. There is a thunder that is starting in the ground, a
rhythm of drums; and the drums mean war.
Geordie and Jilly become involved in the battle through no fault of their own, though the
danger has already been predicted for Geordie. If he hopes to survive, he must depend on
those around him; especially Jilly. Regrettably, through Goblin involvement, she has
withdrawn inside herself, to a world that exists only within her. There, Jilly the Broken
Girl, has to relive all of her old hates, her old hurts.
If Geordie plans on saving her, he will need all the help he can get. But in the world of
the Fey, there is one cardinal rule: Nothing is ever easy….
For as long as I can remember, Jilly Coppercorn has been my favorite character in De
Lint’s Newford books. I identify with her for various reasons, she’s fun, has a good sense
of humour; we’re both artists. It’s like she breathes in flesh and blood instead of just on
the printed page.

De Lint’s many fans, myself included, have been waiting and waiting to know what
would happen to Jilly after 2002’s “The Onion Girl”. And many more wanted to know
when Geordie and Jilly would get together. The time has finally come to find out.
“Widdershins” is easily De Lint’s best novel to date. It’s almost like literary fantasy; its
themes include discrimination, prejudices, racism, feuds, battles, all told in this glorious
prose. The story flows off the page, rather than being just a bunch of printed words.
“Widdershins” is also surprisingly somber.
Compared to some of his earlier works where the otherworld in Newford was a little
brighter, here we see a darker side of Newford that we have not seen before. There is also
some very grim subject matter that, for me, made parts of the novel difficult to read. This
is mostly because I care about the characters so much that I hate to read or see anything
bad happen to them.
In the end, “Widdershins” is a masterwork. A deft weaving of faiths, lore, legend,

characters and plot. The result? A wonderful tapestry of story that just cries out for your
attention. Read it and be enchanted.
I for one will be haunted by “Widdershins” for some time.
Jamieson Wolf

Someplace To Be Flying
Charles De Lint
There is a myth that is as old as time. The world was created by Raven, the dark bird of
mystery, as he stirred magic in an old black pot. The pot created more than the world: it
created the Animal People, spirits as old as time itself. They are the First People and they
roamed the land, able to change forms.
Out of the pot came the Blue Jay, the Wolf, and The Crow. There also came the Coyote,
the Trickster. Always up to no good, he is the outcast of the First People. Most of his
mischief is harmless, little tricks to amuse. But sometimes, he causes more trouble;
enough trouble to slip through to our world.
Trouble starts when Lily, a photojournalist, goes looking for the famed “animal people”
that are supposed to roam around Newford. One night while investigating the stories in a
dark part of town known as the Tombs, a strange gray man attacks Lilly. Coming to her
aid is Hank, no stranger to the Tombs and the rougher side of life.
He goes to her aid and the man attacks him as well. Lilly and Hank fight there attacker
until something distracts him: two small girls who came from nowhere. They finish off
the man with small switchblades that fell from their sleeves and Hank and Lilly are left
stunned.
Tending to their wounds, pain disappearing at their touch, the two Crow girls sing a soft
song with a haunting melody: The cuckoo is a pretty bird, he sings as he flies. He sucks
little birds’ eggs, and then he just dies.
Dazed from the attack and the subsequent healing of two little girls, Hank and Lilly
wander way, changed forever. They can now see the world of Fey, the world of the in
between. Unbeknownst to them, they are now entangled in what will become a web of
mysteries, a tryst. They have stumbled upon war.
There is murder in the darker underbelly to Newford than either could have imagined.
They have stumbled upon the war of the Caenid against the Corboe: Bird against Dog.
This is a war where no one is safe and the fate of both worlds will be affected. Hank and
Lilly must learn to fight in order to save their lives and the life of others.
And so the story goes…

Charles De Lint has created a novel for the ages. “Someplace to Be Flying” is an
incredible voyage through myth, through story, through dreams. This has remained
among my favorite of De Lint’s novels and perhaps one of his most eloquent. There is
layer upon layer of story here and the only way to work your way through them is to
become involved in the story.
More involving are all the types of myth within the story: Celtic, Native American to
name just a couple. De Lint has managed to weave the story of many people and many
different faiths into one whole work that just sings with magic. He has managed to create
characters that you can really care about and a story that is part mystery, part myth and
part comment on our time.
If you haven’t read “Someplace to be Flying,” you don’t know what you’re missing.
From the moment the Crow Girls come into the story, you are drawn into a labyrinth of
words and dreams. The only way out of the maze is to finish the book; but you may never
be the same again.
Jamieson Wolf

AT FIRST COCK-CROW THE GHOSTS
MUST GO
BACK TO THEIR QUIET GRAVES BELOW.
~Theodosia Garrison

A Note on serial novels:
Dear Reader,
A Serial Novel is a little bit different than the books you pick up in a bookstore. For
those of you who don't know what a serial novel is, here's the definition of serial:
Published or produced in installments, as a novel or television drama.
This is the second part of a serial novel entitled POTTERS WEB by Jamieson Wolf. It
features a cat loving pot addict, a fake quadriplegic who steals money, a prophecy
spouting man who can see the dead, a single mother who deals drugs to support her son
and many other unsavory characters.
You would be better advised to read something more entertaining, like the flight habits of
crows or the mating habits of the west meridian sea slug.
But if you must read about Potters Web, by all means, flip the page.

POTTERS WEB
Part Two
Archibald
Archibald shot the ugly woman a nasty glare and smelt the pot coming off of her
in waves as she passed by. Stupid drugged out bitch, he thought.
He then turned his attention to the woman in front of him who dropped a coin into
his box. Archibald smiled at the sound. The chink! sound of money clanging together.
He gave her a pathetic smile and said, “Bless you M’am.”
“You poor dear.” The woman said. “I hope you get your lift soon; it’s not right,
the government letting people like you going without.”
“You’re too kind, M’am.” He said. “I wish more people felt like you.”
The woman smiled and walked on her way, a bag from American Eagle Outfitters
swinging from her arm. Archibald looked down at the three dollars she had dropped in
the box that sat on his wheelchair’s tray. Three bucks. Stupid bitch could of given him
more than three dollars if she could afford to shop at AME, he’d bet his last dollar on
that.

Still, he shouldn’t be talking. He was ripping off people and they were giving him
money willingly. What easier job was there than that, to sit there and let people drop
money in front of you because they felt pity for you? Archibald knew first hand that pity
could get you a lot in life. His wife had married him because she had felt pity for him, for
example.
He had been an only child of rich parents who had died and left him everything.
His girlfriend at the time, a saucy redhead named Quen, had suggested marrying and he
knew the reason behind it. It had nothing to do with the money he had just inherited. It
had to do with pity.
Being an only child, Archibald had no one in life, had no one other than himself
and his parents to depend on. With them gone, he would be alone. Quen dated Archibald
not because she was attracted to him, not because she wanted money (though he was sure
that was part of the reason). She dated him because she felt sorry for him.
Three years after their marriage, Archibald had tired of catering to Quen’s every
whim and want and need and had divorced her. He had left her nothing of his money,
nothing of the wealth he had horded. He left her penniless and broken and alone.
Archibald found a certain satisfaction in this, in leaving the woman who had pitied him
an object of pity.
Turnabout was fair play, he thought.
He didn’t need to work, but he couldn’t ignore his thirst for more money, either.
He knew that beggars sat on the street corner and begged for money, but they usually
only ended up with a pittance at the end of the day, chicken feed. Archibald knew from

experience that pity could get you anything you wanted: love, money, sex. Well, maybe
not love, but sex was a good substitute for it if love wasn’t available.
And so he had thought about it: what do people pity the most? What do people
feel the most sympathy for? He had watched, walking the streets of downtown, as most
people turned their gaze at disabled people; those in wheelchairs or on crutches. Kids
with Downs Syndrome, or Cerebral Palsy. He watched as people avoided the gaze of
older people with canes and walkers, didn’t bother to stop and help them. The human
race was really a cruel one, he thought. People only stop to help themselves.
He had laughed at that thought. He was no better than the rest of them.
Archibald had started conceiving a plan. How could he get more money without
working for it? He was a lazy son of a bitch and saw no reason he should actually have to
work for more money. It was during this time of thought that he had come up with a little
slogan. He had had a sign made that hung above the door to his luxury apartment; that
way he could see it every day before he left to milk others of their hard earned cash:
Pity = $$$

It had come to him one day, walking the streets, people watching: a Quadriplegic.
For what was more pitiful than someone who had no use of their arms and legs? They
were even looked at with disgust, even revulsion. Perfect, he thought. He had the perfect
disguise, the perfect moneygrubber.
He acquired himself a wheelchair that worked through an air hose, for a
quadriplegic wouldn’t be able to manipulate the joystick of an electric wheelchair, would
he? He was rich, had enough money, so finding the right wheelchair wasn’t a problem.
He breathed into the hose, a long straw really, once to go forward, twice to go backwards.
He sucked in one breath to go right, sucked in two quick breaths to go left. He spent an
entire week practicing in his apartment, having moved all the furniture against the walls.
He had to be a pro at this, had to be a pro at getting around in a wheelchair.
Pity was one thing. But it was an entirely different kettle of fish if you weren’t
credible, weren’t believable. He practiced not moving his arms and legs and had become
a pro at it. No one would ever know he wasn’t a quad. The scheme had worked perfectly
for years now. People gave him money because they could hardly look at him, because
they felt pity for him.
People were weak. This pleased Archibald greatly, for what was he exploiting but
weakness? Like that pot smoking bitch. She was probably weak.
He had seen her walking around downtown, stoned out of her tree most times. He
shouldn’t talk though; he spent most of the money he got from people on his drug habit.
Cocaine didn’t come cheap these days, he thought. He had to support his habit somehow.

He watched her as she hit up the other girl for pot. The other girl had flaming red
hair knotted in dreds. He wondered, if she dealt coke too? His dealer was gypping him on
the stuff he was getting. Probably cut it with baking soda, the cheap bastard.

Second Bookend
And now that we have come through the other side, now that this month’s journey
through words is over, won’t you join us for next month's adventure?
We’re always looking for submissions: Letters to the Editor, Poetry, Short Stories,
Articles, Personal Anecdotes, Columns, and Articles. The possibilities of creation with
words are endless. So let’s see what you’ve got!
Send in your work to jamiesonwolf@gmail.com and see it in next month’s issue!
And remember: With words, we can go anywhere
See you next month,
Jamieson Wolf

'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself
breathes out
Contagion to this world.
~William Shakespeare

MUSINGS: A Magazine of Words Volume: 1 Issue: 2
Contributors
Jamieson Wolf
2006 © Crowswolf Press

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Musings

MUSINGS 1 A Magazine of Words

MUSINGS 2 A Magazine of Words

May the Muse be with you!

MUSINGS 4 A Magazine of Words

I am walking through a wasteland. There is rubble everywhere around me and I have to

MUSINGS 5 A Magazine of Words

“Have you arrived?”

“Didn’t you receive my page?”

“Yes but I wanted to confirm it with you.”

“Well I’m here.”

“We’re not paying you to think.”

“We’re paying you to do, Hillary.”

MUSINGS 6 A Magazine of Words

I opened the door.

I closed my eyes, concentrating on my breathing, willing myself not to vomit, to think of

MUSINGS 7 A Magazine of Words

That’s when I saw the blood.

I am going to die, I am going to die; I kept hearing this, as if it was a premonition, an

MUSINGS 8 A Magazine of Words

MUSINGS 9 A Magazine of Words

The crow had returned.

MUSINGS 10 A Magazine of Words

Make it stop, she thought. It became a mantra, all running together.

MUSINGS 11 A Magazine of Words

"...You are angry with me..."

"You've transformed me."

"To be a Guardian for the Souls of the Dead."

MUSINGS 12 A Magazine of Words

MUSINGS 13 A Magazine of Words

MUSINGS 14 A Magazine of Words

MUSINGS 15 A Magazine of Words

"That doesn't matter anymore, Claudia."

She gasped. "How did you know my name?"

"So where am I?"

"You've been riding the bus for thirty years."

MUSINGS 16 A Magazine of Words

"But I'm not dead."

"Wouldn't I remember dying?"

"Of course. Everyone remembers their death."

"Well I don't have a memory of mine."

"Then perhaps you're not dead."

"But you just said-"

"I'll do that now, then."

"But I was alive when I stepped onto the bus."

"And so is everyone else."

"So where does that leave me?"

"Where ever you want to be."

"Are you always so confusing?"

"The world is naught but confusion, Claudia. Best to remember that."

MUSINGS 17 A Magazine of Words

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained." Said a voice.

"What are you doing?" Eulalee said.

"Learning to live." Claudia replied.

MUSINGS 18 A Magazine of Words

Oddly enough, though, superstition believed in Harold Robinson.

MUSINGS 19 A Magazine of Words

“Marjorie. It’s about Mr. Robinson.”

“The architect? What about him?”

“He seems to have disappeared.”

“Have you found my son?” she asked.

“No, but I’m going to find him.” Marjorie reassured her.

“Please,” Ms. Robinson said. “Please, anything you can do…please…”