Avescope HORROR

AVESCOPE
HORROR
O C T O B E R 2 0 1 9 | I S S U E N O . 3

AVESCOPE
Editor-in-chief LD Towers
Senior Editor
Senior Editor
Art Director
Staff Writers
Contributors
Karen Lee
Catherine Clark
Blackbird's Photography
Keyboard for Hire
Catherine Clark
Joanna Hatton
Tamsin McKenna-Williams
Catherine Jackson
Blackbird's Photography
Auguste von Osterode
Justine Oh Me
David Simon
Guendolen Jacobs
Anike Kirsten
E D I T O R I A L O F F I C E
Suite #540 185-911 Yates St. Victoria BC Canada V8V 4Y9
info@avescope.com
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Cover art: "Hel" Joanna Hatton
Inside Front Cover: "Raven" Joanna Hatton
Inside Back Cover: "Twisted Tentacle Darling" Justine Oh Me
Avescope | 1
www.avescope.com

Horror.
A feeling of extreme shock or fear.
What fills you with horror?
We live in a time where everything is supposed to
be a shock and the online world seeks to generate
fear or rage. Happiness, contentment and joy
aren't a good source of clicks so stories serve to
ramp up your emotions until you are pointed in
the direction the press wants you to go. Horror is
how we are manipulated and one often wonders...
just like with a scary movie... what is actually real?
As Fox Mulder says, 'The truth is out there.'
I spent a lot of time pondering what my horrors
are. What keeps me awake at night? As a military
historian, very little of man's inhumanity to man
shocks me anymore. I've seen it, read it and looked
at far too many pictures to be at all surprised at
what one human will do to another. But as I was
getting ready to write this, a story of terrible
animal cruelty passed over my tablet and I
couldn't help but think... that's horrific. How could
a seemingly normal person do that to a powerless
creature?
I suppose I have my answer.
As for the supernatural horrors... the ghosts... the
demons... I just don't know. I've walked some
haunted places and seen some strange things that
I couldn't explain. The feelings of hands on my
ankles as I walked the Bloody Lane of Antietam or
the constant feeling of my hair being pulled as I
visited Birkenau. Places in the city of Berlin where
you can be standing in bright sunlight but be cold
right through your soul. Sometimes I think the
imprint of man's evil can sink itself into the very
earth and the taint of it is indelible.
Or maybe I just have an overactive imagination.
LD Towers
Editor In Chief
Avescope | 2

Avescope | 3
Acid Skull
Justine Oh ME

The Shape
Justine Oh ME
Avescope | 4

October 8, 1859
Empress Myeongseong of Korea, also known as
Queen Min, was brutally murdered today by
Japanese Ronin and assisted by pro-Japanese
Korean military officers. Publicly opposed to
Japanese involvement in Korea, Empress
Myeongseong was seen as a threat by the Meiji
Goverment of Japan. Her assasination would
have lasting consequences for the Korean
peninsula.
September 24, 2019
IAn impeachment inquiry was launched today by
Nancy Pelosi and the Democrats against President
Donald Trump. Did he abuse his power when he
asked the new President of Ukraine to launch an
investigation into Hunter Biden, the son of
Presidential hopeful Joe Biden and the Ukrainian
company he worked for, Burisma Holdings. This is a
story that Avescope and the world will be watching
closely. Corruption in Ukraine has been endemic and
this could get very murky for all involved.
Postcards
of
NEWS
Brexit.
Who even knows anymore?
British Prime Minister Boris Johnson tried to prorogue
parliament to give himself time to make a deal. It was struck
down. He tried to call an election... twice. It wasn't allowed. One
would think the government would fall after a non-confidence
vote, but no.
It looks like a No-Deal Brexit on October 31st, but parliament
has even said that's not going to be allowed. What will happen
is literally anyone's guess. At this point? We suggest the British
buckle up. It's going to get... scary? Weird? Strange? We don't
even have a word for it....
October 13, 54 AD
Emperor Claudius died today under
mysterious circumstances. Some whisper
poison. A somewhat unpopular emperor for 13
years, he took over from the dreaded madman,
Caligula. Let's hope his successor, Nero, will be
much much better.
Avescope | 5

October 13, 54 AD
Hong Kong
September 2019
Protests in Hong Kong continued throughout the month of September
and it will be interesting to see if the Beijing government will react before
the 70th Anniversary of Communist China on October 1, 2019. It has been
speculated that the President of China, Xi Jinping and the Chinese
Communist Party will not be able to afford the loss of face if the protests
continue on this day.
While Carrie Lam, the Administrator of Hong Kong has said she will
withdraw the extradition law which was the catalyst of these protests, the
protesters seem unmoved. The demands behind these protests has grown
to include many grievances against the Chinese government which far
exceed the extradition law.
Will China step in with force? We will have to wait and see.
Emperor Claudius died today under
mysterious circumstances. Some
whisper poison. A somewhat
unpopular emperor for 13 years, he
took over from the dreaded madman,
Caligula. Let's hope his successor,
Nero, will be much much better.
October 22, 1957
Today was marked by the first
American casualties in what would
become the Vietnam war. An almost
20 year conflict, (1955-1975) the
Vietnam War would claim between 1.5
and 4.5 million lives and displace
millions more.
Stories from last month, last year, last
decade, last century, last millennia.
Stories that are interesting...
Stories we are following...
Canada
September 11, 2019
October 29, 1969
TThe first computer to computer link
occured today on ARPANET, the
precursor to the internet. ARPANET
was the first network to use TCP/IP
protocols for the transfer of data.
And the rest, as they say, is history!
The Canadian Federal Election was called today and many wonder if this
will be the end of Prime Minister Justin Trudeau's mandate. With approval
ratings equal to the Canadian Conservative Party lead by Andrew Scheer,
it's a real horse race. Many expect that, no matter who wins, a minority
government is probably on the table.
Trudeau has been dogged with scandals- from two ethics violations - his
accepting a holiday from the Aga Khan to his involvement in the grotesque
SNC Lavalin affair - to the ridiculous, a 17 year old black/brownface scandal.,
Trudeau has a hard election ahead of him. Nipping at his heels on the left
is Jagmeet Singh of the New Democratic Party. Singh has his own
challenger for the left in the form of Elizabeth May and her Green Party. On
the right, Andrew Scheer also has to deal with vote split from Maxim
Bernier's Canadian People's Party. This is going to be an exciting race!
Avescope | 6

And A Little Child
Shall Lead Them
LD Towers
One would have to be living under a rock on one of the
Pitcairn Islands to not have heard about Greta Thunberg and
her speech to the UN on September 23, 2019. “How dare you!”
she railed in a young, quavering voice. We, adults, have stolen
her future. We have turned to her when she should be in
school! Some call it passionate. Others call it angry. Some
have even said the 16-year old Greta had a temper tantrum.
What is apparent is that the slightest bit of criticism of Greta
Thunberg comes with a backlash from the left. Greta triggers
middle-aged men, they say. To be honest, no man is allowed
to criticize Greta at all. To do so is either sexism, ageism, or
plain misogyny. To talk about her health is concern trolling.
To say that she is being exploited is sacrilege. If you are made
uncomfortable by Greta, you are the problem. You are a
climate change DENIALIST! Off with your head, polluting
scum!
Greta is the Swedish climate Artemis. Joan of Arc for the
environment. She has come down to harangue the foolish,
greedy adults of the world into doing something about the
impending environmental catastrophe that is pollution. With
the sole exceptions of her being both caucasian and cisgendered,
she’s about as perfect a spokesmodel as could be
carefully crafted by… adults. One cannot help but take in her
look which is, after all, straight out of Norman Rockwell. 16
years old, but she doesn’t look 16. One doesn’t see a female on
the cusp of womanhood as most 16-year-olds are. No. Greta
looks like she’s about 12 and about as wholesome as it gets.
As for Greta herself, I believe that she’s sincere. Most people
that I’ve met with Asperger’s syndrome tend to be. I
personally have no ill will towards her. I believe that she is
doing what she thinks is best. For both children and people
with Aspergers, the world is a very black and white place. My
issue is, who is behind Greta? Because as with so many
suddenly famous child activists, there is always someone
pulling the strings.
The story of Greta, on the face of it, is of a girl who was so
upset about the state of the environment that she went on a
school strike during the Swedish election. While sitting alone,
with her handmade sign, a man walked by on his way to
work. He saw this girl, talked to her, and took her picture. So
moved he was by her story, he posted about her on his
Facebook account and it went viral. Instant celebrity.
Suddenly everyone in Sweden was reading about Greta and
her stand for the planet.
Who was this amazing man with so much influence? Surely
the universe must have taken a hand in orchestrating this
chance meeting! His name is Ingmar Rentzhog and he just
happened to be the CEO of a climate platform called ‘We
Don’t Have Time.’ What an amazing coincidence, has
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protested Rentzhog… He had no idea that this girl would be
sitting alone with her sign… yet there she was! They had never
met before! Who was she and how was she just waiting
there...as if by magic! It was a miracle.
Except we know now that it wasn’t. Everything about Greta,
with the sole exception of Greta herself, was artificially
created in a ‘lab’.
This isn’t just any girl. This is the daughter of a Swedish B-list
celebrity. Her mother is Malena Ernmann, a well known
Swedish opera singer who represented Sweden in Eurovision
2009. Decorated by Swedish king Carl Gustav as a
Hovsångare, or court singer, Ernmann has appeared all over
the world… until her daughter convinced her that aviation
travel was too hard on the environment and she should
retire.
Right. Really? Is that REALLY why she retired?
Most opera singers retire due to the changes in their voice
between 40 and 50 and Malena Ernmann is about to turn 49.
Could this be the reason she gave up her career? And when
she gave up her career, she wrote a book about her family
called Scenes From The Heart… A book that is a best seller
and has been translated into several languages. A book that
used to be authored by Malena and her husband, actor
Svante Thunberg (son of actor Olof Thunberg) with her
picture on the cover but is now a book of shared billing with
Greta, and even with Greta’s picture on the cover in some
countries.
We need to have our brand recognition, after all. Malena isn’t
much of a celebrity outside of Sweden, let alone Europe.
Hardly a Skarsgård. Must get the punters on board.
People who are used to celebrity often find it very hard to
give it up and that Ernmann ‘retired’ and wrote her book
about climate and family, it all seems a bit pat. After all…
people who want privacy don’t detail the health struggles of
their children for all the world to read about. Struggles that
include Greta’s Aspergers, her anxiety-induced mutism and
disordered eating patterns.
And what about Ingmar Rentzhog? This man who knew
nothing about Greta and had no idea about who she was
until he just ran into her on the street. Who knew nothing
about her family. Rentzhog who just happens to be a PR
specialist in climate issues. Rentzhog who wanted to create
the world’s largest climate-related social media platform.
It was all just a big coincidence.

Except it wasn’t. Rentzhog had been on
the stage with Ernmann at a climate
conference. They were both in the
climate movement. Rentzhog also didn’t
just happen on Greta that day. News of
her protest went out on a climate
activism listserve a week before she
started. This means that somehow,
Greta’s ‘spontaneous’ decision to protest
during the election wasn’t spontaneous.
It also lends a little bit of skepticism to
Greta’s statements that her parents
weren’t thrilled about her activism.
Unless Greta was posting about her
plans in climate groups online, then it
has to have been someone else…
As the Greta legend exploded, so did the
coffers of ‘We Don’t Have Time’.
Rentzhog has been accused of using
Greta’s image to raise over 1.5 million
dollars for his organization and used her
name and picture several times before
shares were issued in his company. He
even made her a member of ‘We Don’t
Have Time’s youth advisory board
around this time, a position she has
since stepped down from.
Who is behind Rentzhog? Dominic
Green at Standpoint Magazine has done
an amazing expose on the people
behind this one girl crusade. The Cliff
notes version? Best said in Green’s
introductory paragraph:
But the Greta phenomenon has also
involved green lobbyists, PR hustlers,
eco-academics, and a think-tank
founded by a wealthy ex-minister in
Sweden’s Social Democratic
government with links to the country’s
energy companies. These companies
are preparing for the biggest bonanza
of government contracts in history: the
greening of the Western economies.
Greta, whether she and her parents
know it or not, is the face of their
political strategy.
Because in the end, it is always about
money, though I find it hard to believe
her parents are naively going along with
all this with no expectations at all. After
all, per Green’s article:
On September 2, 2018, a week after
Rentzhog claimed to have stumbled on
Greta, Dagens Nyheter ran a long op-ed
on the need to force the greening of the
global economy by “bottom-up” action
against national governments,
including “broad social mobilization. . .
reminiscent of what takes place in
communities threatened by war”.
Greta’s mother was one of the nine
signatories.
By Anders Hellberg - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=77270098
But of course, we aren’t allowed to talk
about this, because to deny Greta is to
deny the climate. To worry about what
she is being put through by the adults
around her is to be… something
derogatory. We are to believe, as Greta
probably believes, that her parents are
just reluctant bystanders in her fame.
These parents who are also encouraging
their other daughter into a
singing/dancing career with public
performances at the age of 14. Can they
be anything other than the worst in
stage parents? So the world is to be
directed by this seemingly accidental
climate angel?
This Joan of the Environment? History
has shown us that when a child ‘leads’
men, it doesn’t end well for the child.
Let’s be honest. The leadership of the
child is an illusion and it is always the
powerful people behind who are pulling
the strings.
Joan of Arc was made the face of a
movement and then utterly hung out to
dry when she was no longer of any use.
To be sure, her followers wrung their
hands as the Maid of Orleans was taken
to the stake upon which she burned, but
very few of them burned beside her.
Obviously, Greta Thunberg won’t be
burned alive, but what will happen to
her when all is said and done?
When she’s no longer diminutive with a
whiff of fiery urchin found on the street?
When she collapses from the strain.
When her anxieties and issues catch up
to her?
Whenever I see these young people who
have been put on an impossible
pedestal, I cannot help but think of a
line from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s High
Flying Adored. 'Don't look down, it's a
long, long way to fall.’ We know Greta
will fall because now she’s so high, there
is literally nowhere for her to go but
down…
And that is a horror. One perpetrated by
the people all around her who have let
this happen.
Avescope | 8

The Sheer Horror
of JRM Putting His
Feet Up in the
Commons!
T A M S I N
M C K E N N A -
W I L L I A M S
Horror of horrors! There’s a man reclining on the green leather in the House of Commons! It is
considered so uncouth to sprawl out on communal seating, after all. One sneakily does it when
the train guard isn’t around and no one is looking. And do watch out for the security cameras. The
sight of MPs snoozing away has often caused disquiet but it appears the brazenness of this act by
the Right Honourable Member for the 19th Century, Jacob Rees-Mogg, has generated horror in all
quarters.
Photographs of the lounging Leader of the House appear to have caused more gasps of horror in
Britain than every other horrific news story out there. In the very same week it occurred, we had
stories of the Amazon rainforest, arctic and other locations burning, the senseless and horrific
murder of children by their parents, teenage knife crime and endless other stories of sheer horror.
Boris Johnson’s hair, often a horrific sight itself, can’t even compete with the Moggster’s leggy
pose on the green leather of Westminster.
So, let’s have a look at some of the mainstream and social media comments about the reclining
MP and the horror stories that many of the people of Britain appear to have relegated to the
sidelines, whilst they twitter and gasp over Jacob Rees-Mogg daring to recline during a debate.
The Metro announced that it was “disrespectful”, for JRM to “lounge” in the House. The
Independent accused him of “lying down on the job”. The Guardian was absolutely certain that
“Nanny would not approve” and ex-Chancellor of the Exchequer, George Osborne’s The Standard
slammed him for “contemptuous body language”. He was told at the time to “sit up, man!” and
Avescope | 9

the New York Times even joked that the hardline Brexiteer was “taking Brexit lying down”. On
Twitter, Labour MP Anna Turley called Jacob Ree-Mogg’s pose, “the physical embodiment of
arrogance” and actor, Hugh Laurie described it as “insolent” and “insufferable”. However, the BBC
broke ranks to point out that at a time when people are so disillusioned with politics, Jacob Rees-
Mogg’s behaviour in the House may be “applauded by those who think Parliament is at odds with
the people”. Jacob himself was probably horrified by what he was hearing from the Labour
benches.
Meanwhile, as everyone lost the plot over this moment of lounging in the House, in other
horrifying news it was reported that a teenager had died of a stabbing in east London, a man was
killed in an horrific crash in Gwent, 4,000 Amazon forest fires were spotted and coverage
continued over the sheer horror of the case of a mother who was recently convicted for killing her
two daughters because “they got in the way”.
As we approach Halloween and thoughts
turn en masse to that of horror, will we be
seeing Jacob Rees-Mogg masks being
sold in Poundland for trick or treaters to
scare the living daylights out of their
neighbourhoods? There is already a
meme of Rees-Mogg as a reclining
Victorian vampire, covered in cobwebs,
haunting the House of Commons. Many
from the left and Remainers already
consider Jacob Rees-Mogg as quite a
horrifying character, afterall, and here for
their benefit, so they can scream and
protest at the sheer horror of the arch-
Brexiteer himself this All Hallows’ Eve, are
some choice Rees-Mogg quotes:
“Basically I want people to get on with
their lives without the government
bossing them about. I’m all in favour of
nannies but not the nanny state.”;
“Churchill would be delighted that the UK
is leaving the EU.” and shock-horror, “The
requirement not to be rude about judges
applies only to judges in this country. It
does not apply to judges in the EU, so let
me be rude about them. Let me indulge
in the floccinaucinihilipilification of EU
judges”!
I would at this point normally continue by
commenting on the horrifying state of the
Brexit situation, but that really would be
far too much horror for one article. I think
that can safely be saved for another day
and another edition. Phew!
The infamous picture.... and we don't know who owns it. If it is yours, we are THRILLED to give
you credit. We were actually delayed, trying to find who brought it to the world first...
Main photo: By Government Digital Service -
https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/person/image/40
01/s216_JRM.jpg, OGL 3, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=80903792
Avescope | 10

Governments and
Waste Pt. 3
Government
Bureaucracies
Waste People
“Targeted for migration” was a phrase I found hilarious when
I first read it in a policy document years ago. It was grimly
funny to me because I knew that what it actually meant was
a budget cut. If you’re a government program and you’re
“targeted for migration,” you’re being handed a parachute
and politely asked to jump. Sinister yet wonk-ish, that phrase
became my favourite example of obfuscatory bureaucratic
language.
I found out the hard way that it can also be applied to careers
(mine, for example) and that in addition to wasting resources,
bureaucracies can be unforgivably wasteful of their own
people.
I worked for British Columbia’s government for 17 years,
minus a couple of maternity leave absences. Most of that
time was spent in what are nicknamed the “Kleenex
Ministries” – i.e. social services, particularly children’s.
I unwittingly became “targeted for migration” in 2009 when I
wasn’t even at work – I was on maternity leave. My older son,
who is severely autistic, had finally gained a place in Queen
Alexandra’s Early Intensive Behavioural Intervention
program. This was after a year on the waiting list. Two weeks
after he started his treatment, the ministry responsible (also
my employer) announced that it was closing the program to
save money.
It’s not an exaggeration to say that this was the worst day of
my life. It even outpaced the day of my son’s diagnosis.
The other parents of children in the program and I became
very vocal in lobbying the government to re-visit its decision.
We wrote letters to the editor. I wrote a couple of editorial
pieces that were run in the local daily and were well-received.
So I became one of a few parents who were a frequent media
presence for some weeks in the winter of 2009.
Avescope | 11
Catherine
Clark
You know how it
ended...
But what happened?
During this period, I got phone calls from my supervisor
asking me to stop advocating to save my son’s treatment
program. Yes, really. Remember, I was on maternity leave
with my second baby at the time.
I never once identified myself to the media as a government
employee. In fact, I used my married name in all editorials
and interviews to create more distance between the
requirements my job (that I was on leave from) and my
opinions as a private citizen.
I had never changed to my married name at work and hadn’t
even been married for more than a year. So what the hell was
going on? This was some freaky, McCarthy-ist shit.
One of the phone calls was a surprise conference call with my
then supervisor and her Executive Director. They wanted me
to come in for a meeting to discuss my “behaviour” and to
discuss “their perspective.”
I refused the meeting on the advice of my family doctor, as
my stress level was stratospheric. I also continued to be
astounded that any of this was happening at all, since as far
as I knew, I wasn’t living in Soviet-era East Berlin.
I returned to work in October, 2010. Despite 6 months’ notice
of my return, I arrived on my first day to no desk or computer,
no log in credentials activated and not even a damn swivel
chair. In fact, I didn’t even have a job.
My old job no longer existed due to a Cabinet shuffle (as well
as our ministry’s annual total re-structuring and re-naming of
everything to absolutely no effect anywhere beyond the
colossal upheaval and expense).

It didn’t come as a shock that no one tried very hard to find
me anything else, but it was disappointing. I ended up in one
of those human resources branches which, in government at
least, are perpetually teeming with staff who are exuberantly
cheerful and unable to stop talking about how flat-out crazy
busy they are. Yet somehow it’s never clear what anyone
actually does since any operational queries are directed to
the Public Service Agency, a separate organization which
handles jobs, recruitment, union relations and everything
else that one would expect from, well, human resources.
But they were all super busy, so busy. God, they were busy.
They were so over-archingly, spectacularly irreplaceably
crucial to everything that they had to put on multi-day
conferences at nice hotels just to keep track of it all. Buffet
lunches were always included because Spearheading Cross-
Government Initiatives while Identifying Key Objectives and
Managing Stakeholder Expectations can really give you an
appetite.
After I’d been back at work for a couple of weeks and having
scrounged my own office furniture from various empty
cubicles, I was called to a meeting “to review the Employee
Standards of Conduct.”
Fuck.
My new supervisor, who seemed nice enough if a little
introverted (odd for a career HR professional but whatever),
tried to downplay things by telling me it was no big deal, just
a formality. I was uneasy but wanted to believe him.
~They were so over-archingly,
spectacularly irreplaceably
crucial to everything that they
had to put on multi-day
conferences at nice hotels
just to keep track of it all.~
You guessed it – he lied. The meeting was horrendous. After
keeping me waiting in the boardroom alone for 15 minutes
while they sat in his office with the door closed, he and one of
government’s multitudes of “Senior Directors” grilled me
about my “loyalties” until I was crying. As soon as I was out of
the room, I left for the rest of the day.
Later, I consulted the union. My shop steward arranged
another meeting with these two, which I looked forward to
about as much as a root canal.
It could have been used as a management training video
about how NOT to use whichever expensive consultant’s
dumb ass playbook the taxpayers bought for them. It was
almost funny. One of them kept trying to punt questions
addressed to her over to me, and actually became sulky
when called out on this. I could almost see a pout. Mercifully,
she stopped talking at this point and let her colleague
represent them both (probably a wise decision on her part,
but also a painful demonstration of how ill-equipped she was
for her six-figure position).
So what happened? Exile, briefly – I was shipped out to a
different ministry for three months. It wasn’t terrible but was
clearly arranged to spare the brass my embarrassing
presence.
When I came back, something magical happened. I was
suddenly and without any consultation demoted. Not only is
this in violation of the employer’s agreement with the union,
it’s playing pretty fast and loose with employment law. It’s
even elbowing human rights legislation a little and giving it a
menacing look.
I was presented with a letter to sign, agreeing to accept a
lower pay grid position and told that there was no position
equivalent to my original job for me to return to. My salary
stayed the same, but all of the advancement opportunities of
my old job were gone. Catherine’s government career was
sitting in a windowless cell somewhere wearing a blindfold
and some zip ties.
Before maternity leave, I had won a competition for the
higher grid position. This was egregious, even by the most
Machiavellian standards. What kind of moron would sign?
I signed. Sorry to disappoint you.
~I was suddenly and without
any consultation demoted..~
To say I was worn down by the preceding months would be
putting it diplomatically. After the Queen Alexandra fracas, I
was returning to full time work with an 18-month-old and a 3-
three-year-old with autism. I didn’t have a lot of fight left in
me.
I actually quite enjoyed the job I landed in, for a while. But the
volume of work wasn’t high, so this position was later merged
with a similar branch in another ministry. After that, I worked
in a couple of different ad hoc positions. Basically, I was
passed around every few months. It was like being the
relative at Thanksgiving that no one wants to sit beside (“I got
stuck with her last year – it’s someone else’s turn.”).
Wait a minute. (I can hear you.) Isn’t this the one government
ministry that’s supposed to help families, especially when
there’s a disabled child involved? Shouldn’t this be the one
workplace that would be understanding of the situation and
try to be supportive? How could any of these managers not
see the irony of criticizing an employee of the children’s
ministry because she’s also raising a severely
developmentally delayed son?
I don’t have an answer for any of the above questions. I can
report that it got worse before it got better and that it only
got better when I left government altogether.
That’s Part 4….
(If you’re curious about what happened to the autism
program, the other parents and I continued our advocacy but
were unsuccessful and William’s program was shut down in
January, 2010. Apparently its $5M cost was considered
excessive, although I later learned that the ministry ended
that fiscal year with a budget surplus of roughly the same
amount. I almost wish I didn’t know that.)
Avescope | 12

Avescope | 13
The Balinese Dancers

Catherine Jackson
Avescope | 14

A U G U S T E V O N O S T E R O D E
NO.
WHY IS IT SO HARD TO
SAY?
Hey, Cats and Kittens! Auguste von Osterode here and today
I’m going to talk about every woman’s horror. “No.”
What? You didn’t say assault? I don’t need to. That’s low
hanging fruit. I’m actually talking about when to use the word
no. Why? Because we aren’t very good at it. In fact, I know of
women who get a little anxious when the whole ‘no.’ issue
comes up.
No is actually part of a family of words. No. Stop. Enough. Get
your hands off me. Fuck off. They all say, this is happening and I
don’t want it to. It seems so easy to say no, but as women, we
are often not as good at actually saying it as we think we will be.
1. A guy (or girl) does X and you don’t really like it but you don’t
want to be THAT girl.
2. A guy does X and you feel like you have kind of lead him on
so maybe you shouldn’t and it will be over with soon enough
and maybe if you don’t react he will get the message.
3. A guy does X and you have always thought you wanted to do
that but the execution isn’t what you thought it would be but
you kind of said he could do it so...
4. A guy does X and you REALLY like him, even though you
don’t like what he’s doing and you don’t want him to stop
liking you so you let him do it anyway even though it’s not
what you want.
5. A guy does X and you are worried if you say no he might get
mad and it’s just not worth it.
6. A guy does X and you want it to stop but you know he’s really
turned on and he probably won’t stop anyway.
Do any of the above sound familiar? And then you sit/lay there
just praying for it all to stop while inside your brain is screaming
‘Why isn’t this stopping?’ It’s a horror. It really is. Because if
something is happening and you don’t want it to? It’s a form of
assault. The problem is, a lot of guys don’t know what’s going
on if you don’t tell them. It’s a catch 22.
#MeToo, of which I’m a member a few times over, is a
movement that I believe in. At the same time, there are men
who have been accused of assault who didn’t honestly know or
understand that they were assaulting someone because the
woman involved didn’t say a word.
Avescope | 15
Now you are mad at me, but let me explain.
Aziz Ansari was accused of assault by a woman and he was
floored by it. They went on a date, they fooled around and she
went home. Later she said that she wanted him to stop the
whole time, but she didn’t really tell him. There is no doubt in
my mind that he pushed a little too hard, but at the same time,
she stayed. Then she accused him of sexual assault. For the
woman involved, I think she absolutely believes he assaulted
her. For Ansari? I don’t think he realised just how much she
didn’t want what he was laying out.
Men need to know and women need to tell them. The problem
is, women aren’t good at the telling and men aren’t mind
readers. Men so aren’t mind readers… And women know that…
except in the bedroom, it seems.
‘No. Stop. Get your hands off me.’ It seems so easy to say. Until it
isn’t.
About a year ago, I had that date. I was out with someone who
I’d had flirted with a lot, and then we parted. We were both off
travelling. Then we crossed paths again. I thought I wanted him.
I really did. We had some drinks. We talked. He had gotten into
some stuff on his travels that made me pause a bit and wonder
if he was the person I had thought he was. Then he turned into
an octopus. No. A Kraken. There were literally tentacles
everywhere. On one hand, I was like… I really liked this man and
previous fooling around had been good. On the other, I wasn’t
so sure I liked this new incarnation and didn’t know if I wanted
to do this.
So I sat there and for a good half hour, I sort of let him do what
he wanted. A few times he said, ‘you ok?’ and I did the female
‘um hum.’ You know. The, ‘if you really knew me, you would
know I’m not ok but I’m not going to rock the boat and you
should know that by my not being enthusiastic, I’m NOT OK!’
Ever had those thoughts come tumbling in that sort of jumble?
I’m sure you have.

Inside, I got kinda cold. Outside? I was
pretty still. The whole time I’m
thinking, ‘he’s going to clue in.’ You
know… in that same way you can keep
staring at the full garbage that your
partner is supposed to take out, but
they don’t, and then they wonder why
you are angry because they forgot to
take the garbage out and you didn’t
remind them. Because they are
distracted and men don’t read minds.
Luckily, I was saved by the fact that I
have a bladder the size of a walnut and
as I sat on the toilet, I had the head
shake. WHAT THE FUCK WAS I
DOING? Why didn’t I just tell him to
stop? I didn’t want this. Why was I just
letting him do it? I knew he wasn’t
entitled to me but I was letting him
act like he owned me. Why? To be
honest? I didn’t want to rock the boat
and for the rest? I don’t really know. It
was a combination of ‘it all happened
so fast’ and I just didn’t know how to
articulate what I was feeling.
I returned to his living room, sat in a
different chair and said I just wasn’t up
for it. I was worried he would be angry.
Obviously, he was a little
frustrated/disappointed but he was
fine with it. I would say that 98% of
men are. Most men don’t want to hurt
you, no matter how hard their penis is.
They want to please you just as much
as they want to please themselves. In
fact, my experience would be that they
get off on the idea that they are
pleasing you… they just aren’t so
awesome at noticing if they are
actually doing it… and women are
VERY good at letting them maintain
the illusion that they could teach
Casanova some tricks.
So why don’t we say no? Some women
I’ve spoken to say that they just don’t
know how… especially when an
encounter goes from that point where
it’s fantastic to the point where they
don’t want it anymore. Sometimes
they feel like they owe it to the guy…
Or they don’t want to be, as I said,
THAT girl. A cocktease. They don’t
want to let him down and will do it at
the expense of letting herself down.
THE BATHROOM IS YOUR FRIEND!
Seriously. If you tell a guy that you
have to pee? He’s going to let you go.
While you are in the loo, he’s having a
bit of a cooling-off period. When you
come out, it’s a good time to say you
aren’t comfortable. If you are really
worried about making your exit or just
can’t express yourself? Tell him your
stomach is upset. That’s an instant
getaway.
If you think he’s going to turn back
into the Kraken? Don’t sit back down
beside him. Sit in another chair. Lots of
men think that ‘no’ right now could be
‘yes’ in a few minutes. Why? Because
often it is. This is both the fault of men
AND women. Men because they
should understand it, and women
because they let no turn into yes all
the time… and I include myself in this
number. I’ve let my own horniness
turn a no into a yes with some next
day ‘buyers remorse’ a few times. But
that fault is mine. It’s not his.
Above all… get out of your own way
and be very clear to Mr. X that you
don’t want this. Don’t get wrapped up
in being polite or trying to be
agreeable. Don’t use the minimizing
language that we as women use all
the time. No. Stop. Two words. Very
simple. Then move. Either go to
another part of the room or leave
altogether. Tell him what’s going on.
Be clear. Most guys will understand.
If he gets mad? He’s not a guy you
want to be with anyway. If he says you
are being a tease or a bitch? Get rid of
his phone number. God didn’t put you
on earth to be his cocksleeve.
Seriously. He doesn’t own you and you
don’t owe him a goddamn thing - it
doesn’t matter how expensive dinner
was.
Be safe, my children.
And don't be a Kraken!
Let me make something very clear.
The only person your body belongs to
is you. No one has the right to touch
you or kiss you or have sex with you if
you don’t want them to. ‘NO!’ Is always
on the table. If you don’t quite know
how to say it, then move his hands. If
that’s not working?
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Avescope | 17
Nosferatu - Joanna Hatton

Bela - Joanna Hatton
Avescope | 18

which was (and is) protected by law. I might find myself one day
watching a Bobcat digging out a trench for a new sewer,
making sure that it was not damaging any hitherto unknown
archaeology, while the next day I might be engaged on a large
scale, open area excavation, undertaken before a housing
development, open-cast coal mining or maybe road expansion
scheme. Each day was different.
It was not the best paid but we had a laugh. It was a good social
life. Newcastle – bring unable to deal with exotic headwear from
the Army of Workers and Peasants aside – is good fun. There
are some great bars (and some shit ones to be sure) and some
good food. When I say good food I don’t mean that it is as
nuanced as the French provincial kitchen. Far from it. But what
you get is honest, hearty and no-frills. Newcastle, (its neighbour,
just across the River Tyne – Gateshead) being an old ship
building town has strong maritime connections. Despite being
remote from the normal magnet for immigrants to the UK –
London – Newcastle has long had members from the corners of
the Commonwealth making their mark here….
Abdul Latif
the Curry Mentalist
Abdul came to Newcastle from Bangladesh in 1976. Like many
before him, he found his feet in catering to the British love of
curry. He would become known as the “Curry Mentalist”.
His restaurant on the Bigg Market in Newcastle city centre was
initially called The Rupali. In later years in would become known
as “Curry Capital”. Its first claim to fame was to feature in the
Guinness Book of Records for the world's longest-distance curry
delivery - from Newcastle to Sydney. In 2003 there was an offer
of free meals for five years to all British servicemen and women
who served in Iraq. Insane: in a society which loves tales of
sticking the cold steel into Johnny Foreigner, but didn’t
particularly like it when said guys and girls came back and
sometimes found an outlet in booze to quiet their demons,
here was a guy saying bring it on. An immigrant to boot.
Abdul was more “British” (whatever that means) than the
British. They also gave free curry to the Newcastle Falcons
rugby team, England rugby star Jonny Wilkinson and
Newcastle manager Graeme Souness. This guy knew the value
of advertising and word of mouth. The place featured regularly
in the adult comic “Viz”…. with cartoon characters regularly
complaining that they had a “Bad Ruby” (Cockney slang: Ruby
Murray – Curry” ). All in good fun.
The Rupali offered "Curry Hell", claiming to be the world's
hottest curry and free to anyone who managed to empty their
plate. Many attempted the challenge, but few succeeded. It was
about 6 or 7 pound. ...pretty cheap…
…. And It came with a glass of house white wine included?
I’m down. I can do that. No problem. No problem at all Dadio.I’ve
never been to a brothel, but it certainly felt seedy, going
up the steps to the first floor eatery. It was early evening. I felt
dirty, knowing what I was about to order. I still feel shame
today. Shame? Or maybe foolishness. No. It is definitely shame.
Hot Sauce and Slit Trenches
I like a curry. I do. Love it.
As a student, I had curry nearly every day for breakfast. Ok, not
real curry – they were on offer at the time in the mid nineties: a
boil in the bag thing with rice for one pound a shot. Cheap.
More money for the real necessities of student life. Not untasty,
but fairly mild. A dash of Tabasco fixed that. I loved the heat. I
had an uncle (sadly gone for some years) from the West Indies.
You ever tried West Indian goat curry? Fucking sublime with
some lime pickle.
As a younger man I had my heart set on a military career: Tanks
maybe. RAF Regiment. Parachute Regiment ideally. It did not
pan out this way – life rarely takes the exact course we set out
on.
At the time I was in the University Officer Training Corps
(UOTC): Cambrai Platoon, later Imphal Platoon. In the latter I
was the section gunner. Alas, previously I would have had the
venerable Bren gun – rechambered from . 303 to 7.62 Nato – but
a few years prior we adopted the SA80 system. I had to use a
complete turd of a shooter called the LSW – the Light Support
Weapon. It was gash. It has quietly been dropped from service,
the rumour is that they were heavily pimped and chopped
down to give to our helicopter pilots. Ask that Ginger twat
Prince Harry. I digress.
The rations in 1995 were far better than the shit from the cold
war:I was given as a child a cadet. You have in the UK the Army
Cadets and and the Air Cadets. Essentially a youth club. For kids
11- 16 or so. You go shooting, you go camping, but there is no big
pressure to join the military.
Then you have the Marine Cadets. Our instructors were either
Marines or Paras…. Sometimes with “baggage” from the shit
they seen and done – either “Down South” in the Falkland’s… or
more common, on the streets of Belfast. “Beastings” – runs
followed by press ups and sit ups with severe verbal abuse were
the norm. One time the instructor put on a ghetto blaster:
“Dance” he ordered. “Fucking dance…. Now”. The tune was
“Welcome to the Jungle”. We dance.
My dancing to Axl Rose was apparently not good enough:
“Simons… assume the civilian parachute position”. Civilian
parachuting differs from the military in that civvies pull a
ripcord, military have a static line. Civvies jump clean, military
with their shooters and all their kit. We trained as kids in the
cadets under these guys in doing PLF’s (Parachute Landing
Falls) – knees together, legs bent, hands holding the rigging
lines: the Cpl would say “Ok.. the wind is behind you... but wait…
cross wind from the left… GO!” and we children would have to
perform a perfect PLF, throwing ourselves on the floor –no
crash mats - as if hit by breeze from the left – bounce – and
recover. That’s the military way. Civvy way – different type of
chute – knees bent, arms bent and braced in front of the face –
or so I was told - leaving side of body – ribs – open to the
punches which then followed. The instructor – lets call him P –
did not pull his punches. He was a medic in the Paras – and yet
here he was punching me in the ribs.
I was young and stupid – but worshiped these guys. In a world
which worshipped soccer players, I worshipped guys who knew
the sound of 7.62 – both ways. Guys who – back then at least –
had a good pal called Willy Pete. They should maybe not have
been teaching children.
Avescope | 20

On one dreary exercise in September on the Bovington ranges I
was told on good authority by a CSM to mix the crackers into
the curry and rice which formed the key element in the rations:
“It makes your shit thick in the morning”. Today the Company
Sargent Major would be on a charge for saying the “S” word.
Especially to a kid.
Where is this going? Well I learned from a young age that to
make the shittest food edible, you simply add heat: chili
powder, curry powder…. Tabasco. All good.
Heat cannot be bad. Can it? I mean, if you are a of a Christian
bent, God’s love is warmth. Right?
Sunday Night,
Monday Morning
I order the hottest curry in the world – and I feel cheap. Here I
am ordering this beast and I expect people to come out and
wish we good luck, maybe shake my hand, ask for my
autograph. But no. This is all rather pedestrian. They don’t
actually give a shit… just another wanker who does not know
good Indian food and just goes for the heat. They might
actually have a point.
”House white, Sir?"
The wine makes my teeth curl. I imagine I can feel the cheap
sugars eating into my tooth enamel. No wonder it is included. I
imagine if you are shitfaced on a Saturday night, you are past
caring: “… fucking boooooze”. Being sober is different. It is
Sunday. I have to work tomorrow . I cannot get boozed up
tonight. This wine is essentially syrup. I can’t drink it. Not a good
omen.
The food arrives: a bowl of chicken curry with a bowl of basmati.
Sambols arrive a moment later – mint sauce, pickles,
poppadoms.
It looks good. Let curry munching begin.
Two minutes in and it going well, how bad can this be? Soon
though, I acquire a bit of sweat. My tongue is quickly
dissociating itself from me. Gosh. That hurts a bit. I mean.. it
really hurts.
Sweat forms on my brow, falling in to the golden brown
chicken and rice on my plate. I don’t care about how dirty that
is. My eyes sweat. Sweat.. tears maybe. This curry is a little warm
to say the least.
I feel my pulse raise, I can hear it loud as day in my ears. My
hands are shaking slightly.
My mouth: take a moment out of the wonder of hearing your
own pulse so loudly – and realise that you have forgotten to
register your mouth: Brain to mouth: mouth, how are you doing
little buddy?
No reply.
Missing in action.
Missing in actionThe food goes unfinished. I was throwing back
the mint sauce to alleviate the pain. No good. Pissing in the
wind. Time to go.
I pay up and stumble out. Hard to find the steps, my eyes are so
full of tears. Fresh air helps a little but I am in severe pain.
Somehow I get home. I drink the best part of a pint of milk.
Gradually the pain recedes. You won’t be doing that again will
you, you stupid wanker.
An early night. Get my gear ready for work. Tomorrow I will
helping to survey a field out at West Allotment. It is earmarked
for development and we reckon there is potential for
archaeology. An easy enough job.
I get up, feeling pretty good. Cup of tea a bit of brekkie and off
to work. West Allotment is an old mining community. An estate
grew up around the old colliery area. Not too much going on for
kids back then: fighting, smoking weed and drinking is how you
spent your free time. A colleague tells me that although it has a
bad rep, it is not as bad as some places: on one job he had been
on, he came to work and the steel container used as the tool
shed and office was missing. It was there the day before – but
had disappeared overnight. Had the hire firm picked it up by
accident? No. Looking at the evidence on the ground – heavy
tire tracks, bits of plastic and formica it became clear: the locals
had descended, dismantled it using cutting torches and carted
it away. Scrap metal dealers rarely ask where stuff comes.
Unbelievable. But that was another job a few years back.
I get up, feeling pretty good. Cup of tea a bit of brekkie and off
to work. West Allotment is an old mining community. An estate
grew up around the old colliery area. Not too much going on for
kids back then: fighting, smoking weed and drinking is how you
spent your free time. A colleague tells me that although it has a
bad rep, it is not as bad as some places: on one job he had been
on, he came to work and the steel container used as the tool
shed and office was missing. It was there the day before – but
had disappeared overnight. Had the hire firm picked it up by
accident? No. Looking at the evidence on the ground – heavy
tire tracks, bits of plastic and formica it became clear: the locals
had descended, dismantled it using cutting torches and carted
it away. Scrap metal dealers rarely ask where stuff comes.
Unbelievable.I set my equipment up and start my survey. It’s a
good job, easy, minimal stress. It’s a bit cold. The sun has yet to
reach where I am working. Frost on the ground. I’ve been
working for an hour or so when I get the first twinge. Down
there. I try to put it out of my head that all is not well. Its like the
scene from Jurassic Park where the kid sees the glass of water
shaking. You know what it means but it is too terrible to
contemplate. There it goes again. Relax.
No use. “Boss, where is the bog”?... “I gotta go”.
“Oh facking hell Taffy, why didn’t you go before we started”?.
Roger, it seemed sometimes could not string together a
sentence without a swearing.
I grimace.The boss points off into the distance: the portapotty is
about half a mile away, on a track behind some hedgerows.
They could not get it any closer, apparently. I set off at a
concerned trot. Not too fast though. That might trigger
something very bad.
As I get closer, I imagine the relief which is soon to occur. Just
concentrate on that. Keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Not long now. Nearly there. It was cleaned on Friday – a lovely
clean toilet. You’ll be the first to use it: what an honour!
Avescope | 21

I clear the hedge – but there is no plastic blue throne
room to be seen. This is not funny. This is serious. I get
Roger on the phone. He does not believe me when I say
the toilet is missing.
“Oh it was facking there on facking Friday Taffy… you
are obviously in the wrong facking spot. Facking ‘ell!”
I am seriously worried now. This is really not funny. I
look about, here and there. Sweating now, despite the
cold morning. It is then that I notice the smell, a very
distinctive smell.
I follow my nose.
You’ve seen “Aliens” right? Tense scene towards the
end – Ripley has saved Newt and she goes to meet the
shuttle – and its not there: “God-damn you Bishop”…
“Close your eyes baby, look away….”
My world is ending.
I am on that platform with them. Fear grips me. My
heart sinks.
I find the toilet.
The plastic is still burning slightly, spread out in viscous
blue puddle.
The kids have obviously found another way to entertain
themselves.
Avescope | 22

The Horror of Halbe
Photos:
Modern: LD Towers
Historical: Deutsches Bundesarchiv
In English, when one army completely encircles another,
we call it a pocket or an encirclement. In German, they call
it a kessel, translated as a kettle. A boiler. I’ve always
thought the German translation has more descriptive
flavour. Being trapped in a pocket could almost sound
benign. Being trapped in a kettle makes you feel the
water getting hotter and hotter. The only thing to do in a
kettle is boil.
World War Two has many famous pocket battles.
Stalingrad turned into a pocket battle. The battle of
Arnhem during Operation Market Garden. The Battle of
the Falaise Pocket just after the D-Day landings. If one
were to list the encirclements on the Eastern Front, the
list would be huge.
But this article is about one particular pocket, the Battle
of Halbe. As the Germans call it, the Kesselschlacht von
Halbe, or the Kessel von Halbe. Schlact in German is
battle. Halbe is one of the battles talked about when one
discusses the Battles of Berlin and because of this is
somewhat overlooked.. The last ditch efforts to save the
besieged city of Berlin from the Red Army are well studied
on the whole. The most famous of these is the Battle of
the Seelow Heights and the fighting on the Eastern side
of Berlin seems to get most of the attention. What most
people don’t realise is that when Marshals Zhukov and
Konev attacked Berlin, they did soon all sides to ensure a
Avescope | 23
LD Towers
complete victory. It is said that there was a gentleman’s
agreement between President Roosevelt and Stalin that
the Soviets could take the city of Berlin and I personally
believe that. For whatever reason, Eisenhower held his
forces at Elbe and left Berlin to the Red Army.
Halbe is a tiny municipality in the Spreewald Forest, about
50km/30 miles south of Berlin. It rests near the Dahme
River and the whole area is beautiful to drive through, but
it is the site of one of the most terrible scenes of the war.
The ground still aches from it. People enjoying the forests
are instructed to stay to the paths because there is still
danger in those green glens. Some areas are, to this day,
barred from the public.
So what happened? The battle of Halbe officially started
on April 24, 1945, when the forces of the German Ninth
Army became completely encircled by the approaching
Red Army of the Soviet Union. South of Berlin were,
officially, three armies. The German Twelth Army, under
the command of General Wenck was to the south west,
officially to halt an American invasion of the city. The
Ninth, approximately 150 000 men under the command
of General Busse, was in the center to the south. Army
Group Vistula, part of the Waffen SS forces under General
Heinrici was in the south east. 120km/75 miles further
south east was General Steiner and the 4th Panzer Corps
trying to hold the Red Army off at Cottbus.

~By the end of the war, boys as
young as fourteen and men over
sixty who could still fire a gun
were being conscripted into the
German army.~
Avescope | 24

Perhaps you’ve seen the German movie Downfall, or you
have seen one of those ‘Hitler Reacts’ meme vids? The
very thing that Hitler is yelling about in the movie are the
positions and the lack of effectiveness of his southern
defences. In reality, Hitler believed that General Steiner
and the 4th Panzer Corps would be able to hold off the
Soviets. What he couldn’t understand was that Steiner,
Busse and Heinrici’s men were a fraction of what they had
been, and the men they had? Were done. They had little
ammunition and fewer men. Hitler had been told that
Steiner had an army (100-300 000 men) and what Steiner
had was more like a corps (30-50 000 men) Hitler ordered
Steiner to plug the gap and defend Berlin, and because
Steiner couldn’t and wouldn’t not send his men in as
wastage, he did not. This allowed the Red Army to
completely encircle Busse and his men at Halbe. Some,
including Hitler, called this cowardice. I personally believe
that Steiner didn’t want to waste the resources he had in
what he knew would be a meat grinder. Better to fight
another day than die in a fool’s errand.
The result was an absolute slaughter over six days. There
were three breakout attempts by the encircled Ninth
Army and the last is amazingly somewhat successful. Over
30 000 men were able to escape and join the General
Wenck and the Twelth army to the west. The other 120
000? Were killed or captured. Primarily? Killed. The Red
Army was in no mood for acquiring more prisoners at this
point in the war. Far better military historians than I have
discussed the battles for Berlin, and if one would like the
in depth, I highly recommend reading Anthony Beevor’s
Berlin: the Downfall, 1945 and Le Tissier’s Slaughter at
Halbe.
Military casualties are a fact of war, but it is what
happened after Halbe that is the true horror. There has
always been a code amongst combatants that the dead
on the field should be allowed an honourable burial. This
didn’t happen at Halbe. Marshal Zhukov declared that all
the German soldiers killed at Halbe were enemies of the
Soviet Union and should rot where they lay. And they did.
At least 40 000 soldiers decomposed in the fields and
forests around Halbe. Zhukov said that anyone who
buried the dead would also be shot as an enemy of the
Soviet Union.
But a Lutheran minister defied this. He snuck out into the
woods at night and attended to the fallen. Eventually the
local people joined him. The soldiers were buried where
they lay. Some on roadsides. Some in gardens. Some in
the forests.To this day around Berlin, the scars of these
battles can be found as well as the remains of the men
who fought them.
Avescope | 25

In 1947, Minister Ernst Teichmann came as a visitor to
Halbe and saw the state of environs. He got permission
from the occupying forces to do something about the
state of these corpses. The Soviet need for vengeance had
decreased over the intervening years and now an interest
in the hearts and minds of the people of Brandenburg
had begun. From 1948 to 1950, Teichmann searched for
remains and in 1951, was allowed to build an official
military cemetery for German war dead. It is the largest in
Germany. He also became the official minister in Halbe at
that time.
24 000 thousand people are now buried in the
Waldfriedhof Halbe, of which 15 000 are labelled
“Unbekannt”. Unknown. Men without a name or a face.
Men who whose bodies were left to the elements for so
long that there was nothing left to identify them. Fathers.
Sons. Grandfathers. Grandsons. By the end of the war,
boys as young as fourteen and men over sixty who could
still fire a gun were being conscripted into the German
army. Think what you will of Hitler and his government,
the men who were fighting by the end of the war were
hardly ideologues. Most of them were desperate
conscripts just trying to survive.
When I went to Halbe, I visited with a friend who had a
deep, personal connection to those haunted forests.
Somewhere, resting in one of those unknown graves or
sleeping in a tangle of roots in the forest is my friend’s
great-uncle. My friend is a born and bred Spandauer, with
family ties going back in the Berlin suburb for well over
150 years. His grandfather and his great uncle both went
off to war. Only his grandfather came home. The last letter
that the family has is from around April 15, 1945, with the
uncle was near Cottbus and still alive. The letter says he’s
coming back to defend Berlin and hopes to see the family
soon. Then silence. The family had years of wondering if
he was alive and and a prisoner of war, but no. No
notifications of any kind ever came. My friend traced his
great-uncle’s unit and they were at Halbe. Somewhere, his
great-uncle is still there.
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Avescope | 27
Kaisergruft
Photography
Blackbird's

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Avescope | 30

To End
The Suffering
Anike Kirsten
Janay rubbed her thumb over the face of the coin and recoiled
with a soft shriek. A spot of blood pooled on the tip. She tilted the
coin up to eye-level. Inscribed over the well-preserved black disc
were patterns in a mixture of geometry and abstract art. In
between the ridges, a thin needle — barely noticeable —
retracted. She frowned and peered closer.
“What is it, Jan?” Her assistant, Hannah, poked her head out from
inside the crater at the dig site.
Janay sucked her thumb and flipped the artefact over. “I’m not
sure, Hannah. A coin, but I can’t place the civilisation.”
“Oh?” Hannah climbed the rope ladder and walked toward her.
“Never seen a black one before.” She looked up. “And that?” She
pointed to the thumb in Janay’s mouth.
“Nothing, just a scratch,” she said as she shook her head.
“Yeah.” Janay returned her attention to the markings of the coin. Bagging it, she labelled the date and placed it in the cart with
the other artefacts. She looked at the excavated skeleton to her right, its fingers stiff in an arch from holding the coin for centuries.
“Why was this so important to you?” She crouched, studying the fragments of its body strewn around her feet. Reaching into her
bag, she pulled out her tablet and tapped the screen.
Subject 12,
21-10-2019
Skeletal remains scattered from main body, 1 meter approx. away, bones intact but fractured. Other subjects intact. Black coin of
unknown origin found in left hand.
See Artefact #332.
Janay took a deep breath. The sun touched the tips of the mountains far to the west. She dusted off her hands, set up markers
around the site, then called for Hannah to pack up for the night.
“You’re not bringing it with?” Hannah stuck her thumb over her shoulder as they started back toward the camp site.
Janay patted her pockets and the utility belt hanging off her hip, checking she had all her tools. “What with?”
“The coin.” Hannah frowned. “I mean, it’s really something, I thought you’d want to check it out more?”
She looked back, staring at the cart a few feet away. “I guess.” She stopped, ran to the cart to collect the bag, then caught up with
Hannah.“You guess?” Hannah scoffed. “Never seen you so uninterested in an artefact, and they’re all familiar. This is completely
alien-ish, and you guess?”
Janay forced a smile and shrugged. “Just some things on my mind, distracting me. Timmy...” Her words trailed off. She closed her
eyes. “He’s leaving.”
“Leaving to where?” Hannah opened the flap of the large tent. At Janay's glare, she slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh! Right.
Sorry.” She pulled up her shoulders and followed Janay in. “Night, then.”
“Night,” Janay said as she fidgeted with the bag and zipped up the flap to her tent suite. With a sigh, she tossed the bag onto the
table in the centre. She’d fidget with it later when she was rested. She threw herself onto the soft inflatable bed. Her thumb
throbbed and she felt blood pooling at the spot again. She lifted her hand and pressed her finger against the site of the pain. The
pool grew larger, breaking the skin of congealed liquid and sliding down over her finger nail. A drop fell onto her shirt. She sucked
it again until the bleeding stopped, then let her hand fall to her chest.
The soft grey-blue of moonlight pierced into the suite from the large plastic window, illuminating the angles of the mostly plastic
furniture, and a cool breeze slipped through the open slit. It circled the tent, grazing its chill over her body before escaping. Her
skin prickled against her clothes. Janay rolled from the bed and walked to the window opening, pulling it closed and the lace
white curtain over.
A glint shone from the corner of her eye. She turned to the table. The moonlight reflected its brilliance off the plastic bag. Picking
it up, she removed the coin that now shimmered with a hint of blue. The light revealed the intricate beauty of its patterns in
greater contrast. She ran her nail across its face.
“Ow!” She dropped the coin and coddled her middle finger. A spot of blood developed on the tip that had pressed against the
underside. She pressed her lips over it and scowled at the coin on the floor. Again it got a piece of her.
A shadow moved to her right and her muscles stiffened. Her skin prickled again. She held her breath, listening.
A faint voice from the darkened kitchen area whispered, “Five drops to fill the contract.”
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Janay’s heart pounded in her neck. She lowered her hand then faced its direction, her muscles begging to run. “W-what do you
want?”
The outline of a large figure moved forward, keeping from the light.“I don’t have any money. Please, just take what you’re here for
and don’t hurt me. I won’t report it, I swear.” Her voice wavered.
“Five drops of blood.” The voice — a baritone — said. In a flurry of movement, the shadow rushed toward her. Janay threw her
arms over her head and screamed as she cowered.
The flap of her suite burst open.
“Jan, what is it?” Hannah raced to her, panting.
Lowering her hands to her neck, Janay scanned the suite. “A-a man. He was in here. He almost...” She met Hannah’s widened
brown eyes. “If you hadn’t… Oh, Hannah.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Hannah rubbed her back. “Ssh, it’s okay. There’s no one here but me.” She pulled away and looked at her. “You’re bleeding.”
Janay shifted her eyes to her finger clutched in Hannah's palm.
“Come, let’s get that fixed up, then I’ll make some strong tea, okay?”
With a nod, and her muscles shaking, Janay followed her to the bathroom. Hannah flipped the light-switch and she flinched,
bringing her hand to cover over her eyes.
“Looks like a prick.” Hannah held a tissue over her finger. “And your thumb, too?”
Janay squinted to focus on the small red dot on the tip. “I...” She looked over her shoulder, then turned to face Hannah again. “That
coin. It’s got needles.”
“Needles?” Hannah’s brow arched. “Where is it?”
She pointed to the table. “Behind there, on the floor.” She trailed after Hannah. “Don’t touch it!”
“Why?” Hannah bent to pick it up and flipped it around. “I don’t see anything.”
With a sigh, Janay let her arms fall to her sides. "Thank god."
“Look, maybe you should go home? You’re stressed and we’ve got the dig almost done. Timmy needs you. You need to be with
him when he goes through –” Hannah averted her gaze. She grabbed the bag hanging on the back of a chair and dropped the
coin in. “Then you can take a proper look at this in the lab.”
Janay narrowed her eyes and pinched the seal of the bag. “I suppose.”
Janay raced along the corridors in the hospital and burst through the swinging doors of the oncology wing. Her chest burned and
tightened. She was late, again. I.V poles stuck out from behind the reception desk of the wing. Which one was Tim’s? The nurse, a
new one she hadn’t met before, looked up with a scornful glare in her eyes.
Janay rested her elbows on the marble top. “Timmy Kruger?” she asked between breaths.
“And you are?” The nurse frowned, peering over her spectacles.
“His wife.” Janay took in a deep breath. “Has it started already?”
The nurse’s eyes narrowed then relaxed. She shook her head and pointed to the far end of the room. “He’s back there. Treatment
will begin soon.”
Janay huffed a quick thank-you and moved around the counter, taking long, slow steps once she spotted Timmy. A pole stood
beside his chair, a cup of crushed ice in his hand, and a tube threaded into his arm. The skin of his chest was marked with a red
circle of sunburn under the gown.
Timmy smiled. “I thought you couldn’t make it?” He struggled to stand up. “What about your important find?”
Janay wrapped her arms around him. “You’re more important than any discovery.” Her collar grew moist and she pulled back.
“Don’t cry, Timlove.” She wiped the tiny stream of tears from under his left eye.
“I can’t help it.” Timmy sniffed. “Just happy you’re here with me.”
The nurse from the front desk came up to them, her smile forced. “It’s time to begin, Mr. Kruger.” She held up a cooler bag.
Avescope | 32

With a nod, Timmy lowered himself into the chair again. The nurse wrapped a compression tube around his arm, opened the
cooler bag, and attached the silver bag inside onto the I.V pole.
The nurse pulled Janay away. “The treatment will be around six hours long.” She looked back at Timmy. “He’s suffering and might
not make it through the week. We will keep him here and make him comfortable, but the chemo won’t make a difference.”
“I know.” Janay let out her breath. “He insists on going through it. I’ve tried...” Her voice faded as sorrow clamped her throat.
“Thank you.”
The nurse smiled again, this time genuine, then walked back to the front desk. Janay shoved her hand into her coat’s pocket and
fidgeted with the bag inside.
“You have to go again, don’t you?” Without looking up, Timmy scratched his temple, raw from the itching he often complained
about.
Janay pulled her hand from her pocket and rested it on Timmy’s skeletal fingers. “Just for a bit. I have an artefact to check out, but
that’s all. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”
Timmy smiled and winced. “I’m okay, just the pain again. I’m tired anyway so I’ll take a nap. Go. I'll see you when I wake up.”
Janay flipped the switch. The lights fluttered until a constant stream of electricity surged through the fluorescent bulbs of the lab.
She tossed the bag onto the aluminium table and pulled the microscope closer. The coin glowed under the clear plastic. She put
on surgical gloves and removed the coin. With a scalpel, she scraped along its face. A sharp prick stabbed into her ring finger from
the edge of the coin and she whelped, dropping the scalpel and coin, and coddling the tip of her finger. Blood darkened the white
glove.
A shiver ran down her neck and arms. Her muscles constricted. And the sound of heavy breathing, she only now realised was
there, grew louder.
“Five drops.” The baritone raspy voice breathed against the fine hairs on the nape of her neck.
“Who are you, and what do you want with me?” she said, unable to face the stranger.
An arm stretched over her shoulder — smooth, near-black blue skin covering the bulking muscles. Its fingers stretched like putty
and picked up the coin from the table.
“I am who you think I am.” His soft footsteps fell back to the end of the lab. “As for what I want, what can you offer?”
Janay turned her head, then her body, and threw her hands against her mouth. “What the hell are you?”
A creature, almost human in form, stood before her, blending into the shadows, or it was the shadow.“What you need me to be.” A
grin tugged from the corners of his mouth. Dull, white, flattened teeth were revealed. “Five drops of blood to sign the contract.
You have given three. Declare your desires.” His high cheekbones glistened under the bright light.
She glared at him. “What contract?”
“The one you are about to make for your mate.” He stepped closer and held out the coin between his thumb and forefinger.
“And what do you get out of this? Assuming I believe a word you say.” She stared at the coin. For something so dark, it shone
bright.
He placed it on the table behind her then walked back. “Your suffering.” He licked his lips. “In exchange for his.” Janay let out a
huff and shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted. “Think about it. Give me another drop and I shall
appear to hear your terms.”
She started toward him, stopping after the first step. Where the being stood was now only a shadow fading into the light. She
rubbed her eyes and blinked a few times. No trace of the shadow remained or anything to prove that the creature was ever there.
Only the ancient black coin on its side, spinning.
This was exhaustion, had to be. Unreal things and blood contracts? But those yellow eyes...
She slammed her hand over the coin to stop it spinning, picked it up, and held it to her face. What if she could take Timmy's pain
for him? She'd have her husband, her friend, back. No more cancer. Even if this was delirium, it was worth anything to try. She
closed her eyes and ran her ring finger over the face of the coin.
“Make him pain-free.” The needle pricked but she held onto it. “Again. Take Timmy’s suffering away.” Nothing. No prick or sound
except her breathing. And that of another.
Avescope | 33

“Do you confirm this as your terms of contract?” The voice made her jump, and the coin fell
to the ground. Each bounce on the ceramic tiles sent shards of cold-hot pins up the back of
her head. The creature folded his arms over his chest. “It will be so. For every year he is spared
of suffering, you in turn will suffer. This is what I get. Do you agree?”
With shaking hands, Janay touched her forehead. This was real? “I...” If it was, Timmy would
be better. He could come home. The nurse said he wouldn’t last the week. There wasn’t a
choice. “I agree.” Janay bent down, her finger hovering over the face of the coin.
Nurses and patients stopped what their doing to stare as Janay ran down the hospital
corridor toward the oncology wing. The doors flew open and Janay took a sharp left toward
Timmy’s room. The monitors that should have been beeping were silent. Off. No I.V poles or
tubes threading into skin. A sickly sweet scent lingered in the air — old meat with a hint of
faeces. The bundles of flowers in various vases did nothing to mask it.
She held her breath, partly to ward off the pungent air. Timmy lay in the bed, eyes closed and
hands resting at his sides, his cheekbones more pronounced than before above sunken
cheeks, and his nose seemed to droop over the tip. With soft treads, Janay walked closer, her
legs protesting every advance.
The nurse standing beside the bed looked up, brows tilted. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kruger." She
looped the clipboard over the railing on the foot of the bed and rested a hand on Janay's
arm. "He went peacefully in his sleep." With a soft sigh, the nurse left the room and closed
the door behind her.
"Timlove." There were no tears now. She’d cried them already and mourned him while he yet
lived. This was just the next step in the process. Janay cupped his bony cheek. "I didn't mean
for this. You were supposed to get better. He promised –"
"I did no such thing." From the corner of the room, beside the large window, the creature
stepped forward. "You asked to stop his suffering and so it has."
Janay swept around the bed. "That doesn't mean killing him!"
"It doesn't mean not, either." A corner of his mouth slid upward, revealing those teeth. "My
side of the contract is fulfilled. Now it's your turn."
She stepped back, searching for anything that could serve as a weapon. "My turn how? What
will you do to me?"
"Nothing." His hoarse chuckle sent her blood draining from her face. Walking back to the
corner, his body fading into shadow, he winked. "Your suffering has already begun."
She clutched the coin still in her hand, half for comfort and half in an attempt to break it. She
looked at Tim’s face again, peaceful because of the slacked jaw veered to the left, like he was
only asleep. A deep, paralysed sleep. His left eye wasn’t fully closed. Janay swept a finger over
the eyelid but it didn’t stay shut.
She turned the black coin and placed it face-up on Tim’s eye, a payment for the gatekeeper.
Timmy had been the superstitious one between them and loved hearing Janay’s stories of
the culture and mythologies after each excavation. It was only right he got a proper send off.
“See you on the other side,” she said as she kissed Tim’s still-warm but dried lips. She had
done this to him, killed him. Long before the creature came.
She reached for the drawer of the crash cart in the corner of the room and gripped a scalpel,
sliding the cap off and the blade down her arm. At first, there was nothing, no pain, then the
sharp heat flooded her arm and blood trickled out. She waited by the basin, watching her
soul pour out then stop. Her flesh pulled itself together and the skin stitched, leaving no
trace of the wound.
“He would have lived a decade yet,” said the baritone behind her, “so you will in turn.”
Avescope | 34

The Hollows Sleep
Guendolen Jacobs
"It’s not like Sleepy Hollow" Gage announced as they peered
at the figure upon a dark horse.
Dela turned her head towards Gage - her mouth agape. He
must have seen the same figure; a broad-shouldered man
in a heavy wool coat. The shafts of light gleaming through
the forest canopy made it impossible to dispute that the
man simply didn’t have a head.
The steam-driven buggy shimmied under them. It hissed as
if letting out a gasp. Gage stopped just as the rutted path
cleared the corner. Narrowing his eyes, Gage pursed his lips
deep in thought.
Dela pushed her emotions aside. If her partner wasn’t
panicking, then she wasn’t about to let him have the upper
hand. They had both been called to investigate the
strangeness that beset the town of Jasper. At most, she
expected mischievous wind spirits or perhaps a forest
guardian. The apparition could be a forest guardian, but
they rarely took human form - well, any kind of dressed
human. Woodland spirits were a bit cheeky that way.
Gage reached towards her legs. Before Dela voiced her
disapproval, Gage fumbled with the latch of a box that sat
between them. The flipped lid revealed several instruments.
Gage’s hand grabbed a telescope. He twisted several
sections out of the way, shortening its length. Pulling up the
eyeglass, Gage adjusted it.
Dust jumped into the air as the horse stomped around. The
mounted figure lifted his arm. It might have been her
imagination, but Dela thought it had beckoned them with
two gloved fingers.
Dela hopped in her seat, twisting towards her partner,
"What about this ISN’T Sleepy Hollow?"
"No pumpkin for one," Gage said in a distracted tone,
"Fascinating. The spectral emanations are extraordinary. We
should talk to him."
Dela’s eyes shot open, “What?!” Gage pushed himself up,
freeing his long legs and stepped out of the vehicle, “Clearly,
he’s intelligent.”
Dela glanced over at the rider, “You do realize that it doesn’t
have a head.” Gage looked at her for the first time since they
began this adventure. His green eyes searched her face for
something. He wore an expression of concern.
He spoke in slow careful words, “He’s also visible despite it
being daylight. I think we’re beyond simple logic here. Not
having a head, shouldn’t present a problem.”
Gage’s hands tugged down his vest in an instinctual
gesture as he straightened. If he had more muscle on his
Dela thought, he might be impressive. As it was, he was just
tall and lean, very much a bookworm type. He strode up the
path without looking to see what his partner would do.
She gave herself a mental slap to get her mind functioning.
Scrambling, she fought against the thick fabric that she had
painstakingly tucked around the passenger’s seat. She
could have gone with her French Vivandières outfit but had
opted instead to blend in with the traditional skirts and
jacket. The additional fabric got in her way. It also
threatened to trip her as she rolled out of the buggy.
Dela caught up with Gage on the dust-strewn path. Now
that she thought about it, it could hardly be considered a
road. She supposed they didn’t care for company if they
failed to maintain or improve the roads leading into the
town.
The rider’s horse stomped the ground, obviously impatient.
The stallion’s head nodded against the reigns. Upon closer
inspection, Dela saw that the rider flowed seamlessly into
his mount. The darkness of their forms made it impossible
to discern one from the other.
“His name,” Gage spoke, “is Jeremiah Cogram.”
“How do you know that,” Dela asked, adjusting the belt set
around her hips. It held six knives and twice as many
specially constructed darts.
Gage took in a sharp breath. He steadied himself before
snipping, “Research.”
“Of course,” Dela responded as if the answer should have
been obvious.
She normally didn’t do the initial investigations so
contacting entities fell outside of her prevue. She usually
came in once the spectral being had started rampaging.
Her intuition began to vex her. Something was amiss only
her intuition was never precise on what that something
was.
As they approached, shadows loomed in. Dela’s eyes flicked
around, looking for signs of danger. No one was going to
surprise them while she was around. Her fingers itched to
pull out her daggers. However, the horseman might see the
act as threatening. While normal knives were ineffective
against spiritual emanations, her knives were made of sliver
with a vein of opal set along the spines. Dela had also oiled
the metal with anointing oil. She was certain most spirits
could sense the danger they represented.
The headless rider twisted in his saddle. If he had a head,
Dela thought he would be looking them up and down. He
pointed out into the foreboding woods.
Avescope | 35

Gage stared in the indicated direction; a grim expression on
his face. “A Shaman, you say.”
Dela looked between the ghost and her partner. “No one
said that.”
Gage looked at her. A blush radiated over his cheeks. His
stare appraised her. Dela could see the war raging behind
his eyes. When he came to a decision, he sighed. “There’s a
reason The Society sends me on investigations. In addition
to my objectiveness, I have a connection to paranormal
manifestations. Jeremiah doesn’t communicate in the same
way as the living, but he does communicate.”
“I can accept that,” Dela shifted, flicking her eyes up to the
dark rider. “But I’m beginning to wonder why they sent
me.”
Gage gave a brief smile, “I requested it. You...have a singular
reputation.” Dela gave him her own penetrating stare. It
took less time for her to come to her own conclusions. She
nodded. Her sixth sense still hounded her, but she wasn’t
going to let it get in her way.
“So, what’s he telling you.” Dela said. “Jeremiah riled up the
town knowing that they would call The Society for help. A
presence has manifested in the woods. It’s grown powerful;
beyond what Jeremiah can handle by himself. He wants us
to help him deal with it before it starts attacking the
town.”
“So, Jeremiah is the town’s guardian?”
“Primarily. Jeremiah lived in Jasper before he died. He has a
good number of descendants there.”
“Well, that clinches it,” Dela set her hands on her hips, “Let’s
hunt us a Shaman.”
Gage blinked, “You believe me?”
“Don’t sound shocked. I have a good sense of people. While
the situation has me on edge, I never doubted you.”
A smile crossed Gage’s face. He had a nice smile; rare in her
line of work. Most men in The Society had one of two smiles.
It was either conceded, which made them insufferable or
they had an oily smile that spoke of an unnatural propensity
for the depraved aspect of the paranormal - more so than
anything actually paranormal. Gage was a refreshing
change of pace.
Clapping his hands together, Gage nodded to the
apparition. A gleam of excitement overtook Gage’s
expression. His doubts vanished as he set himself to work.
“Excellent.” Gage broke away, heading back towards his
vehicle.
Within moments, he pulled out various contraptions. One
looked like a pipe with bits stuck to it. It had a shoulder
strap, which he settled crossways over his body. The two
others were smaller. One was an angular box with a pistol
handle attached to it. The other looked like a grappling
hook except the hooked end was a glass cup.
Once Gage settled himself, he reached into the driver’s side
and pulled out the key. The buggy shimmied into silence.
Dela imagined that it did so in relief more than anything
else.
Gage flipped the keys through the air, making Dela fumble
to catch them. “Hold on to those, would you?”
Before Dela could question his motives, Gage trudged past
her and through the underbrush. She didn’t know if this
was bizarre behavior for him. She found it quite odd. None
of her other partners ever let the idea of her driving spring
up as a serious conversation. That was one thing about men
she couldn’t understand. What was so important about
their transportation that they couldn’t share the
responsibility of driving. She shrugged, depositing the key
in the safest place she had; the cleavage of her corseted
bosom.
Dela hiked up her skirts and headed after her partner.
Before she reached the demarcation line, the horseman
road up beside her. His shadowy hand reached down. This
one act of gentility, offering her a ride upon his steed,
astounded her. Whoever he had been in life hadn’t
degraded now that was dead. The kindness made a smile
bloom upon her face.
“I thank you ever so much, but I must refuse. A lady like me
can’t rely on the generosity of a gentleman. I have a
reputation to uphold.”
The horseman’s shoulders bowed in acknowledgment. His
horse cantered in place before it trotted into the woods. The
underbrush and other hindrances failed to work upon the
specter. They did, however, do a better job keeping Dela
from being the least bit graceful. Tangling vines and thin
pointed branches snagged and scratched her as she
pushed through.
Once she entered the forest proper, the shadows danced
around her. An eerie stillness pervaded the area. Every
sound was muted even their footfalls.
Gage slowed his decent into the darkness. The box-like
device he held moved from side to side. Dela closed in,
peering at the screen which glowed with green light. Lights
clumped in the upper corner, shifting like fireflies.
Her partner corrected his heading, moving once again. The
horseman followed them. He paid no heed to the solid
looking trees. If one got in his way, he walked through it as if
they weren’t there. Dela tripped over every bit of detritus.
Neither her shoes nor her outfit were doing her well today.
Each step brought them into a darker bit of the woods.
Before long, the darkness would completely overcome her
sight. The silence became more keening. It buzzed like the
anticipation of a raptor before a kill. Even the air felt heavier.
Stopping, Gage held up a hand signaling her to do the
same. Her intuition goaded her into arming herself. She slid
out two daggers. Gage holstered his detecting device,
pulling the pipe up to his shoulder.
A wrenching cry split the air. The high-pitch ululation made
Dela’s grip tighten on her weapons. The horseman’s mount
charged, disappearing into the darkness. Gage slid the pipe
off his shoulder, dropping it. He pulled out his last device,
running in after the guardian.
Avescope | 36

Dela cursed once Gage disappeared into the murk. This was
why she hated working with men. They never thought to
plan. They always just ran ahead, which meant she had to
go in and save their asses.
Saying a short prayer to any divine presence willing to save
fools from themselves, Dela rushed in. The darkness
swallowed her. It washed over her as if she had run under a
waterfall. The space on the other side felt dank and thirty
degrees colder than it had been. Dela didn’t see her
companions. All she saw was darkness.
There were no trees, no leaves, no bushes or scrubs - just
blackness. Dela froze, searching the gloom. The last thing
she wanted to do was run into a tree. As she stood there, a
hut made of twigs shimmered out of nothing. It was a crude
structure; not big enough for an adult to stand up in.
A drum beat grew out of the silence. The notes warbled in
and out of existence. An emaciated form of a stooped little
man became visible. He wore a plumed headdress that
flowed down his back. A string of bones ringed his neck.
Nothing but a loincloth covered his body. His arms were
held up; his hands curled like claws.
A moment later, both the horseman and Gage appeared.
The rider and his mount were trapped in mid-gallop. A
bright point circled them making rings of blue light. Gage
knelt on one knee. He clutched his limp arm. His weapon
effectively neutralized. No one in the tableau noticed her
appearance.
She crept, flanking the group until she could see the old
man in profile. Dela flipped one of her daggers around. As
she cocked her arm back, the Shaman turned his head
towards her. Dela shivered. She could see that his head had
indeed turned but it also remain forward focused on the
other two attackers.
“Not so fast, child.” The Shaman’s voice came out like a
dusty valley. Dela’s instincts shouted. He moved and didn’t
move at the same time. Dela tumbled, avoiding an arrow of
blue fire that the Shaman had shot at her while moving and
not moving.
No time to think; Dela leapt sideways, chucking her knife.
The knife ripped through his form while the Shaman also
dodged the shot. The two images merged back together.
The Shaman smiled. That was the self-important smile she
had become familiar with. Dela smiled back.
Not only had she tried to hit the Shaman, which she knew
would miss, she had also aimed at Gage. The opal inlaid
knife shimmered as it missed her partner’s head catching
the shroud that trapped him. He toppled over as time found
him.
“Excellent,” Gage crowed getting to his feet still grasping his
arm.
The Shaman snarled. His double form turned back towards
Gage. Only Gage wasn’t there. He had sprinted towards the
Horseman. Dela pulled out a dart. Running, she threw it
underhanded. A second Shaman flung out his arm,
stopping her in their tracks. The point of the dart scratched
the Shaman as it flew through the images. A red line
marked the spot on his chest.
Dela watched as Gage ran through the rings holding the
horseman in place. A cry escaped his lips. The lights broke
apart, shattering like glass. Gage stumbled, falling into the
horseman’s form. The horseman broke into real time. The
horse reared up as the rider morphed. The apparition
turned from shadow into full color. His head lifted as if he
had just bowed a moment earlier.
face stared out from the head. He reached back on the
saddle and withdrew a Calvary sword. Faster than he should
have been able to go, both horse and rider charged. The
sword swung as he passed by his target. The Shaman and
several shadowy duplicates tried to move in several
different directions at once. He was stuck together at the
chest unable to pull away.
The drums stopped when the Shaman’s head thudded to
the ground. The darkness lifted. Dela stumbled as the force
released her. The hut and Shaman faded and the woods
reappeared.
Dela rushed to Gage’s prone body. His skin was cold; his
eyes lifeless. She should have protected him. She remained
there until a set of hooves trotted up beside her.
Gage’s face looked down at her. He grimaced and
dismounted the horse, leaving the headless rider as the
horse’s only occupant. Gage stood as a hazy image of
himself. His halfhearted smile paired with a hand that
rubbed across the back of his neck.
“Damn, I hate it when I’m right.” Gage spoke.
“Right? What do you mean?” Dela pushed herself up.
“You know...premonitions. Had them since I was little. I don’t
want the clods at the Society getting my inventions. That’s
why I wanted you to be my last partner.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know your reputation. That’s good enough for me.”
Dela’s mind raced. “You knew this was going to
happen?”
“Not this exactly but yes. It was my time.”
“But,” Dela sputtered, “Fine. I’ll have you know I don’t
appreciate all this being dropped in my lap.”
“Noted.” Gage smiled, “and thank you.”
“You’re just going to leave?”
Gage looked back at the horseman. “I guess. His presence is
the thing keeping me here. Once he’s gone, I have no idea
what will happen.”
The horseman’s mount shook its head. The rider saluted
with two figures against his non-existent head. He pulled on
the reigns and the steed peeled away. As he trotted
through the woods, the apparition disappeared. Moments
later, Gage faded from sight as well.
Dela cursed. She grabbed the odd grappling hook and the
detection device. Dela counted her way back to the buggy.
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Along the way, she retrieved the pipe weapon. She dumped
all of Gage’s gear into the vehicle before leaning against the
side; her head cradled in her hands. A moment later, she
kicked a tire and gave a guttural yell to vent the frustration
she felt.
She retrieved the keys she had safely tucked away. The next
hurdle was to find a telegraph and let The Society know
where to find Gage’s body. The review and subsequent
inquiry would take months of her time. Dela climbed into
the driver’s seat. Her mood did not diminish the fact that
this was the first time she would be driving a partner’s
vehicle. That gave her a small amount of satisfaction.
Before she managed to turn the key, Gage’s voice split the
silence. “Her name is Bella.”
Dela jumped, leaning away from the passenger’s seat. There
sat Gage in all his ghostly glory. Dela scowled at him.
“I thought you were gone.” Dela accused.
Gage shrugged. “I’m really not sure why I’m back.”
“Well,” Dela harrumphed, “I hope you’re not a chatty
ghost.”
Gage smiled. He gestured with his hand to indicate she was
free to continue. Dela turned the key and Bella burbled to
life. The horseless carriage rolled down the road towards the
town of Jasper. Gage’s ghost would have to be her secret.
Dela would never live this down if any of the boys found out.
She really hoped, he was worth all the trouble.
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Avescope | 39

Sal Adin
A serialized novel by LD Towers
Chapter 3
July 9, 2020
04:11
They crept towards the house on silent feet like black shadows. There would be no turning back now. The perimeter guards had been dispatched
with ruthless efficiency; their throats slit from ear to ear. No warning had been sounded, and yet for some reason, it felt too easy. There were far fewer
guards than anticipated. Was this the arrogance of the infidel? Did they really think themselves so safe?
Lines of communication to the house were temporarily blocked by 'satellite' interference and their person in the house would have drugged the
outside agents. In five minutes, the All Clear code, which was sent on a special computer to the police every half hour, would be sent. He and his
men would have the time. In ten minutes a horrible car accident would take place a few blocks over to distract the local police. He was proud of his
men. They were going to sacrifice themselves to give him a few more moments at his task. They would be rewarded in heaven.
The leader stared through his night-vision goggles. It was strange that there were no sharpshooters on the roof. Allah was with them. Maybe they,
too, had ingested the drugged food. Soon the real killing would begin. Everything was going to plan.
Ysabeaux awoke to feel a hand over her mouth. Her eyes flashed open to see Agent Harris standing over her. She started to struggle, but he raised
his finger to his lips and shook his head. He bent down and whispered in her ear to be silent and still. Ice ran through her veins. She was afraid.
What did he want? Why was he here? Two quick taps sounded on the door, followed by a third.
Another agent came into the room. He looked at Harris, pointed at the window and shook his head. Softly he said, "We're all alone."
They disabled the power from the basement. They had all the plans for the house. Breaking in had been so easy. Too easy. They moved through the
servants quarters, knives flashing, butchering everyone as they went. The leader felt no guilt. The infidel deserved to die. He entered another
bedroom, where a rather large woman lay sleeping. He put his hand over her mouth and watched her wake up, and look at him with reverence.
She had been so easy to manipulate.
He could see that she was fully dressed under the covers. As his knife came to rest against her larynx, her eyes widened with fear and pleading. He
laughed softly. He found that he enjoyed her terror. Slowly his knife moved from one side of her throat to the other, and her blood once released
from her body poured onto the bedding. "Thank you for helping us, Mrs. North. Allah will bless you for your loyalty to the faith. I'm honoured to help
you on your way." He held her face and stared at her while she died, then closed her eyes before moving on.
Harris continued to hold her mouth, as he leaned in close. "We have to get you away from here. Now you must do exactly what we say. You must
be very very quiet. We’re in a lot of danger."
Ysabeax didn't want to believe him and she shook her head as tears beaded in her eyes. This was a sick joke. She tried to struggle, but the other
agent rushed forward to grab her arms. She thrashed harder.
"Ysabeaux Leander, I am trying to save your life. Do you trust me?" Harris hissed.
She shook her head no.
He stared into her eyes. "This isn't a joke. You must come quietly and quickly. We have lost contact with our agents outside and must get you to
safety. Security has been compromised. Now, if I take my hand away from your mouth, do you promise that you won't scream?" In the silence, the
sound of footsteps could be heard in the hall.
According to the architectural plans, the master bedroom was on the third floor, near the daughter's. He would kill the President first and then the
wife. Then he would find the daughter and send her off to Allah. He had watched her earlier, out by the pool, a look of such misery on her face. He
had wondered why she had been so unhappy. There was something alien about her wild blue hair tucked into a DC French roll. He couldn’t deny
that her body excited him, no matter how much he tried to deny it. It had been a long time since he had felt such an unquenchable stirring in his
flesh and it made him wonder at his faith. He believed it to be all the years they had spent tracking her and her family. I
t was a shame that he had to kill her but he could see no way around it. He would wake her up gently. He would hold her to him and tell her of how
he had killed her parents. Then he would gently take her life and tell her not to be afraid. He alone would watch her pass from this world into
eternity. He had told his men that the first family were his to dispatch and they would respect his wishes.
He neared the door to the master bedroom, but he could see no one through his night-vision goggles. He looked over at one of his men who
walked nearby. There were no guards at the President’s door. His gun raised, he slowly opened the door and walked into the room.
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Eric Danes was awake, and something was wrong. Some instinct, perhaps the same one that had saved him during Vietnam, told him. He pulled
the throw off of his body and slowly raised himself from the couch. He could hear steps on the stairs outside the library. Eric padded to the fireplace
and grabbed one of the irons. As the footsteps drew closer, he darted beside the door, hoping to attack from behind. How he knew those weren’t
the feet of the Secret Service eluded him, but every fibre of his being was sure they weren’t.
The door opened slowly and a black-clad figure with night vision goggles entered the room. Eric used his best golf swing to bludgeon his attacker
from behind. His aim was true and he hit the intruder in the head, stunning him. The man turned, his gun moving in Eric’s direction. He swung
again and hit the guy in the stomach. Every other morning on the golf course was paying off in spades. Eric might be in his eighties, but he still had
power in his torso.
The intruder recovered and lunged at Eric with his knife, catching the fabric of Eric's pant leg. The old Senator charged with the point of his poker
into the belly of his attacker and held with all his might. The man slashed Eric deeply in the arm, and then slowly stilled as the poker penetrated his
body. He could feel the hard resistance of the skin before ease as the poker slid deep into the man’s guts. Eric grabbed the man's knife and ran out
into the hall. The Secret Service would shoot on sight a man with a gun, but he didn’t want to be unarmed. They were under attack and every
instinct the old man had was in play. He hadn’t felt so alive since the war.
Harris was near the door, opening it a crack. Ysabeaux' room was close to the stairs. Only a few feet. The darkness in the room mocked her. She
wanted to fling on the lights and prove to herself that all was safe. A crazy part of her wanted to talk and laugh, to break the tension that was
coursing through her. She looked down as she felt her hands trembling and again, that hysterical laughter threatened to escape. She bit down on
the inside of her lip to keep it in check.
The other agent passed Harris and went silently into the hall, his gun raised above his head. Harris then exited also, pulling Ysabeaux along behind
him. He led her towards the stairs slowly, the other agent following them. She felt so naked in her lace dress, and so very, very defenceless. Harris
tugged her towards the top of the stairs.
The leader surveyed the room. The master bed was empty. His quarry had escaped. His anger consumed him. He pulled out his gun and sprayed
the bed with bullets; screaming in fury. And then... he heard a scream, a woman's scream and the sound of gunfire. The girl! She was still here! He
ran out of the room.
Ysabeaux hadn't meant to scream, but the noise! The bullets! The terror! She heard the other agent swear and open up with his gun. Harris
dragged her down the stairs a couple at a time. She heard footsteps, running towards the stairs, on the lower floor and the upper floor. There was a
thud from above, more gunfire, and then another thud. This horrible gurgling noise behind her. She turned and saw the body of the unknown
agent falling down the stairs. She tried to get away, but the body hit her, slamming her into the wall of the landing.
Tangled up in that horrible dead weight, Ysabeaux felt a warm stickiness flowing across her hands. She looked up and could see a black shape with
a gun at the top of the stairs. The barrel was pointed directly at her. She closed her eyes and tried to shrink into the floor, hoping that the gunman
would think her dead.
Then a hand was on her ankle pulling her down the next flight of stairs. It was Harris! She scrambled down the stairs beside him. He held his gun
out, aimed and fired at an intruder on the lower floor. The rapport of the gun was like an explosion in her ears and she watched the body fall to the
ground.
"Help will be on the way soon," Harris whispered. "There is a watch system and if I don't punch in a code in the next twenty minutes, the cavalry will
come. When I say go, I want you to run down the stairs, through the ballroom and out to the terrace. I will be right behind you. Run as fast as you
can. No matter what, don’t stop. Run and run and run to the trees, and then keep running. Just go."
She nodded and readied herself for flight. Harris fired off another couple of shots before hissing, "Go!"
Ysabeaux hiked her dress up to her thighs and practically flew down the stairs. She could hear Harris' breathing behind her. A few doors down the
hall to the ballroom. Movement caught her eye in the dining room, but before she could glance, Harris' body tackled her body to the ground. An
explosion of gunfire echoed in her ears and she sobbed. Suddenly Harris was pulling her up and pushing her forwards.
"Ysabeaux!" a voice called to her and she saw Eric Danes in an archway ahead of her.
She could almost feel Harris aim at the old man when she screamed "No! Don't!"
He must have recognized Danes as he just propelled her forwards. "Keep moving! Just a little further! Senator, can you use a gun?"
"I'm rusty," the man huffed as he followed them. He managed to keep the pace well. "But I can still kill."
They reached the ballroom door and Harris ducked around it to reload his weapon. He reached under his pant leg and pulled out a small twentytwo
which he pressed it into the Senator's hand. "If I buy it, you know what to do." He deftly reloaded his gun and laid out some covering fire.
Ysabeaux and Danes covered the length of the ballroom in seconds. A dark heap lay in a black looking puddle by the terrace door and Ysabeaux
froze. Eric pushed her forwards and fired his small gun at the figure emerging from the swinging servants' door in the far corner. The terrorist
returned fire but was taken out by Harris. The two men urged her on as she jumped over the body, and blew out onto the terrace. Harris also made
it, but Danes slipped in the blood and went down. His head slammed into the doorjamb with an audible crack.
She didn't have the time to care. Her instincts had taken over. She had to run and run and run. Just like Harris told her to. The flagstones slashed
the bottoms of her nylons and she could feel them splitting up to her thighs. A window from one of the upper floors opened and there another
shooter. She reached the edge of the pool and turned to go around it. A spray of bullets hit the water. And then... There was another black figure
ahead of her, gun raised. She stopped. Harris bumped into her.
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Ysabeaux felt Harris raise his gun, but he did not fire. The moment felt like her entire lifetime. It stretched on and on yet was completely silent.
Then she was on the ground and she was covered by his body. The wind was knocked out of her. She could taste blood in her mouth and she didn’t
know if it was hers or Harris’. The gunfire had stopped. The night was silent. Then footsteps. Closer and closer. Suddenly the weight was off her and
there was an ominous splash. She tried not to breathe.
"We killed her!" The voice was exultant.
"I think not, Siddig." And then there was a hand, a gentle hand, brushing the hair from her face. Open your eyes, little one." She didn't breath, the
sound of her own heartbeat exploding through her skull.
"She is dead. Let's go."
"Ah, Siddig, you are so impatient. That is why you are not the hand of Allah." Ysabeaux felt the hand trail down to her throat. "See, Siddig, her pulse
flutters in her throat like a little bird. Now, Miss Leander, breathe. Let air explode into your lungs. Sweet air."
She could not help herself. She couldn't deny herself any longer. Her breath came in a deep sob. She opened her eyes to see one figure standing
over her, and another one squatting beside her. The man beside her had removed his goggles and she could see his eyes, calm and so dark brown,
boring right into her soul.
"Kill her now, my lord!"
A voice called from the house. "The Senator is still breathing, Master."
"We will have killed one of the family. It's enough, Master!"
"No. We will take her. Think of it, Siddig. We will take her home with us. Allah wills we take her, and I will it. We will take this treasure of the mighty
Americans and destroy it on the steps of the grand mosque in Mecca. And then there shall be war! That will be far worse than the mere slaying of
the President. It will drive fear into their hearts, and the Jihad will begin." He gently pulled the skirt of Ysabeaux's dress down over her legs.
Ysabeaux trembled and then started to struggle. "I won't let you kill me like a dog in the street!" Kicking and biting, she tried to get away, but the
man hands grabbed her wrists like iron bars and held her to the ground.
"No, little one! You will not misbehave." He moved her wrists so that he could hold them both with one hand and drew his knife.
"Oh, God, no!" she breathed, as the turquoise light from the pool gleamed along its silver length.
"Watch!” he said, as he pressed the point of the knife against her chest. She felt a sting as it pierced the surface of her skin. A bead of red blood
covered the knife's tip. "I could kill you, and my people would rejoice. I do not need to offer you up as a sacrifice to my god if it is not convenient to
me. But I will try to do as Allah wills, for now. Goodnight, little one. " He raised the knife above her head, reversed it, and as she tried to scream, he
brought the pommel down against her skull and she knew no more.
Sheik Moamar el Rashid stood over the body of the girl and smiled at Siddig. He took her hand and made a small incision along the back, letting
her blood drip on the flagstones. "Pick her up and carry her to the car. Hurry! Fill her veins with some of the morphine and she will sleep like a
baby.” He ordered coldly.
"My lord, I do not think this is wise. The Americans! They will track us like bloodhounds! They will not allow this,” his right hand answered.
Moamar raised his eyebrow, "Not if they think we want a ransom." He turned towards the house. "Mohammed, grab the old man." He faced Siddig
again. " We will use him as a decoy and then we will kill him. Let's go."
Siddig looked at his watch. "We have ten minutes until the code needs to go through, but I am sure that someone will have reported the gunfire."
"Yes. We will leave now." He watched as Siddig roughly jabbed a needle into the girl’s buttocks and depressed the plunger. Then together they
picked up the girl and dragged her towards the trees.
“She’s not a delicate little flower, is she?” Siddig grunted.
“Allah likes a woman to have some meat on her.” As they crossed back towards the house, he turned on his throat mike. "Ali, How many did we
lose?"
A rough voice answered softly in his ear, "We lost five, my lord. There are ten of us left."
"Unfortunate, but now they sit with Allah." His men were carrying the Senator around the building, towards the staff garage. Mrs. North was
supposed to have left her keys in her van. He and half of his men would take the van, the other half would take the gardening truck they had come
to the house in. "Ali, put the prisoners in the van. They will stay with me."
"Yes, my lord." It was unfortunate that the President had not been in residence, and he was angry at himself for losing control in the bedroom. He
never lost control. To be so close and then...
But he had the girl. That made things better. It made him feel powerful, to possess the daughter of the mighty President of the United States. In
the months that he and his men had spent studying the family, pouring over documents, newspaper clippings, video, he had become fascinated
by her. She was so totally foreign to his world. Modern and spoiled. Moamar was used to women who were far more subtle in their willfulness. It
wasn’t that he hadn’t had Western women. He had tasted of their flesh but they bored him. They were just a receptacle for his manhood. This one,
however. The daughter of his greatest enemy?
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Moamar knew that many scholars of the Qur’an and hadiths said that female captives shouldn’t be killed and he felt torn. If he had killed her in the
heat of battle, that would have been fine. That was battle. Now he had taken her. He would have to pray on it. Sometimes sins must be committed
to enact the Prophet’s will and they would be forgiven.
He entered the van and sat in the back, examining his captives. He bent down and stroked the girls face. Her skin was very soft. The eye makeup
she had worn lay under her eyes in dark smudges. The vanity of it! Still, eye makeup was popular amongst the women of his country. He found he
couldn’t forbid it.
Siddig sat down beside him as the van started and rumbled out of the driveway. "We have a five minute head start before the code goes in. We
should be at the rental vehicle by then."
"We spent too much time chasing the girl. That is regrettable." He pulled the balaclava from his head and ruffled his hands through his hair. His
head itched. Next, off came the black sweater and pants. Underneath he wore the cargo pants he had worn in the bushes. As clothing they would
serve until he arrived at the rental car. Three days ago, he and his men had rented six cars from a variety of places and had parked them around
town, three of which were parked at a supermarket nearby. They would change vehicles, and then drive to the next set, all in different locations.
Then on to another and escape.
The terrorists arrived at supermarket, a minute before the code should have been sent in. Efficiently, they moved into the other vehicles, the girl
was put into the trunk of his, the old Senator in one of the others. Siddig and Moamar sat in the back as another on of the terrorists drove to the
next car. He narrowed his eyes and stared at his long fingered hands. His insides were a jumble of aftermath.
"My Lord, she is a liability. You must dispatch her." Siddig urged.
Moamar shook his head. "No. Think of the enormity of what we have done. The daughter of the President. Ysabeaux Olivia Leander." He let the
syllables of her name roll off of his tongue and he inhaled. He felt immortal. "Ours to do with as we please. An important cog in the machine which
is Allah's will. Far too important to leave dead in a ditch on the side of the I-5. We will taunt the mighty President with his inability to protect his
own family." He chuckled cruelly. Remembering the look on the girls face, the terror, brought him back to a steadier place. If only he had thought
of such a scheme sooner, when he had been watching her in Oregon. The beautiful simplicity of it all. A titanic game of keep away. And no matter
what, he would win, because if the Americans came to close he would kill her. It was still battle, he realised. Just a different sort. By holding the
President's daughter, he made the mighty nation look weak and foolish. Show them how they were suffocating in their own decadence. Unable to
protect their children.
"Canada, Siddig. It will be easier to hide there, until it is safe to leave the continent. The CIA and the FBI don't co-operate with each other and we
will slip through the cracks. They aren’t that much improved since 9/11. Such is American arrogance. They think they control everything.”
"As you will it, my Lord."
"No, Siddig, as Allah wills it. I have no will but Allah's." He looked at his watch. "By now they will be arriving at the mansion, and they will know fear."
He wished he could be there to watch.
"If only the President had been there. It would have been glorious."
Moamar shook his head. "No, Siddig, it was flawed, I see that now. Allah would have let us succeed if it had been the way of his will. But he has
provided for us. Open up your mind to the will of Allah, and all will become clear to you. He has chosen his sacrifice, and it is not the President, but
the daughter. She will not die in a burst of bullets, fast and unclean. No. Slowly. In a place of my choosing. It will be a beautiful thing, for that is what
our people need. And from her ashes we will rise like the phoenix and cleanse the West of its faithlessness."
"How will you do it, my Lord? How will you sacrifice the girl?"
"We will slit her wrists, and let the blood flow from her body. You and I will hold her up so that she cannot fall until the last drop is gone. Then I shall
address the masses, and the war will begin." As they drove along, the fantasies played out in his mind and he found contentment.
Looking for Chapter 1?
Looking for Chapter 2?
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