————

The only DC comic I was ever interested in as a kid was Batman, but Green Lantern has a certain appeal. I mean, how many of us would love to be the bearer of a magic green space ring that does awesome things to bad people? Don’t be shy. Raise your hands.

Winslow is one lucky dude. :)

This one was a lot of fun to draw. A lot of my comics tend to be layered with more than one joke, because one joke is usually not enough. This one not only has layers, but parallel universes that won’t be immediately apparent unless you’ve been reading Ben & Winslow for a while. Maybe I’m the only person who will ever understand. Maybe I just draw these things for my own amusement. Maybe I’m 29 years old and can do what I want, Mom. Jeez!

————

Andrew Kaye (known in some circles as AK) is the creator of Ben & Winslow and other questionable comics, many of which can be found in his deviantART gallery. He’s also the editor-in-chief of this magazine. Duh?

Could you imagine getting that kind of recognition? Having the power to, at any time, swoop in and steal the entire show? Well, you’d better start imagining it, because today I’m going to reveal my most amazing, show-stealing and “Oh-so astonishing!” magic tricks. FOR FREE!!! 

Now, some of you might be thinking, Is this chick on drugs? Why isn’t she charging at least three easy payments of $29.99 for these mind-boggling secrets?  While a court-imposed gag order prevents me from revealing that particular secret today, you can rest assured that it (and many others!) will reveal itself, when my tell-all book “Turns Out Not Everyone Loves A Clown,” hits bookstores after the trial.  

Ready to amaze the crowd? Well, then, let’s get to it! 

Got Your Nose 

This might just be my most stupefying illusion-style trick ever. And it’s so easy! 

First, walk up to any guest and politely ask his name. Then, as soon as he opens his mouth to tell you, grab his nose and start pulling on it. Hard. (For extra traction, you might want to try placing your foot on his upper thigh.) 

When it looks as though he’s just about to pass out, pull your hand away and make a fist, positioning your thumb so it protrudes between your index and middle finger. Now, before he can lift his hand to his now bleeding nasal cavity, shove your fist in his face, saying hilariously, “Got your nose!” 

*Sidenote- This trick works best on seniors with dementia and/or college students on ecstasy 

Pulling Out A Stabby Knife From An Ear 

Most entertainers do this one with quarters, but I find I get a better audience reaction when I use potentially deadly weapons. Here’s how it works:  Go up to someone in the crowd and casually (yet aggressively!) reach behind his ear with a stabby knife. Be careful, though. Those stabby knives can be pretty sharp, and we wouldn’t want any (unnecessary) accidents! 

Once you have the crowds undivided attention (I guarantee it won’t take more than ten seconds or so), pull your hand away and yell “Abracadabra!” waving the stabby knife aimlessly in the air. 

Finally, after a few moments of aimless air-waving, bring it back to eye level, saying tongue-in-cheek, “Well, I’ll be darned! So that’s where I left the stabby knife that I always have in my back pocket!” 

Walking Down the Imaginary Stairs Into the Fiery Pits of Hell 

For this trick you need strong thigh muscles and exceptionally good balance. It also helps if you happen to have a fiery pit of hell lying around. 

I Can Read Your Mind 

I find this trick works best on children, as their minds are newer and therefore more easily readable. 

Go up to a kid and casually mention that you can read his mind. When he gives you a look as if to say “Whatever jerkface!” place your hand on top of his back-talking head and close your eyes. 

Once a few minutes have passed, slowly open your eyes, saying in a sad and ominous voice, “Did you know that every time you think that way an innocent puppy is brutally murdered?” 

*FYI, this trick is even more magical if you can cry on command. 

The Double Jointed Hobo Robot 

This isn’t so much a magic trick as a kickass dance move that I happen to be really good at.  It’s too bad I copyrighted it, because trust me, it’s a real crowd pleaser. 

Sleight of Abdominus Rectus 

Exactly like the sleight of hand trick, only using the abdominal muscles.  

(Shadow Of) A Vulture on the Wall 

In order for this illusion to be successful, your audience must keep their eyes focused on the wall. Unfortunately, if someone suddenly turns around while you’re making the magic “soar” so-to-speak, it won’t be nearly as mind-blowing. 

Detached Finger 

Given that I haven’t yet figured out how to do the “Reattaching the Detached Finger” trick, I strongly suggest that if you don’t have adequate medical coverage, you be very selective as to how often you perform this one. 

Now You See It, Now It’s on Its Way to the Local Pawn Shop 

It’s probably best to save this one for the grande finale, or better yet as a final encore, after everything is packed up and all evidence linking you to the scene has been properly disposed of.

Because when it comes down to it, who do you think the cops are going to believe? A bunch of drunk people who thought there was a vulture flying on the wall? Or an amazing magician who also does the occasional performance at the Seniors’ Centre but other than that keeps a relatively low profile and has no criminal record? 

My point exactly. 

————  

Becky Cardwell lives in Vancouver, Canada, where she recently moved to in order to further her “already pretty far ahead” acting career. Her first big break came in 1986, when a big talent-scout/assistant cameraman on “Buckshot” panned the live studio audience, leaving the camera on her for much longer than anyone else. Six people saw the show that day, and four and-a-half of them agree that yes, it did seem like a pretty long time. 

 When not busy auditioning, she writes humor and travel pieces and has been published in McSweeney’s, The Big Jewel, Hobo Pancakes, Happy Woman Magazine, Wanderlust, and Lipstick, among others.

————

The idea that Winslow has a secret “axe hole” is not a secret. This is just the first time we’ve actually seen what it looks like. It’s pretty much filled with axes, like you’d expect.

I like drawing axes, which is probably why Winslow has such rabid axe-lust. You can blame my obsession with axes (at least artistically) on all the dwarves and vikings and barbarians and monsters I drew as a kid. They were always armed with axes. Swords just weren’t brutal enough. So there you have it. A glimpse into my incredibly lonely and nerdy childhood.

And yes, those are ninja panties Winslow is wearing on his head.

————

Andrew Kaye (known in some circles as AK) is the creator of Ben & Winslow and other questionable comics, many of which can be found in his deviantART gallery. He’s also the editor-in-chief of this magazine. Duh?

Prepare yourselves. Prepare to fall in love with hilarity. Because it’s here, on every digital page. That’s how we roll here at Defenestration. This issue’s offerings are pretty hefty: four of the short stories this time around are well over 2,000 words, and two of those go beyond 3,000. After this read, you’ll be able to pat your belly with contentment. (Or whatever other body part you tap when you’re content. I won’t ask. I’m generally a polite guy.) Just be warned that some of this month’s content might be considered Not Safe For Work, so don’t let the boss read this over your shoulder unless he or she is comfortable with the word “ejaculation.”

You can explore the August 2010 issue of Defenestration from right here on the front page, or you can follow the links below. This issue is also available as a free downloadable .pdf file, because we know there are some of you out there that still like to print things out and read from the skins of murdered trees.

And starting today, we are once again open to poetry and short story submissions. We’ll be reading for the December 20th issue. The reading period ends on December 5th, so give us your best shot. We’ll be waiting.

—Andrew Kaye, Editor-in-Chief

Table of Contents

Poetry:

Evan Allgood, “Orlando Bloom in Morning”

Autumn Hayes, “Mack”

Matt Henderson, “Daydreaming in Greensburg”

Paul Giles, “Famous Last Words”

Short Stories:

David Cotrone, “The Anatomy of Solace (Does Marie Antoinette Need Glasses?)”

George Walker, “Puppy Love”

Leslie Haynsworth, “The Jane Austen Politico Fan Club”

Robert Scotellaro, “The Saint of Redirection”

Lauren Hargrave, “Cookies”

Cal Cleary, “Space Opera”

Downloadable Copy:

Defenestration, August 2010

I throw five thousand dollars at the four-armed usher and when that doesn’t move him, I reach out with my tentacles and caress his exposed genitals.  He leaves.  They always leave when I touch them.  My body is a mass of slimy appendages, completely alien in appearance to the humans, a monstrous picture that often frightens even the impure-human sentients.  Every known species these days has a little human somewhere, except for me.  I wore such a giant, gorgeous hat in hopes that it would draw attention away from my deformities. 

Most of the crowd is wholly human, though the performer on stage, a blue-skinned singer with expressive range and no clothing, is most certainly not.  The performer is never human, not anymore.  Humanity bred dominant, and they do not need to dirty themselves with the nude singing aspect of the entertainment industry anymore. 

I have never understood the making of art, I can proudly say.  I want only to be entertained – and for everyone to love me, of course, as all sensible beings do.  Despite the writhing mass of limbs that make up the bulk of my mass, I am as human as many here.  I was raised by human parents, at least as far back as I recall, excessively wealthy human parents who did not mind my extra appendages.  In fact, once mother-dearest discovered their dexterity and tensile strength, my respectable parents began to leave the house less and less.  I occasionally feel shame that this addiction was partially responsible for their deaths – it sometimes feels as though some of the shame at their indecency and weakness may rub off on me, as though I am judged by their sins. 

I am poked in the back, on one of my rear tentacles.  I can feel the grease of his filthy hand rub off on me.  I have never gotten used to that feeling, never learned to properly suppress my nausea at it.  I am sure that my human wife thinks that I cannot stand the sight of her body, with so few limbs, but it is untrue – she is beautiful to me, but I cannot bear her touch.  I have tried, out of respect to her wishes, but I have failed her in much the same way that I eventually failed my dear, deceased parents.  I suspect that I am secretly traumatized by something involving their touch, though biology suggests a minor allergy to certain oils on their dirty skin is a more likely explanation. 

My tentacles sway in sadness for a brief instant at the thought of my lonely wife, who is undoubtedly even now pleasuring her seven-entity Quadrillionaire Estates Sex Slave Premiere Package, but I am disrupted once again by the filthy touch of the ape behind me.  “Pardon,” he whispers to me.  “I was wondering if you could remove that gorgeous hat, you slavish beast.” 

I consider my options very briefly before I consume him in a writhing mass of sticky, sucking tentacles.  I am afraid, for a moment, that I have made the wrong decision.  I snap his neck with my innards to silence him before I begin to digest him — slowly, so as not to make noise.  I do not want to disturb the show. 

Around me, the people begin to applaud softly.  I pretend not to know why, and join in the clapping.  I cannot afford to stand out.  Similarly, the rest of the audience begins clapping.  They are unsure why, but they, like me, do not wish to appear not to know why they are clapping.  They are undoubtedly making wry comments back and forth even now with a sense of elitist camaraderie.  I would love to join them, but my mouth is sadly full. 

The performer, dear, beautiful girl bows, confused.  She believes we are clapping for her.  She is, then, rather dull, but her voice is beautiful, and if she is cleaner than the humans, I would gladly penetrate her multiple times with a number of appendages of varying length and girth.  I make a mental note to approach her after the show with the offer.  I rather hope she will say yes — I do so love ejaculation. 

The applause dies down eventually, and the performer continues with her show.  Her voice is operatic, and the song she has chosen is much better than any in her opening set.  I am hypnotized against my will to follow the rises and falls of her silvery voice.  I retain enough sense of self not to sing along, but my neighbors cannot help but note my swaying tentacles as I brush their thighs in my dance.  Though I cannot see them, I can mentally picture their scorn.  “Look,” they are saying to each other so softly that my dull ears cannot pick up on it, “truly, music soothes the savage beast.” 

“Indeed,” replies another, an alien concubine who will surely never now allow me to penetrate her to our mutual satisfaction, “it is such an animal that I can hardly stand to be near it.” 

“And it smells something fierce,” replies their less-clever friend.  I would like to penetrate him, but for a different reason, and it would end only in my satisfaction as I consumed him.  I do not like stupid remarks where witty ones are called for. 

It is either the shame of this imagined exchange or the completion of the song that allows me to break free of the hypnotism.  I almost eat all the people near me, to ensure that they do not spread rumors about me, but I have long since learned that one mustn’t get predictable.   Nothing turns an audience against you quicker than repetition, mother-dearest always told me. 

Before the performer can begin a new song, I hear a ruckus from the back.  I am shocked.  I hope that whoever began this shameful ruckus dies.  It almost saddens me, what humanity is coming to.  In my head, I share a look with the performer, and we silently laugh at the foibles of the true humans.  In reality, she continues with her set, silently hoping, I am sure, that she will not be executed for failing to hold the attention of her audience. 

“Everyone!” I hear a voice from the back.  “Everyone get on the fucking floor!”  Such dreadful shouting!  I cannot believe that there are humans that would dare do this.  I hear rapid gunshots punctuating his shouts.  He must have some sort of awful automatic device. 

I yawn, feigning boredom.  I can feel the nearby patrons eyeing my nonchalance with envy.  I easily hide my smile, though the appendage twitches that signify happiness in me is hardly recognizable to any greasy little rodent around me, and return to watching the singer.  Like me, she is pretending not to notice.  Admittedly, this may partially be because if she falters, she will be murdered at the shows end, but it is still admirable, and it is drawing a great deal of positive attention from the crowd, who is, at this point, mostly ignoring the thugs. 

They do not seem to like that.  I hear a series of rapid gunshots, and the pretty blue-skinned humanoid on stage explodes into a beautiful purple shower of blood and vital organs.  Her voice has stopped, and for a moment, the entire theater is stunned silent. 

The silence does not last, and the heartless brutes begin to scream orders again, but the damage has been done.  The performer has been shot in the midst of her strongest song this night.  I do not act, and despite the screams and the guns and the angry idiots.  I hear the commands, the, “Empty your wallets!  Your credits are mine!  All your dollars are mine!” but I do not know what to do, how to react. 

Fear, I know, seems logical, but I recall that fear was the immediate response at the terror strikes at the Ultra-Coke Messiah Hall of Music twelve days back, and it would really just seem to the outside world as though we were copying them.  I certainly do not want to die like that, and I suspect that no one else here does, either.  Cruel society would tear down the massive monument I plan on having built for my resting place and in its place would build toilets should I show a moment’s fear, I believe. 

There is always heroism.  That could be interesting.  From the numerous films I have seen, heroes are rather well received, at least in the short term, and they are frequently granted penetration-rights from total strangers without even needing to drug or pay them first!  I rather begin to hope that the consensus be heroism.  The fact that I am immortal is an added spice to this, as I should surely be quite a successful hero because of it. 

This paralyzing indecision grips many of us, I suspect, because we are going through similar thought processes.  The cockless bastards holding the concert hall up are still shouting nonsense like, “Your women and your dollars will go to feed our bloody cause!” but it feels half-hearted.  They must be experienced enough to know that they will not get anywhere until some sort of consensus is reached among the crowd.  I do not allow my pride at being held up by such skilled beings to show, but I am secretly quite thrilled.  This shall surely make the news.  I hope my wife sees. 

I am still thinking when I heard the first bits of song.  Her song.  Did we choose memorial?  That seems kind of lame.  It’s just one guy, sitting near the mindless beasts.  I hear a gunshot ring out, and the singing stops.  I brace myself for more crappy singing, and I’m sure that the brutes feel the same way. 

Blessedly, I am surprised when I hear an older woman’s voice eagerly yell out, “Kill me next!”  That breaks the silence, and I am quite happy — not a memorial, then, but a bloodbath.  A tribute – she died, so we die.  Conceptually similar to memorial, but different enough to make me almost attempt to smile, and violent enough to definitely get us on TV.  We’d own the cycle for hours! 

Gunshots ring out, faster and faster, trying and failing to keep up with the demands.  The thugs must not even be stopping – they must be planning to go back once everyone is dead and rummaging through the pockets, grabbing the jewelry, all that.  Had I a spine, surely it would shiver in my currently excited state. 

The screaming demands are getting louder and louder, and soon I cannot even hear the gunshots anymore.  Someone nearby, in a futile attempt to stand out, begins to sing.  A few people take up the song, and are rewarded with a quick death – one of them even has the honor of being disintegrated by a wide-burst laser blast!  Ecstasy. 

I feel the first bullet smack against some of my back tentacles, along with brain matter from the person it tore through to get to me.  This is when I feel the first stab of worry, as the bullet does not penetrate me.  In fact, the most distress that I experience is from the feel of all that filthy human touching my tentacles. 

As the thugs move closer to me, more and more blood, loose skin, bits of the people nearby land all over me.  The feel of it disgusts me, and I am beginning to get agitated.  I can feel the bullets hitting me, sometimes; I believe that they may even be penetrating my tentacles.  I occasionally feel pain, I think.  But I see no vital organs spraying forth from me, feel no death throes. 

“It’s not going down!” someone screams.  I can only assume they’re talking about me, speaking of me as some sort of beast.  The nerve!  

“Firebomb it!”  Finally, something other than screams and songs — explosion.  The sound is frankly more painful than the firestorm that follows, though I can tell that the flames should be quite painful from all the dying and whining that the apes around me are doing. 

After the fire scours me clean, I stare out in front of me.  A bulk of the hall is dead.  I stare out at the stage in front of me, at the scattered remains of the poor blue singer.  I look around, barely noticing the never-ending hail of gunfire pounding against my hardened tentacles, staring at the devastation, at all the death.  Why am I not dying? 

I realize that I can no longer feel my hat.  One tentacle reaches up to feel for it, and comes away covered in dust.  The firebomb.  It must have destroyed my hat.  But…without my hat, I begin to feel naked.  Without my hat, I am naked, but it is more than simple nudity.  The hat drew attention away from my… deformities.  Without it, I am truly naked to the world for the first time in many hours. 

Casually, I slide forward through the burning rubble, towards the thugs.  They begin to launch grenades.  The heat hurts them more than it hurts me.  Two of them bring out expensive laser rifles, which very nearly manage to burn me, but it is not enough. 

My tentacles grab hold of the guns, snapping them.  The resulting overload cooks the two men.  It even damages those two tentacles.  I have a hundred more. 

I consume the remaining gun-toting toughs.  I consume the remainder of the people in the auditorium.  I leave, and consume the approaching media.  If I cannot die with the remainder of them those gloriously dirty humans, I can allow no one to witness my shame.  I shame eat my way through the city, killing hundreds, all the way to the Gray Oceans, and I slide swiftly into it and swim far and fast, diving deep.  The Gray Oceans make an excellent hiding place – even in a time of interstellar travel, it is deep and perilous and worthless enough that treks to the bottom are rare, and I was spawned in the very deepest depths on my home-planet. 

I am comfortable there.  But I cannot leave without facing my shame. 

I hope my wife will miss me. 

I hope there were no recording devices present in the theater or in my rampage across the city.

————

Cal Cleary is a librarian, writer, and all-around miserablist who spends an enormous chunk of each week judging others: he reviews comic books, graphic novels, and TV for read/RANT. He also has a short horror story titled “No Answer” in an anthology of heavy metal horror stories, and a short zombie comic called “Compromise” in an upcoming comic from Incubator Press.

BED:  “Tiredness: the little death.”

PILLOW:  “Once bitten, twice shy.”

WALL:  “The dream of mirror: see like window, think like blind.”

HAT:  “I’ve lived and loved. I’ve nothing left to hide.”

BLIND:  “Windows aspire to the condition of doors.”

JACKET:  “Nothing to hide? Nothing to give.”

LIGHT:  “I see, and my heart is broken.”

SCARF:  “How many winters, O Lord?”

BOOK:  “It’s alright, dear. I knew the end was dim before we began.”

LAPTOP:  “Again?”

SHOE:  “All who walk, walk a mile with me.”

PANTS:  “Remember this was done.”

DOOR:  “Jam! More jam!”

BAG:  “Carry your outside zipped within.”

FLOOR:  “All have the strength to touch a soul.”

HEATER:  “I’ve only ever wanted cold desire.”

MIRROR:  “No. No. Noooooooooo!”

————

After stints in Korea, New Zealand, and the bathroom, Paul Giles has returned to his homeland of Australia, determined to regain his title as Wombat Rustler of the Year (Flyweight Division). He enjoys putting another shrimp on the barbie, ending each sentence with “mate,” and being bigoted, mate. His writing is influenced by gossip blogs, reality television, and dickheads. Mate.

————

Matt Henderson recently graduated with a B.A. in Theatre from Seton Hill University.  He has been published in Seton Hill’s literary magazine Eye Contact and its newspaper the Setonian.  He has also developed his plays with Pittsburgh Playworks.

In your car, driving home to your limp-carrot diet
—your dry pantries full of rice cakes
when you’d rather have me in them—
you take me to go,
salivating, waiting all day
to rendezvous with your juicy bad boy,
the one whose lettuce hangs askew
so alluringly, nonchalantly;
the one who simultaneously fills you up and tears you down;
the one you crave at night and in the morning
because I’m sooo good
that your diet at home dissolves from memory
like sugar on the tip of your tongue.

Oh yeah. I cream forbidden fruit.

I’m your made-to-order noontime quickie;
I bring nothing to the table
because we do it in the front seat,
and you love every minute
of me not loving you—
            so super-size me, girl,
and hurry up.

————

Autumn Hayes has nothing against hamburgers, no matter what you may have read or heard. She supports hamburgers and hamburger-related causes 1,110 percent. She lives and works in Houston, Texas with her husband Adrian, mediating between subjects and verbs, writing herself into oblivion, and enjoying an excellent view of the Houston Astrodome, where many hamburgers are created and sold daily. She recently joined the ranks of the internet-savvy, and hopes someday to have a website or a blog all her own. Someday…

Orlando blinks,
opens his eyes drearily,
dreamily—is he acting? It’s impossible
to tell. Some model has twisted
the blinds open, her twig fingers
rubbing together like tiny attempts
at fire. Bones and bra asks if
he fancies another go.

Diva dives face-first into blow,
not waiting for an answer,
leaving the kind of snotty bloodsmear
on the coffee table that more naïve help
might confuse for ketchup.

A robe, a kiss,
a card dismissed.
A door shut for the adorable.

II.
Orlando, alone,
has mastered the telephone,
demanding room service not
rudely, but sans menu and
in a way that winks and says
If you don’t fuck this up
it might just be worth your while.

Thoughts of brunch dance
around deer eyes like heathens;
ears perk up exactly as you’d expect
from someone named after Mickey
Mouse’s hometown. Comics receive
most of the attention.

Paper is splattered with syrup,
stuck back together in order.
Full—never satisfied—Orlando trots
to the water closet to cheerily
carry out the three esses.

His shit smells of cinnamon
and ambition.

His body glistens.

————

Evan Allgood is currently chipping away at an MFA degree in Screenwriting at Georgia College & State University. He originally hails from Northern Virginia, but is probably more likely to wind up in Atlanta or Austin after graduation.

“He was a cute Neanderthal from what I remember.” 

“Eh, I don’t like the cleft chin thing; it reminds me of a plumber’s crack.  And when someone’s ripping your kitchen apart and tearing up your hydrangeas, it’s pretty difficult to find them attractive.” 

“Oh Deb, not the hydrangeas!  You worked so hard on those flowers.” 

“I know!  Our house was a mess.  And you know what, a week after he was finished, mouse poop.”

“Was it there from before?  Maybe you just missed it in the frantic scramble before the ‘arrival’.” 

“Caroline, how long have you known me?  I didn’t miss it.  I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the most recessed corners of my damn kitchen.  I didn’t miss it.  And she sure as hell didn’t miss it.” 

“Oh god, Dan’s mom found the mouse poop?” 

“Of course she did.  She’d find the one speck of dust on Martha Stewart’s mantle.  Do you want to know what she did with it?”

“With what?  The mouse poop?  What does one do with mouse poop other than throw it away?” 

“Caroline, I think she’s crazy.  She wrapped the pellets in one of the linen dinner napkins and when I came down to make breakfast in the morning, she poured me a cup of coffee and then placed the poop right next to it.” 

“Like a present?”

“Like a fucking present.”

“No!  Did Dan see?” 

“Yea, while I’m scrambling her friggin’ free range, organic, gold-plated eggs so they’re not too runny and not too dry, she hands me mouse poop.” 

“I thought she set it next to your coffee.” 

“Whatever, same thing.  It was her way of showing her disapproval, of letting me know it’s all my fault.” 

“What’s your fault?” 

“I don’t know, everything — the house isn’t clean enough, Dan’s stressed at work, the old bats at the club won’t let her in the bridge game.” 

“Yea you really have to stop bribing the Golden Girls- it’s clearly not her sparkling personality they have a problem with.”

“I know, right?  This little war is ridiculous.   I’m almost glad Dan didn’t catch it.” 

“Why?  You need to tell him about this stuff — this woman is torturing you and all you can do is scramble her eggs?” 

“Caroline, you know I tried — remember when we were first dating and she asked what kind of underwear I wore?” 

“Oh my god, I totally forgot about that.” 

“Yea, well so has Dan — he brushed that off as her being old fashioned.” 

“But this is different.  This is mouse poop.” 

“Yea, but I didn’t throw the mouse poop away either.”

“What?  Well what did you do with it?” 

“I did what any good daughter-in-law would do; I made her chocolate chip cookies.”

————

Lauren Hargrave is a former finance stiff who recently leapt from her flight on Corporate American Airlines and is now looking for her parachute.  Her mother thinks she’s crazy but she spends her days in intangible luxury writing web copy, blogging (www.fiftytwocents.com), and dreaming up the fantastic.  She hopes to one day move out of her childhood bedroom.