When I was nine years old, my mom took me to a stash house, and I don’t remember why. My parents weren’t junkies; they were alcoholics, sure - I had known that much from a much younger age than I should have - but they weren’t Dream users. I fight to remember anything else about that day, but I can’t. The only thing I have to explain it is an old notebook, something my dad gave me. The first line stands out, a line and a half high, spelled out in a child’s frantic scribble. It’s the only line in the notebook that I have never rewritten; I guess that makes it the most true. Reading it still burns me, even after all this time. My sister swallowed her name when she was six. Our mom had been in the other room, infatuated with the latest season of The Bachelor, and our dad was passed out drunk. I was only nine, but I guess had been given the task of watching her. And so I watched, legs pulled up to my chest and back sunk deep into the plush sofa, as she sat on the floor and rolled her name back on forth like a marble. Her name caught the light as it rolled, sending off sprays of rainbow color that shimmered in its wake. She and I were transfixed, like it was our own private mirage. She picked the thing up from time to time, feeling its smooth facets under her still-tiny fingers. When she popped it into her mouth, I spit out an involuntary giggle. I imagine that was something she did a lot, slipping her name behind her lips and swishing it back and forth like a hard candy. She bulged out her cheeks like a chipmunk and I dispensed another automatic giggle. Knowing mom and dad, one of them would probably have slapped the name out of her mouth, and slapped her again for good measure, but I just watched and giggled. I brought my hand up - partially to the taut skin of my throat and partially to my own name, which hung securely there - when my sister started to hiccup. The first one was a spasm followed by a giggle of her own. The second came with the same spasm, followed by a half-and-half cough and sputter. The skin of her throat bulged with the rough shape of her name and I watched as her eyes started to water. I pulled my legs tighter against my chest as my sister dropped onto her back. She rolled back and forth, small fountains of spittle spraying with her frantic blurts and gurgles. Her shoes shook on her feet as she rolled; they were too big, hand-me-downs from me to her. I was on my knees when mom shouted at us to keep the noise down. I cradled my sister’s body in my arms and went through all the motions that a child imagines might save a life. I balled my hand into a fist and punched her in the back; her sticklike frame shook and her eyes bulged every time I hit her. The pearlescent glow of her name bobbed beneath the skin of her throat. “I told you both to keep it down!” Mom’s voice was shrill and thin. “Don’t make me come in there. If you want to sound like a bunch of monkeys, I will gladly sell you to the zoo.” I guess I might have been screaming, but all I remember is the sound of the Bachelor in the background. In a last effort, I opened my hand and slammed into her back with all the force I could muster. Her shoulder blades were sharp against my palm. I watched the light of her name bob one more time before sliding down her throat and disappearing. Her body was wracked with a gutteral inhale; strings of saliva dangled from her lips and tears streamed from her red eyes. “I thought I told you two-” Mom’s slurred outrage broke off as she stood in the doorway, plastic cup of wine sloshing in her hand. Her bleary eyes focused on me, fixing on the name that hung around my neck, before shifting to my sister, her name nowhere to be seen. She opened her mouth slowly, her tongue wetting her lips. She closed her mouth for a moment, then opened it again and tipped back the rest of her wine. A thin stream dribbled down from the corner of her lips and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her name, a jade-colored thing embedded in a ring too small to take off of her finger, glittered in the room’s shafted light. Later, after we started speaking again, she told me that she was going to ask what had happened, but either she didn’t trust her eight year-old to tell the truth or she figured that the truth didn’t really matter that much anyhow. I don’t blame her for thinking either of those things. The next day, mom grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the back of our family car. As she drove, she took periodic swigs from a thermos of something that she had taken from home. Whenever she took a drink, the smell of something strong and sickening filled the car, and the smell lingered long after she closed the thermos up. That day’s first stop was a pawn shop, its neon sign only half illuminated and its front window caked in dirt and cigarette soot. She left me in the car when she went inside, carrying a handful of her mother’s gold jewelry. I watched through a clean patch in the front window as she haggled with the man behind the counter, alternating between the strategies of screaming at him and of tenderly stroking his hand. She hadn’t bothered to crack any of the car windows and as I watched, the midmorning heat and the smell of the thermos contents washed over me in waves. A little while later, mom stepped out of the pawnshop door. One of her strategies had worked out, since she was leaving with stacks of cash in hand. She climbed back into the car, started it, and drove off without so much as a glance in my direction. We drove for several more hours, or at least it felt like we did. It was mostly through areas of town that I didn’t recognize and haven’t been able to find since. I remember feeling worse and worse as we went. My stomach churned every time mom tipped back her thermos. For some comfort I tried to imagine my sister, home in bed where we left her, but I couldn’t get the details to stick in my mind. I could picture her in pieces, like I was putting together a puzzle but every time I got two pieces to fit together another two fell apart. I could see her hair, but not her face. Her nose, but not her hands. It just made me feel sicker. We drove past a burnt-out tenement building, the kind we had lived in before we moved into my grandma’s house. Mom parked the car a distance away and walked the block or so back to the building we had passed. I stood at her side, body feeling rigid and ready to snap, as she knocked on the building’s big metal door; it made a reverberating sound that I could feel rattling in my bones. High up on the door, too high for my younger self to see in, a slot opened up and mom flashed the cash she had brought. The slot slammed shut and the door shrieked open on rusted tracks. A large man - the largest I have ever seen - ushered us inside. The room, a lobby of sorts, was lit by a series of bare lightbulbs, all swinging on frayed wiring in a phantom breeze. We followed the giant down the center aisle, past several side doors. The sides of the room were lined with pillows and people stacked high against one another; the air smelled like ash and sweat. The giant pushed us to the side of the aisle as another man bustled through the far curtained door, carrying a tray stacked high medical syringes and vials full of impossible color. I didn’t know what they were then, but I do now. Dreams, individually pickled and preserved in little jars; each one offered a slice of escape, if you could pay the right price. The man with the tray stopped for a moment, watching us with rat’s eyes as we hurried through the curtain and into the next room. I remember a thin man sitting behind a big desk. A dark brown trench coat enveloped his skeletal form, its flaps fluttering in the same unnoticeable draft that stirred the lights above. I held my sides and shivered. The thin man motioned my mom forward and then rested his elbows on the desk. As he leaned in to speak with her, the sleeves of his coat fell down his arms and pooled on the desk. His hands were as small as a child’s. The giant man seemed uncomfortable as he eyed me, like he had never seen a child in his place of business. I shifted uncomfortably and looked at the ground. I was feeling worse than ever and the smell of the place wasn’t helping. The giant squinted in the dim room and then motioned me to a chair in the corner. I was grateful to sit down; I watched my mom talk to the thin man in hushed tones, the conversation punctuated by an occasional sigh or a laugh from the man. His laugh was as thin as he was, sounding more like the wheeze of slow wind through a weathervane. It was a joyless sound. Eventually, he stood and paced over to one of the filing cabinets that lined the room’s back wall. He unlocked one and rolled the drawer open. He stood there for a moment, rifling down inside and drawing out a handful of shapes. He laid them out on the desk and I could tell by the shine of color that they were names - young names, at that. The man said something to my mom and she pointed back at me. The man beckoned me forward with a languid gesture. “Which one of these looks most like your sister’s?” the thin man asked me. I stared at the names and struggled to remember what hers had looked like, before it had disappeared in her mouth. My hand wavered above the desk, hesitant to commit. “Take your time,” the man said, “the choice is important.” He smiled. I remember his teeth, long and perfectly straight. I picked the one that most reminded me of my sister, or the one that I most hoped did. It shone pink and gold, like an autumn sunset. Mom hissed at me through her teeth when I pointed it out, but didn’t object. The thin man nodded and waved me away. I stepped back and tried to remember what my sister looked like. In the car, it had been like a puzzle, and now, it was like the pieces were disappearing one by one. I could see the shape of her in bed, and I could feel the weight of her cradled in my young arms. I had the rough outline of a girl, but nothing else. I wish I had even that much now. “Give it a few days,” the thin man said to my mom as he counted out the money she gave him. “I can’t give you a guarantee, these things aren’t an exact science.” Mom nodded and pocketed the secondhand name. “I am sorry if it doesn’t work. But don’t come back here again.” Mom took me by the hand, her grip just a little too tight, and pulled me out of the room. The man with the tray watched us leave, a syringe poised in his hand. In the glass tube I could see the silty dregs of a dream - swirls of joy and of innocence, the color of childhood. Later, I imagined that that dream had been mine, harvested and sold off by a thin man with long, straight teeth. I imagined him laughing that wheezing laugh as the rat-eyed man sucked the dream from my head and handed it out to junkies, to the ones who could pay; ones whose own dreams had been stolen from them too. I imagined all of this to be true, but only later. That day, all I did was throw up on the sidewalk outside of the building. It didn’t make me feel any better. When mom and I got home, dad had sobered up enough to greet us at the door. His mouth hung in a slanted gape, his tongue paddling half-formed words. Mom waved him off and pushed me inside. She deposited me on the couch and then shuffled off to my sister’s room, her back stiff and determined. Once she left the room, my dad slumped down next to me and we both sat in silence. He was the one who gave me the notebook, later on that night. He came into my room while mom was watching over my sister and talked everything over with me. He convinced me to write down everything that I could remember; I didn’t understand why at the time. He slung himself over me, hanging off my slight shoulders and coaching me through the words that I didn’t quite know yet. I’ve rewritten that first entry a couple of times now. I’ve revised the details that didn’t feel right, cleaned up the aspects of the story that chaffed when I read them. I don’t know where the whole thing sits, on the continuum between truth and fiction. I also don’t know if it really matters. Rereading those paper memories of my sister always triggers a kind of itching feeling inside my head, some sort of half-kindled deja vu that spreads beneath my skin like a rash. I have to force myself to acknowledge what I read and write as reality; sometimes my suspension of disbelief doesn’t go quite far enough. Out of all my invented endings, my favorite version is the simplest one: it goes more or less like this. When I woke up that next morning, my dad was sprawled out asleep on the floor and mom stood in the doorway, watching us both with a weary eye. I asked her how my sister was doing. She drew her eyebrows together, forehead muscles knotting as her head bobbed furtively from side to side. She had this look on her face - a confusion, like she knew she should answer me but couldn’t decide on what the correct answer was. She settled on no answer at all, only huffing through her nose and then backing out of the room. When I clambered out of bed, I couldn’t remember which room was my sister’s. I went from room to room, circling the house, until I saw something that I recognized. In the room next to mine, the room with pink and beige walls and the disconnected fan that hung uselessly from the ceiling, I found an unfamiliar girl sitting up in bed. She was fully dressed and her tiny hand was clasped around the name that hung from her neck. I asked her who she was and why she was in our house. She answered both questions, but I forgot both answers as soon as she stopped speaking. I had trouble looking directly at the girl; my eyes slid off of her, and they dried up and forced me into a blinking fit if I tried to focus on her for too long. I asked her the same questions again and she started crying. Frozen stiff, I called for mom and dad. Mom came up and she stood behind me, opaque drinking glass in hand, and we both stared at the strange crying girl. The previous day’s nausea was rising in me again, and looking at the girl only made me feel worse. I looked up at mom and she nodded to me; I took that as tacit permission to leave. I hurried back to my room, stepping over my dad’s snoring body, and wrote down everything as best I could. The entry from that day is made up of fragments, spelled out in a child’s uncertainties It was some time before I went back into that room next to mine - probably a year or more, if I were forced to gauge it. I’ve written the memory down along with the rest of the story.; it’s different from the rest, though, since I remember the whole thing clearly. In my head, the room was just a spare used for storage. When I wandered in, I was surprised to find a child’s bedroom, the walls painted pink and beige, with a small bed pushed into the corner. Everything was covered in a thin layer of drifting dust. At the foot of the bed, I could see a pair of my old shoes, unlaced and ready. Seeing the shoes there, I felt sadness drop like a stone down my throat and ripple through the rest of my body. I was jolted out of the feeling by a yank on the collar of my shirt. I stumbled over my shoes, falling back and slamming into the floor. My mom was standing over me, her hand still hanging mid-grab. Her eyes were welled with tears that she kept trying to shake away. She looked dazed. From that point onward, she kept the spare room locked. I think I have lost other people. There are dog-eared entries after my sister, other stories that I don’t remember forgetting: a college friend whose name burned in a motorcycle accident; a girlfriend, her name stolen by a spiteful ex. Each is a gap in my own story, a puzzle piece vacuumed up and thrown out with the rest of the dust and debris. I remember some things that I read; the events, mostly, the set dressing, but the people are gone - just blank spaces. When I’m not focused on them, I forget that the spaces are even there. There’s a fairy tale that my wife likes to tell, something that her mom told her when she was a girl. It says that somewhere out there, beyond everything we can see, there is a place where all the nameless people live. A place where they grow old and content - even happy, if they let themselves be. It’s a place where the nameless are safe. When she tells the story, I think about that empty room next to mine, about the too-big shoes at the end of the bed. I think about the room and I hope that whoever used live there is safe. I hope that she lets herself be happy. Sometimes, when everyone else is asleep, I sit at the kitchen table and read through my notebook entries. I sit and read and I imagine that my wife’s fairy tale is true, that the place in the story is real. I think about going there - about taking my name off, leaving it on the bus, throwing it into the river - just leaving everything behind and letting everyone forget me too. I think about seeing my sister again. I imagine what she looks like, older now than when I would have known her, and I imagine the life we could live together. It could be a happy life, us living together in that nameless place. That’s what I think about at night, while I’m sucking on some strong drink and letting it carry my mind away. I drift aimlessly through the notebook’s scrawled-over pages. When I finish my drink, I close the book. I clear my mind - and I go to bed.


(IP) Guardian of the Poisoned Gardens Everyone knew of the Poisoned Gardens, forbidden to all but the monks who tended the deadly plants. From childhood, they were trained to withstand all of the Garden’s hidden threats. He’d only heard legends, rumors, whispers. He’d spent his whole life chasing fairy tales, certain that if there was true magic out there, he would find it. And he was finally here at last; the garden smelled suspiciously of flowers, a trap for an unwary traveler. None of the monks he’d read in his books were within sight, but that hardly meant he was alone. Booby traps, an ambush; his fingers twitched, itching to free his weapons from their sheaths. But it would not do to wander in unfamiliar territory with weapons waving about. He hadn’t come all this way just to die at the threshold of the garden. No, he was living to tell this tale, or he would die trying. “I mean no harm!” He said softly, and his only answer was the bubbling of the brook and the sigh of the wind. How could he explain to these isolated monks that all he’d done was follow his curiosity, eager to see where it led? It was past twilight but not yet full night; the sky was painted with a gorgeous palette of blues, purples. If the boy didn’t know better, he would’ve thought the Gardens abandoned. But they were too well-tended to be so. If the boy hadn’t been listening closely, he would’ve missed the soft, almost inaudible rustle of the leaves. Before he could so much as take another breath, he felt a presence, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. “Don’t move, or I’ll run you through where you stand!” A quiet, musical voice, female, sounded just next to his ear, rustling his hair. He gritted his teeth to resist shuddering. “Who are you? Who sent you here?” “Nobody sent me here,” He stammered; his Adam’s apple bobbed, coming dangerously close to the woman’s weapon, a long *bo* staff with a sharp, tapered point. It was gorgeous, and under other circumstances, he would’ve admired it. But right now he was too occupied with saving his own life. “Only my own curiosity, miss,” He added, and she frowned at him, eyes narrowed. Her head was shaved, but there were a few wisps of hair growing in on the sides, as if she were putting off shaving again. Her eyes were a strange, vivid purple, too dark to be natural. Her skin was olive, and he could see tattoos peeking out of her sleeves. But the thing that was strangest about her was the thick black veins that marched across her skin. She caught him staring and glared. “What are you staring at?” She snapped. “I should pluck out your eyes for seeing this place. Humans aren’t allowed, you know.” He blinked, his mind snagging on the word *human.* Did that mean that this girl wasn’t human, as he was? He’d thought he’d stumbled upon a sect of monks, not an angry, impulsive girl who looked like she had an infectious disease. Maybe his curiosity had led him wrong.


“Gather round.” my father announced beckoning us closer. I finished washing my dishes and then walked over to our large couch where I plopped myself down and waited for something interesting to happen. “That's my spot.” My sister pouted pointing to where I was now sitting. “No it's not, you barely ever sit there!” I pointed out. “That's because you always sit there!” She exclaimed. I rolled my eyes. “Suureee.” I proclaimed.

“Lu you can sit over here.” My mom told her. Pointing to a spot that was next to her. “I don't want to! I want to sit where Morgan’s sitting!” She cried. I sighed wondering why I had ever asked for a sister, they could be so annoying sometimes. I got up from where I was sitting and sat down in a chair far away from anyone else. My sister plopped down and wiggled around making herself right at home without even a thank you. My brother who was just a year younger than Lu walked up to me, “That's my-” I glared at him and he scampered away and sat down on my moms lap who looked at me sternly, as if saying, ‘don't do that’ I shrugged it off and looked towards my dad. “You made me stop what I was doing to come sit down, what do you want?” I asked. “Well-”

“Wait!” My older sister yelled from the kitchen, she walked into the living room holding a tray full of hot cups of apple cider, she handed one to my mom and one to my dad and then gave them to my siblings. “As I was sayi-” “Wait!” She yelled again and my dad sighed and my older sister rushed back holding a plate of cinnamon donuts. I stood up and grabbed two donuts from the plate. “I was going to serve you.” My sister frowned. “To slow.” I told her spitting particles of donut in her face. “Eww!” She yelled squirming frantically trying to get the donut particles off her face. Once she gave everyone else a donut and sat down and gave me stern glare. “So-” “Wait!” My sister yelled. “What?” My dad asked. “Nothing, I just wanted to do that again.” My sister smirked. “So,” My dad paused waiting to see if anyone would interrupt him and when no one did he continued. “Who wants to hear a story?” He asked. “I do!” My younger siblings squealed in unison. “Let me tell you an autumn story about how your mother and I first met.” They stared dreamily into each others eyes. Until my sister poked them both in the ribs. “So as I was saying.” My dad announced yet again as he tried to draw our attention back to him. “It was a dark and stormy night.” “Yeah yeah we know, since you've told this story 16 million times!” I exclaimed. “Shh.” Lu told me to putting her chubby finger to her lips. “It was a dark and stormy night. The sky was a sickly gray shrouded with dark ominous clouds that dumped bucket loads of water onto the people below. The wind howled angrily and was so fierce it caused entire branches to fall from the trees and onto my lawn. All around it looked like a tree had barfed, sticks, leaves and pine needles were everywhere. My parents had gone out and because of this weather would not be coming back soon, the power had been flickering on and off all night until finally it gave up the numb darkness befell the house, because of the eerily darkness I couldn't do all the studying I desperately needed, I'm not sure if I would be able to concentrate on it anyway because of how loud it was outside or do anything at all because it was so dark, but because of the ferocious night there was no way I was going to be going to bed way to loud. So I sat in my living room staring out the window at the night sky. Despite what was happening outside I felt calm, calmer than I had ever felt before like a veil of serenity, of just being had fallen over me. Cold, and warm, soft and rough, heavy and light, everything balancing each other out until I just was. I couldn't get to sleep earlier because of how loud it was, but now all I heard was the soft hum of static which slowly beckoned me into dreamland." "BORING!" Lu cut in. "Nobody cares how you fell asleep, wheres the action?" She demanded. My dad sighed, "The action is coming now will you please let me continue?" He asked. "Fiiiiiine" My Lu grumbled. "There was a bright red blinding light that pierced my skull and sunk within the cracks of my brain, piercing everything as it sunk deeper, like needles, I groaned. “Go away.” I grumbled thinking I was still dreaming. But then I heard a scream and my eyes opened with a jolt. I wasn't sure how long I had slept. I just knew It was still dark, dark except for the bright red flames lapping at the sky reaching up, reaching for the stars. fire. Fire FIRE! My brain switched to flight or fight mode, alarms blared inside my head making it hard to think. But then there it was, a loud scream that sank deep into my heart begging me to do something to help them, I sprang from the chair I was sitting in and fumbled to get my shoes on, I needed to help them. The house was a bit far away tucked in the countryside which was probably why the fire hadn't been put out yet, no one noticed it. Not thinking fully I sprinted out into the night, completely regretting it when a large branch knocked me to the ground some of its twigs drawing blood from my flushed cheeks, but I remembered the screams and got up trying to stay steady against the viscous winds, the rain pelted me as I ran as fast as I could avoiding large branches as they fell from the trees. I just kept running letting my desperation fuel my movement, the urgent pounding of my shoes against the asphalt as I slowly got closer to the burning building. I stopped in front of the house, the smoky air filling my nostrils, I fell to my knees coughing instantly, my eyesight was blurred but I needed to do something. I looked and saw a girl who looked around my age but it was hard to tell. Very hot, nice tan. I thought. "Ewwww!" All of the sibling's exclaimed at once. "So while mom's burning in a building all you can think of is how she hot she is?" I asked. My dad cleared his throat. "Well she was hot, literally and figuratively." He pointed out and my mom rolled her eyes. "Well do you want me to continue or not?" He asked. "Keep telling the story!" My little brother piped up. "Okay so as I was saying your mother was trapped by a wall of flames, she was on the second story and the only side not covered by flames was the window, but the window was high and all that was beneath it was hard asphalt, The other option was to die. “WINDOW!” I screamed at the top of my lungs immediately coughing some more. She didn't show any sign that she heard me so I yelled again. “JUMP OUT YOUR WINDOW!” I screamed desperately. “BUT IT'S SO FAR DOWN!” she yelled back. “I'LL CATCH YOU.” I reassured her, or as reassuring as you can be when your breath is ragged and you'r kneeling down beside their burning house. She looked conflicted and unsure. “DO YOU WANT TO DIE?” I screamed and sudden realization came over here, she needed to jump. “I'LL COUNT TO THREE.” I told her running underneath her window, I could feel the burning heat of the flames right next to me. I could feel the sweat trickling down my forehead and the ash in my lungs, but this girl needed my help. “3, 2, 1.. JUMP.” I yelled, the girl spirited forward and jumped out the window like how you would see a superhero do in a comic." "I like the next part." My Lu announced. "Hey things were just about to get interesting." My older sister Megan sighed. "Interesting?" My dad demanded. "Are you saying that not all of it was interesting?" Megan shrugged. My dad sighed, "Sometimes I don't know what to do with you four sometimes." "Just tell the story already." Lu demanded. "Okay here we go again, But we didn't have the luck of superheroes, I ran underneath her but I wasn't strong enough to catch her. She fell on me with such force that the last thing I remembered was the inky blackness consuming my mind.” My Dad told us. “Well what happened next?” My sister demanded. "Can I go a minute without getting interrupted?” My dad asked. "Nope." Lu told him. "Well-" “How bout I tell because I'm the one who wasn't unconscious.” My mom teased and poked my dad's arm. “Go ahead Milady.” “Well, after I jumped out the window and landed on him, I realized he was out cold, I was scared and I didn't know what to do, but suddenly the porch lights flickered back on you could hear the buzz of electricity humming happily, I knew I needed to help the boy, which was sort of ironic because he was the one who was supposed to be helping me.” My mom smiled and nudged my dad playfully. Lu stuck my tongue out at my dad. "Loser, didn't really do a good job or rescuing her if she had to rescue her!" My mom ignored Lu and kept going. “We had a neighbor who was only a fourth mile down the hill so I took your dad in my arms and I ran for my life, the rest was a blur after that, calling the fire department them putting out the fire we were both taken to the hospital of course, I got my burns treated and got the pieces of glass removed from my skin but you can still see the scars.” She showed us her arms which were covered in white jagged lines. They covered her face, neck , arms and legs. Everywhere that wasn't covered when she jumped, which was a lot because she was only wearing a tank top and short shorts. My dad cut in and started telling the story from his perspective yet again. “The first thing I remembered when I woke up after being unconscious for a little bit was your mom, she was sitting beside me holding my hand. And when I asked her what happened she put her finger to my lips and she leaned over me, one of her blonde ringlets falling onto my face as she leaned down and pressed her warm lips to mine.” “EWWW!” My sister declared. “Skip that part none wants to hear it, go to when it gets interesting again.” She demanded and both my mom and dad blushed. “Well after your dad woke up he got discharged from the hospitals after a couple check ups, we hung out a lot, dated and married three years later, and eventually had four amazing children.” On cue the four of us all rolled our eyes. “I still don't get how this is an autumn story.” I grumbled. “Because It's in autumn, dummy.” My sister told me. “We don't say that word, calling someone a dummy isn't nice..” My mother told her, and my younger sister rolled her eyes. “Since that's it can I go text my friends now?” I asked standing up. My mom and dad both sighed and mumbled something that sounded like teenagers. “Sure go ahead.” My mom sighed.


I am a fan of physics, math and science fiction. I have seen multiple scripts imagined by the sci-fi greats. I know the symbology of physics and mathematics. I even know some of the ancient scripts including a smattering of Egyptian hieroglyphics and the symbology of petroglyphs and such. About ten years ago, divers discovered what became known as the “porpoise school” off the coast of Cuba. A year after the discovery, National Geographic had a multi-page glorious color presentation of the find. A series of structures that were a cross between Mayan and Santa Fe-style construction had the world agog. That was all amazing enough. Then, a few months after the article was published, a fool-hardy diver came upon a way into one of the structures and found murals of script on the walls. She photographed it all and submitted it. Another NG publication six months later.  More agog across the planet. I perused my hard copy of that month’s publication. Page after page of their usual glossy and beautiful photography depicting flowing script. Porpoise script as it came to be called. I carefully cut out those pages and laid them out in various sequences. I played with them for days, organizing and reorganizing them until they made sense to me. It finally hit me that there was a distinct pattern to the script, and I played with that for a couple of weeks until I figured out it was a massive love letter to a female named Xastra.

Some amorous chap detailed their budding relationship, the pleasure of their love-making positions, his hopes for their future and the rest of that romantic/erotic stuff every literate young lover tries to express. I emailed NG , they confirmed my rationale and translation with God only knows how many experts, published my work, and gave me my fifteen minutes of fame. End of story. Well, of that story. Which brings us to this comfortable, stark, isolated, climate-controlled room somewhere in some desert. I know it is desert country because when they walked me from the Humvee to the building, it was hot, hot, hot and dry. Two guys came to my apartment in Show Low about 0530 yesterday morning, politely introduced themselves as under the orders of the Governor and gently side-stepped me into my apartment. They presented their credentials in well-worn leather wallets and introduced themselves as Agent Cartwright and Agent Kurt. As Agent Cartwright explained, the Governor’s office had need of my professional expertise for an extended period. Being a bachelor, I did not have familial obligations, but I did have contracts with the community college and the Apache Nation to teach Sociology and a few other classes. When I expressed my concerns, Agent Kurt told me that the Governor’s office had already arranged for substitute teachers to cover my classes in both places and to ensure that my contract was officially and unbiasedly terminated as a benefit to the State of Arizona. Between the two of them, I learned that I was being encouraged to accept a temporary assignment as a Special Government Employee for an undetermined amount of time. It was a confidential assignment and may or may not allow publication of any findings in future publications. So, if I understood them correctly, I was going for a ride to somewhere unknown to me for a period of time to be determined by some government bureaucrat and no one I knew would know where I was or when I would be back. They both shrugged and Agent Cartwright said, “That pretty much sums it up.” How encouraging. So, here I am being punished for my hard-earned fifteen minutes of fame. It is supposed to be an honor to be selected to assist in top secret excitement. I just wanted to go home and live my unexciting life. I got a bucket of money for the dolphin letter and I was comfortable. I did not want more; I had plenty. I got here last night. The clock on the wall says it is lunchtime and, magically, my door got knocked upon. When I opened it, there stood Agent Cartwright. “Let me buy you lunch at the cafeteria,” he said. Great, now he thinks he is a comedian. At lunch he explained we had a briefing at 1400 hours that should take us up to suppertime. A four-hour meeting? Is that all after this secrecy, traveling and incarceration? “Incarceration?” Agent Cartwright queried. “No, no, my friend. We are keeping you protected. Well, and, of course, using your demonstrated expertise.” “From what?” “The fringe culture that crawls out whenever there is a challenge to their own ignorance and sense of righteousness. They want you gone so their rights to hate social differences will not be challenged. You have the possibility of furthering the knowledge of humanity like you did with the dolphin language. Remember the hate mail from the trolls back then?” Well, yeah, there was some nasty stuff that made me spend some of the NG money on lawyers and restraining orders back then. Cartwright continued, “That expansion of our knowledge base was fundamentally grounded on a past terrestrial civilization. We may have something totally different now. “No, I cannot discuss it further. Dr. Annavarapu will explain all we know to you at our briefing. Be patient.” You try to be patient after hearing that kind of speech. I paced and churned inside for the next hour. I was seated at the foot of the conference table in the meeting room fifteen minutes early so I could look directly at the speaker. I did not want that weird neck crick one gets when looking sideways for hours in a meeting. Dr. Annavarapu turned out to be Dr. Lita Annavarapu. She was one of the scientists who reviewed my dolphin work back then. I was told that she was very skeptical about my conclusions for a long time. For all I know, she may still be. Fourteen more people came in and sat opposite each other at the table. Agents Cartwright and Kurt sat in opposite corners in the back of the rectangular room flanking the only entrance. When Kurt closed the door, there was no outside influence to affect us in the room. Dr. Annavarapu’s, “Thanks to all of you for being here,” brought bitter-sounding titters from several members of our cabal. “I know the circumstances under which some of you are here and I greatly appreciate your patience and compliance with what is happening.” At that point, she stepped to a podium to her left so everyone could see the screen behind her. She started her computer presentation onscreen.

“Two weeks ago, when our astronauts returned from their trip to the moon, we found this in one of their satchels. None of the four astronauts who were on the moon recognized it, have any idea how it got into the satchel and, most interesting of all, how it got into the satchel that never left the landing module.

“As you can see in this view, it appears to be paper made from bark much like the canvas used by Papuan artists. It was rolled up and secured with a type of twine made of the same bark material. “Agent Kurt, would you please pass out the folders up here.” Agent Kurt proceeded to the front of the room and picked up folders from a table in the corner opposite the podium.  He handed each participant a nondescript manila file folder about a quarter of an inch thick. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the first evidence of a written extraterrestrial language. You each have the same xeroxed copy of the found documents in the same order in which they were found. The originals are being kept in a vacuum container and will be available to view tomorrow.” The muttering reached a crescendo as we each opened our file folder and set our eyes on the material inside.

I did not understand it. I could not read it nor decipher it. Whatever I needed to interpret it, I did not have. It could have been Sanskrit except I have seen Sanskrit, and this was not like anything I saw before. This was like looking at something alive on paper. A two-dimensional representation of fourth-dimensional thought. Impossible. More impossible. In seconds, the script resolved itself into English. Two-dimensional English in my three-dimensional world. Dumbfounded, I looked up and around the room. Everyone was looking at their files and at each other’s files and muttering about how impossible this was. A stunning example of an AI-generated hoax. A cryptic waste of time for a roomful of professionals who had important things to do other than fall prey to some sick trick. One of my tablemates spoke up, “Dr. Annavarapu, what is the meaning of this? This is nothing more than scribbling on a page. No, on multiple pages. Why?” “Kind sir, I am not one who plays practical jokes, nor do I condone them. I assure you, this is exactly what was found in the exact manner I explained. Please set aside your doubts about that.

“May I suggest that we adjourn and that you take your folders with you to study at your leisure and to discuss with each other? We will meet in the morning at 0900 in this room. At that time, we will proceed to the safe room where the original is stored so that you may see those pages and compare them to the documents in your folders.

“Thank you.” As we trundled off to our respective areas at 1500 hours instead of the expected 1800, I could not believe that no one brought up the English version appearing. Could it be that no one else saw it? About an hour later, I was in my room transcribing the text into my ever-present pocket spiral notebook. The knock on my door startled me. I closed my notebook, stuck it in my back pocket and opened the door. Both Agents Cartwright and Kurt were there.

“Sir, Dr. Annavarapu would like to talk with you right away. Please bring your file and your notes.” I gathered up my file and we headed down the hall. We turned down a hall new to me. Agent Cartwright led the way and Kurt followed. That seemed a bit strange, but it did not occur to me to question it. We walked up to what looked to me like a bank vault door. “This is our safe room,” Agent Cartwright explained as he put his eye up to a scanner. There was no click as the door swung open on silent hinges. I was impressed. “Dr. Annavarapu is waiting for us, Sir. Please proceed into the room.” I stepped over the foot-wide threshold into a 20’ X 20’ room. It had that black cushiony floor your see in the free-weight section of gyms, indirect lighting emanating from a trough along the ceiling, a light table, and the alien document laid out on that table. Dr. Annavarapu looked up from the document as I approached. She started without preamble, “Sir, you did brilliant work on the dolphin language. I know of at least one hundred linguists and cryptographers from around the world who struggled with that material for months before National Geographic published it. They made no progress.  You, an amateur, translated it seemingly overnight. “No, no,” she stopped me. “I know the story and I accept it. Your technique fascinated me and many others. That’s why you are here. “Let’s cut to the chase. You interpreted this document in seconds today. I saw the look on your face and, frankly, the look of recognition, understanding and fear was interesting.” “Dr. Annavarapu….” Her raised hand stopped me. “Please call me Lita when we are alone, Sir.” “We’re not alone. The agents are here,” I replied. “No, they’re not. They stayed outside when you crossed the threshold. Note the door is closed and we are alone.” I had not noticed either occurrence. I told you that door was silent. “Dr. Annavarapu, Lita, you’re right. I did translate the document.” I pulled my notebook out of my pocket, opened it to the first page of the translation and started to read it to her. “Dear brother, we are coming for you. Do not despair. These other creatures breathing the same air as you won’t hurt you anymore. We see kindness in some and will spare them. Soon.” She went pale, her knees buckled, and she barely missed the edge of the table with her chin. “So, you see, Lita, you truly are not alone.”


Picture this. You live in a small town, a really small town. Heck, would you consider this a town? There’s only fifteen households spread apart from each other, each with some farmland. Besides that, there’s a quarter mile Main Street with a diner, post office, gas station, auto shop, general store, fire station, and a community building. These places are quiet, as farming is what almost everyone does here. It’s really only by appointment that the diner, auto shop, and general store are open since on any given day, not many of the residents would be there. You may have noticed there wasn’t a police station. Everyone here knows each other and gets along. There’s never any speeders (residents don’t really care), no shoplifting, and no shootings. This town is twenty some-odd miles off the nearest highway and the only other people they see is for deliveries and mail. That’s it. You may have also noticed there wasn’t any hospital or medical office. If there ever an emergency, residents have to travel the twenty something miles to the highway and then drive some more to the nearest hospital. It’s a quaint little town, with nothing around it for miles. It’s like you’re in your own separate world. Everything is quiet besides the occasional tractor passing by and the wind rustling the wheat and corn. At points it’s just yourself standing in the field looking out at the vast nothingness: corn, corn, and more corn. Walk over to the next field: wheat, wheat, and more wheat. It’s a life you were born into and can’t escape. Day after day is the same routine. Wake up at 5am, start work in the fields, have breakfast, work some more. Have the same lunch you have almost every day then help out the neighbors. Evening comes and you can finally relax and have dinner. It’s the beginning of September, the time of year where most everyone is back at school. It’s the time of year when the sun is setting around 7:30 and the heat from August has subsided. It has cooled off. You just finished dinner and it’s now 7:00. After a few quick chores around the house, you step outside on the back porch and sit on the rocking chair staring out at the sunset. It’s a purple sunset, something seen all the time here. The slight breeze is still there rustling the wheat and corn. It’s still quiet. The only noise is the creak from the rocking chair. Wow. You’re at peace. No distractions, no social media, no light pollution, no noise, nobody as far as eye can see, no hassles, no worries. You sit back taking everything (or I guess the nothing) in, staring into the starry sky. This. This is what I like. And I won’t trade it for anything else. I’ll live like this the rest of my life. My children will be just like me, doing everything I have done and experiencing moments like this, pure bliss. This is, and will always be, a simple lifestyle.


“You never told me your secret.” We walked through the vacant halls of the Louvre, golden light streaming through the skylight glass panes and illuminating Mona’s curious amber eyes. “Well I have no secrets anymore.” She raised an eyebrow, prompting me to continue. “Does it matter if it’s not my secret anymore?” She stopped walking and turned to me fully, no hint of her usual mischievous grin. A soft smile graced her face as she gently grabbed my arm.  “Tell me anyway?” I looked down, her piercing gaze too much as I bore my soul out to her. “I was afraid of the future. After college, I didn’t know what I was going to do. But you’re here now, and now I’m not scared.”

I glanced up to gauge her reaction, and watched as something unidentifiable flitted across her face, quickly replaced with a flashy smile. “I’m glad I could do that for you.” She dropped her hand to fit with mine, and began walking again. “What’s the weirdest thing someone has ever confessed to you.” Her eyes scrunched up with laughter. “I’ve gotten stories about cheating and murder to stories about kids making dumb mistakes. One kid told me he tricked his brother into eating worms.” She led me into a shockingly vacant room with a stunning golden frame, the one I had first met her in. She opened the velvet ropes that closed off the frame to the public, and pulled me forward until we were close enough to touch the intricate carvings in the sides. “Reminiscing about your days as a painting?” “Something like that.” A playful grin crossed her face. I stumbled into the museum, hundreds of thoughts ricocheting through my mind. I wandered through the empty hallways, each statue looking rather different without the golden rays pouring through the windows. They somehow looked sinister, like they were plotting against me. Their lifeless eyes bore into my soul, like a reflection of their own emptiness. I could hear the soft thump of my heart in the empty room, the only reminder that I was somewhat different from these artifacts. I am alive.

I stop in front of the exit, my feet placed in the scuff marks where hundreds of others had stepped before. My hands tremble as I push open the heavy doors to the next room. The floor is rather pristine here, given the grime collected in the room prior. I walked around the room, taking in each and every painting. Even if my heart could not connect with them, my mind could, and I allowed it to wander into the world of each artist and their precise brushstrokes. Finally, I turned to the infamous painting. The Mona Lisa. Her eyes stared back at me, depth within them that I had never seen before. Unlike the statues who saw right through me, her eyes seemed to be searching. The soft smirk on her lips made her seem all knowing, and perhaps she was from the amount of secrets people dared whisper to her.

I stepped past the velvet ropes that were meant to keep people away. My hands were not made for destruction. I gently ran my fingers across her cheek, the roughness of the canvas startling me after being so engrossed in her skin that looked pillow soft. I looked back into her eyes, and searched as well. Loneliness.

“What is your secret, Lisa?” Her eyelashes fluttered, and her eyes finally met mine properly. Perhaps I should’ve been startled by the painting moving, but I was rather mesmerized by her beauty. Even if thousands had seen it before, no one has the way I have. Her smirk turned into a genuine smile, and she moved forward, wrapping soft hands around the golden frame and stepping out onto the floor next to me. “You’re alive.” “I am.” She lifted her chin proudly, and smoothed her flowing dress that wrapped around her curves in a delicate way. I forced my eyes to meet hers, and a knowing glint took place in her eyes. “Are you here to tell me your secret?” She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know you. Why should I tell you my secret?” “There’s nothing to know.” I sighed, my shoulders drooping. “I am an empty shell of a human. You’re a painting and you have more life than me.” “I somehow doubt that.” “I know that it’s true.” I gently reached forward to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “Is there any other way for me to find out?” “Well, then I’d like you to prove to me you have nothing within you. Let me know you.” I furrowed my eyebrows. “How do I do that?” “Well I’ve been staring at this awful room for what feels like an eternity.” Her lips turned to a mischievous grin. “If you want to know, you’ll have to take me on a date.” She touched my shoulder, pulling my eyes away from the same smirk I had seen all those months ago. Suddenly, it hit me. “You never told me what your secret was either.” She smiled and gently ran her hand across my face, memorizing each dip and pore with her fingertips. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” “Avoiding the question?” “I just wanted you to know.” She turned to me fully, one hand still gracing the painting while the other cupped my cheek gently. “You’re also the only one who’s ever asked me my secret. Since then, my secret changed too.” “Tell me?” I delicately echoed. “I love you.” I watched in horror as she disintegrated in front of me, starting at the beautiful locks I once ran my fingers through. Her smile never wavered as she decayed into dust, her fingers just as gentle until they too, were finally gone. All that was left was the dust that graced the floor, and the painting which was finally restored. I gently touched the painting that had once been my lover. “I suppose I have a secret too then.” My voice cracked, and I used my other hand to wipe my damp cheeks. “I love you too.” Then the alarms went off.


The accumulation of what can only described as “stuff” is incremental. Hardly noticeable until a surviving relative must plough through it and decided what will be saved and what will be demolished.            I discovered among yet another box of old papers, a small black cylinder. I held it between my thumb and forefinger and lifted the lid carefully with my thumbnail. It contained an undeveloped roll of film. A label on the container read: “Eliza.”            I thought for a few moments. Grandmother Sarah never mentioned anyone with that name. Actually, she never talked about her family—she refused to discuss the topic. All I knew about her was that she was from Eastern Europe. The handwriting on the film canister was not Grandmother Sarah’s because my grandmother had a beautiful, even artistic handwriting, like the calligraphy seen on wedding invitations. No one else in my family had such beautiful hands. The writing on the canister was in masculine block letters: ELIZA. I placed the film in my sweater pocket. I left the attic to work on emptying closets in the master bedroom. As I stacked clothes to take to the thrift store, I couldn’t take my mind off my discovery. My hand kept going to the object in my pocket. I stopped, looked at it again, then put it back in my pocket and rushed downstairs. I drove to a chain drugstore, but they could not help me. They recommended a store downtown. I wasn’t paying attention as I drove downtown. All of my attention was on the film. Who is Eliza? Is she a relative? Does she know Grandmother Sarah or Aunt Rosemary? I thought she might be someone from my father’s side of the family, but I dismissed that as unlikely. It was my mother and grandmother’s belongings I’d been sorting through. It was dusk when I exited. I drove around, almost going the wrong way on a one-way street, and finally found the recommended studio. I parked and hoped the store was not closed. I ran up to the door; luckily, they stayed open until 7:00 p.m. The young man behind the counter, named Alan, appeared very excited when I showed him the film roll. He knew a lot about restoration and was very professional in his manner. He was able to estimate the age of the film. “Probably sixty years old, maybe more,” he proclaimed. Must be black and white. So cool.” Although it was almost closing time, he shared my curiosity about what the film might depict. “I’ll go ahead and develop it now if you want.” “Yes, please,” I said. “It will probably take me about an hour. There is a Starbucks across the street.” The coffee made me more anxious. The minutes crawled by. After 30 minutes, I couldn’t stand it any longer and returned to the photo shop. Alan let me in, seemingly annoyed by the interruption. I paced around the shop as he worked on my pictures. I looked at the photographs displayed on the wall. Most of them were brides. There were also a few graduation photographs and several family portraits. Happy faces beamed at me from the walls. My family never seemed as content as these people. I wondered if they harbored secrets. Don’t all families? I wondered. Alan finally reappeared with a big smile on his face. “Got it,” he announced. He handed me the envelope and walked over to the cash register. “Thirty-six dollars,” he said. I gave him two twenty-dollar bills and didn’t’t bother to wait for my change. I rushed out of the store like a thief. I knew I should have taken the time to talk to him about the photographs, but as soon as I had them in my hand, my stomach cramped up and I felt lightheaded. I did not want to faint in the store. The fresh air revived me a bit and I was able to make it back to my car. I got in and sat for a moment behind the steering wheel. I tried to open the envelope with my shaky hands. A piece of glue attached onto my fingers from the envelope’s seal. I licked the pieces of glue away with my tongue and cleared my hand on my jeans. There were five black and white photographs. The first was a picture of a top of a building—like one found in any big ancient European city, such as Paris, Venice, or, Rome. I guessed it was most likely a church or a cathedral, maybe even a castle. The image was blurry, obviously a failed attempt. The next one had the same subject, but the masonry was a little more defined. It looked like a thick haze was in front of it. I could not tell if it was due to the weather or a technical difficulty with the photography equipment. The next picture was of the ground and two feet: women’s feet. The last was of a woman; the woman whom the photographer had worked so hard to capture. The focus was perfect. I gasped with astonishment. I felt as if I was facing myself in the mirror. The woman staring back at me was my spitting image…I could not take my eyes of her. The black and white picture made the contrasts sharper, the lines more defined. The woman had full black hair, dark eyes and strong lined lips. Her smile was alluring. “Yes, that’s it,” I whispered. The way she gazed into the lens revealed she must have been in love. People don’t pose like that unless there is an intimacy between photographer and subject. There was also a shyness about her, probably because she wore a two-piece bathing suite. Surprisingly, her navel was exposed. Puddles of water were on the terrace, which reflected off the top of the building behind her. I could not tell the location, but it was quite obvious that the photo was taken at least sixty years ago, probably in the 1940s in an urban area. I estimated that the young woman in the picture was no older than twenty. She smiled with her mouth shut, obviously flirting with the man behind the camera—probably her lover. It was clear that she wanted to show her best side and win over his approval and admiration. She had a nice figure with broad hips. As a dancer, I was always jealous of my girlfriends with round hips, which suggested they have a waist. I had learned over the years that European men and Black men appreciated women with such curves, while many American men, like my father, preferred skinny women. Besides the lust and admiration that the woman reflected in the picture at the photographer, her eyes showed a sadness; a certain insecurity that only a woman can see in another woman’s eyes, of heartache and longing. Her eyes made me want to give up on love. Her face appeared transparent, which allowed me to see into her mind, her soul, and her heart. Her shy smile illustrated good breeding, perhaps a good education. Something was special about her—even regal. I instinctively felt something nurturing about her, reminiscent of Aunt Rosemary. When I thought of Aunt Rosemary, tears welled up in my eyes. “Stop it!” I chided myself. “You are just feeling sentimental because of being back here in Austin.  “This woman in the picture could be anyone.” I scolded myself the way Grandmother Sarah used to, “You have work to do.” But I was unable to resist the image and glanced down at the picture again. The woman’s night black eyes twinkled; a light in her pupils betrayed her desire to a sparkling future, but at the same time, she seemed about ready to shut her eyes, as if she wanted to block out any thoughts and just be in the moment; the way I felt when I was dancing. What struck me most was the woman’s nose. It was identical to my former nose. Barbara Streisand has the same nose. Children taunted me as I was growing up. “Hey Yentl,” they called out to me during recesses. I only saw the movie a few years ago about the Jewish woman who so longed for an education she disguised herself as a man. After living under my Grandmother Sarah’s influence for so long, I could not imagine a girl not being allowed an education. Still, no one in my family could ever explain my nose since it did not resemble either my father’s or my mother’s appendage. People used to joke with my mother that I must be the milkman’s daughter. If my father, who was a surgeon, hadn’t delivered me himself, had not pulled me out of my mother’s uterus, he would have probably thought that I was exchanged with another baby in the hospital. It was actually Grandmother Sarah’s idea, not my mother’s, to consider rhinoplasty. My eighteenth birthday gift was a nose job from my grandmother. Of course, I was very happy to have a “normal” nose but could never understand why my nose was so problematic for her. As I stared at the photo, my heart began to beat faster, and my eyes began to water. It occurred to me where the distinct nose came from. The young woman in the picture had to be a close relative to either Grandmother Sarah or Aunt Rosemary, there simply was no other explanation. Why had both of them been so secretive? Had something bad happened? Was this beautiful woman a criminal? My body trembled and my mind raced: How can I find this woman? Is she still alive? How can somebody I don’t even know look so much like me? Did she do something bad to my grandmother? Is that why Sarah always seemed so angry with me? Although the woman in the picture obviously had black hair and dark eyes, which contrasted with my bleach blond hair and green eyes, there was no denying that I looked just like her. We have the same cheekbones, the same nose, and the same countenance. Is this what they call a doppelganger or a poltergeist? I could not begin to guess where the picture came from, but what confounded me most was why my grandmother had saved this film for so long without feeling the need or the curiosity to get it developed. She must have known about its contents. Human beings are curious by nature. Wouldn’t she want to know? Had someone done something bad? If so, what? I was both excited and nervous. I looked up and realized it was now pitch-black outside. I stared out at the people gathering along the sidewalks. I remained alone, quiet, although I had an overwhelming need to shout. I had so many questions and no clue who would be able to answer them. Other than my brother, sister and remarried father, I had no other living relation to Grandmother Sarah or Aunt Rosemary, and like my parents, I was divorced. I felt confused, but at least I understood why I was shaking when I opened the envelope. Instinctively, I knew that it would change my entire life.                                                      *****       My work continued to be interrupted by the image of the woman in the photo. Not until I saw the black and white pictures of the mysterious woman did it occur to me that the 1940s had beautiful women—sexy, erotic women. The older women in my own life consisted primarily of my grandmother and Aunt Rosemary. I was convinced that the young women of our generation had invented female sexuality. Even my mother seemed like a prude compared to the other girls I knew. The women I saw in movies, on television, and in music videos never shied away from their sexuality. Quite often, they flaunted it. They regularly showed their long legs, their belly buttons, and lots of cleavage. They wore provocative clothing and gyrated around muscular guys. I remember the first time I wore hip-hugger blue jeans and a midriff top to Aunt Rosemary’s house. She was alarmed at the amount of flesh I had exposed. My mother hadn’t noticed because it was December and I had put a coat on over my clothes before I left my bedroom. My mother was embarrassed when her mother scolded her for allowing her daughter to be “so loose” with her attire. Maybe it was because of her past. I remember a letter she sent me my freshman year. I’d read it so many times, I had it memorized. October 1, 1983 Dear Michelle, You’re sad about Brad breaking up with you. My only advice to you is that love hurts. One Saturday afternoon your dad told me he had to visit some of his patients. An hour after he left, the phone rang. It was our neighbor, Mrs. Harper. She asked me if I knew that my husband was playing golf with some woman, and they were close, laughing and hugging. Since they were in public, the neighbor assumed that I knew about it, “So you have an open marriage?” she asked, which was not the case. I didn’t know anything about it. I was humiliated, but I didn’t know what to say. I thanked her for calling, and said she was mistaken. I lied and told her Richard’s younger sister was visiting before ending the call.

I was so upset; my stomach churned, and my temples throbbed. I went into denial and tried to convince myself that it was not my husband whom Mrs. Harper saw at the golf course. Although I already knew the truth. That’s why I lied. As you know, your father does not have a sister. Your father is a charming man. I always told myself that he was only flirting—it never occurred to me that he could also be having an affair. I had just given birth to my third child. He seemed to adore Alice, but I was not a young woman anymore, and his assistants and secretaries worshiped him. He had so many choices and since he was not religious at all, faith didn’t keep him away from adultery. Suddenly, I saw my husband differently. He was the father of my children, he was my husband, and we lived together under the same roof. But what else did we share? Nothing. There was no longer anything special about him—about us.  You may wonder why I ever married him…because I was pregnant, with you. I’m sure he felt obliged, but he was probably not ready to get stuck with a family. Anyone could see that we didn’t fit together. Sarah liked him for some reason and wasn’t upset he got me pregnant. She liked that he was from a prestigious family who had been in America since the eighteenth century. He was a young, promising doctor who made me feel that I was not on his level, not as accomplished, although Sarah made sure I had a stellar education. I only had one year to go at Smith, but I had to leave college because I was pregnant. It was not easy to be a wife, a mother, and a good student. At that time men didn’t help their wives take care of their children. The only thing your father and I shared was lust. He was a terrific lover, and probably still is, but as a husband he was not successful. He made me feel insecure than. I thought if I was more beautiful, I could make him love me. The strange thing was that after Mrs. Harper’s phone call, suddenly, life became clear. The most important thing in life is that you experience at least one victory—one life-changing event. My victory was I didn’t feel any pain for something I always thought would be painful. The more I learn about myself, the more it feels like I am nearing a victory. I can be a strong woman.      Have a good semester.                                          Mom I had a sudden urge to find that letter and hold it again. I had an inkling it held the clue to the mystery of this photo. I went to my old room and rummaged through the drawers and closet. I found my old diary pushed back on the closet’s top shelf. I had saved the letter in it. I took it down, and popped it open since I did not have the key. I pulled out the letter, and when I did a scrap of paper fell to the floor.; it looked like the second page of an old letter. I picked it up and read: It was my idea to name you Christina. That way no one would know you were born a Jew—not even you. I know about infidelity, but. I was not angry with Pal for taking a mistress—our needs were different. However, I did not expect her to get pregnant. If I never saw Pal again, but if I had, I would have told him, “I saved your daughter.” As soon as I saw Eliza that day in Pal’s office and realized she was pregnant, I began to devise a plan. I had hoped that I would not have to enact it. As time went on, I knew there was no other way to escape the occupation. My feelings about Grandmother Sarah remain conflicted. She lived a lie most of her adult life, but she also did what she thought she had to do to survive. My mother was a way out for Sarah, and it’s possible her actions saved my mother’s life as well. I ask myself, what would I have done in that situation? But all I can do is speculate.                                                                 The End


“Charlie… Wake up. Listen.” Amy shook me gently by the shoulder until I stirred. She was out of bed, standing by my side, framed by the soft morning light that spilled through the bedroom window. “What is it? What time is it?” I sat up, reaching for the clock on the bedside table. It read 4:17am. I groaned. “Shhh! Listen,” she said, moving to the window. She placed her hands on the sill and looked out over the garden. “I can hear a Nightingale.” Sure enough, amongst the dawn chorus, one voice rose above the rest, undulating gracefully around the harsher cadences of the morning ensemble. “Isn’t it beautiful?” My heart performed a pirouette. I wanted to tell her that the beauty of it was the re-appearance of her smile, which had been missing since that day at the beach. Instead, I motioned for her to come back to bed. She came and sat beside me, resting her head on my shoulder. We sat there awhile, listening to the birdsong. I held her close and ran my fingers through her pillow ruffled hair. “Did you sleep well?” I asked. She shrugged. A look of sorrow shadowed her face, like a cloud that briefly hides the sun on a summer’s day, stealing the warmth from the moment. I knew the dream that kept her awake at night – I had it too. It was always the same… In the dream, we’re at the beach, walking along the shoreline with El by our side. The sky is murky, like dirty dish water suspended above the Earth. It only takes a moment -- a moment of carelessness; a moment of distraction; a moment of lifetime regret – but it’s enough. Suddenly, El is screaming, struggling to keep her head above the steel grey waves that swirl angrily around her. I shout until my throat is hoarse with desperation, wishing I could lash the waves into obedience, but the sea does not listen – it is wild and untamed. Lately, I was having the dream less frequently. I hoped Amy wasn’t far behind. They say time is a healer, but since that day at the beach, I disagree. Time is a counsellor; one who urges you to replay a moment over and over, to think about it from every possible angle and then break it apart so you can re-structure it and over-analyse it anew. Then finally something cracks, and a chink of light shines through; a smile. Amy kissed my cheek as if she’d read my mind. She asked if I wanted coffee and climbed from bed. I nodded, watching her across the room. There was a crack in the plaster wall above the door-frame, and as she passed through, I disappeared through the crack… In my mind, I was at the beach again, only this was a different day; one of the countless moments that had been hidden beneath a shield of grief. I could hear the surf washing lazily upon the shore. The sun was at my back and a light breeze ruffled my hair. Warm white sand caressed my toes as I climbed the dune to where Amy and El were laughing and joking. They teased me for taking so long. I took El’s hand and put my arm around Amy’s waist, happy just to be with them. Together, we looked across the bay and watched the setting sun turn the sea into liquid gold before our eyes. Amy re-entered the room holding two steaming cups of coffee. We locked smiles and I swear there was light shining through the crack beside the door. I think Amy could see it too.


It is a well-known fact that for a demon to be brought across the Earth-Hell barrier, the sacrifice of a living creature must be made. So well-known, in fact, that it is the first spell that any burgeoning mage learns. Without that spurt of vital power, the most a demon can do from Hell is helplessly watch events unfold on Earth. For example, Sai the demon watched helplessly as his Earth-born daughter was dragged onto a sacrificial altar. The worst part was that even though he could hear her screams, he had no idea what she was saying. She'd been raised speaking her mother's native tongue, something Sai could never wrap his head around. Still, despite not understanding his daughter's language, there was one word which was the same across every language Sai had encountered. "Mama!" Sai's daughter cried, "Mama!" Sai flexed claws that could shred solid steel impotently as he watched the scene unfold. A zzyyanzzroth demon like him had little in the way of magic, but he had enough of an education to open a scrying pool to Earth. In the middle of the hellish, heat-blasted landscape around Sai, he could see a dank, dark cavern. Grim, hooded figures etched runes in a ring around Sai's struggling, caged daughter. A bald woman with a ceremonial axe waited next to his daughter, ready to execute her for the purposes of bringing him into their world. Most demons would do anything for the chance to escape Hell. At this moment, Sai would have consigned himself to an eternity of torment if it would save his little girl. A cold, detached part of his mind noted that the runes and the ceremony and the fancy axe were all entirely unnecessary. All it really took to cast a sacrificial summoning was a demon to target and an unlucky sacrifice. Sai froze. He looked down at his claws. And then a grim determination flooded him. He didn't know his daughter's real name, of course. He'd been banished back to Hell long before she'd been born. But his daughter had a name to him. "My daughter," Sai whispered, pleaded, begged, "My daughter, please. My daughter, be safe. My daughter, be free. My daughter—" The cultist raised her axe to strike. "MY DAUGHTER, I SUMMON THEE!" Rage and grief and pain and fury crystallizing into a single, quivering moment, Sai flexed his claws and slashed through his own chest, shredding his heart like an axe through an innocent little girl's neck. A flare of magic—old magic, primal magic—left him as he gave up his life for the spell. A simple summoning spell, to take a demon across the Earth-Hell boundary. With a pop of displaced air, his cowering half-demon daughter materialized in front of him; seconds later, he heard a clang as the surprised cultist's axe bit empty air. The burnt orange sky was fading from Sai's vision, and he knew he was about to die. The cost of a summoning spell was, of course, a life—and his was the only he had to spare. Slowly, his trembling daughter looked up, at the empty, heat-blasted plains of Hell. She looked at Sai, bleeding out onto the floor. Her eyes widened with primal recognition, and she stood. "Papa?" Sai smiled. "Hey... sweetie." She clapped her hands to her mouth. "Papa!" She ran over to his side, slipped in the puddles of his blood, and fell. Quick as lightning, Sai caught her with one dying hand. "I... gotcha, girl. I gotcha." Sai's daughter's lower lip trembled as she pushed herself to her knees. She tried to speak, but only managed to choke out a sob. Sai smiled sadly, and he felt his eyes close. It took a while for a zzyyanzzroth to die, but die they did, just like everything else. "'ts okay, daughter." Sai whispered, "Wouldn't... understand you... anyways..." And with that, Sai fell still. A.N.


“Baba?” “What is it Mea?” “What are demons?” “Where did you hear about those?” “It was in a book I read at school. It said something about how people once believed in demons who would possess people and do bad things.” “Well, the great news for us is that they’re not real. Humans used to believe in them before we reached the stars.” “Ok Baba,” Mea answered, then paused, “But what if I think I’ve seen them?” “Where’ve you seen them?” “In my dreams!” “Oh, don’t worry Mea. That’s what dreams are, our imagination running wild with the things we’re exposed to,” Mea’s father explained, “We have to get you ready for school!” The Esedran sun and moons danced in the sky as Mea and her father Aerav scampered around their kitchen, grabbing their vitamins and caloric bars. Human civilization on Esedras had triumphed over the planet many generations ago, and so far their only divergence had been a loss in culinary interest. The original colonists and their descendants only ate food designed to keep themselves sustained. Aerav and Mea walked under the shade of redwoods to school. The rifts of Bacchian, remnants of a moon that collided with southern Esedras long ago, sprinkled the landscape. Close to the school, they met up with coworker and family friends Tria and her daughter Hawa. “Hey Mea, Rav!” Tira exclaimed. “Oh Tria, how’ve you been!” Aerav asked. “A little stressed, I’m sure you saw-” “Of course. We can talk in a few,” Hawa and Mea, already playing around, asked if they could walk the rest of the way to school by themselves. Tria and Aerav exchanged looks and obliged, wanting to get to work as soon as possible. “They made up fast after last night!” Aerav exclaimed. “I don’t trust it, Tria said, “girls are never this easy,” “I’m not gonna press my luck and question it,” “So uh, how concerned are you about this? I’ve heard nothing from any of my early analytics buddies,” Rav asked. “I asked my federation friend on Proxima if they’ve ever seen neutrino interference, even off the books. Nothing. Nobody has ever seen anything like this. What have your buddies in analytics been saying?” “No clue. We’re likely going to have to go up to Titon to check it out.” “But we-” “I know. There’s nothing I can do. It’s either mass equipment failure, or some new phenomenon is presenting itself. Cyris is convinced it’s showing signs of Min Jorah’s gravitational riptide theory,” “Pora told me it is the universe upset with mineral extraction,” “Probably more likely,” Rav replied half-jokingly, “I honestly wouldn’t mind some time for us without the kids.” \-Four rotations later- The Gracchan Federation’s rapid response compound on Titon was clamoring with energy, theorizing, and astonishment at the lack of neutrino detection on the moon. Chemists, physicists, geologists, and everyone in the scientific community had sorted themselves into separate theory camps, each trying to prove their ideas about why this phenomenon was occurring. Brains from Gaia, Proxima, Lorias, Tribus, everywhere, would be arriving in person the next few rotations. An envoy was even sent into Gullan space (a rarity) to see if the Gullan species had ever encountered anything similar. Aerav and Tria had joined the transmission theory’s camp, hypothesizing that the interference must be some sort of transmission from a faraway and extremely intelligent alien species, either a rogue transmission or a message for humanity to decode. Other camps included the Min Jorah “Cultists” as Rav would describe them, the false vacuumists, and countless others. \-Two rotations later- “It has to be some sort of transmission or thing for us to decode. There is no other explanation. False vacuum grows less likely every second, and our data is showing unnatural neutrino movement just above Titon, we just need to decode it,” Tria explained. “I think we would have figured out how to transmit data with Neutrinos by now if it was possible, Hanson was proven right after Gulla after all. We’re among the first and so far we’re the smartest, I haven’t worked out the math yet but there is precedent to gravitational waves affecting neutrinos,” Cyris retorted. Aerav walked in, “Hey guys, just finished calling Mea,” “Her and Hawa all good?” Tria asked. “Oh yea, I doubt they’ve done anything but play in the trees the past few days,” “We would have done the same at their age, if we’re being honest,” “I mean even if we were down there right now…” Rav turned to Cyris. “Would you mind, for a moment,” “Of course,” Cyris replied, leaving the table. “Our kids have been through so much already. We need to either figure this out or get out of here soon, to get back to them. I’m hearing talk of planet evacuation,” Rav said. “I know,” Rav paused for a moment then continued, “I like what we have right now, between us. Our kids are friends, we are really making this work. If we really end up needing to evacuate, I think it could be fun for the kids to possibly move i-” “I do too. We already have basically been sharing a room he-” An alert suddenly rang out among almost everyone’s computers. “HEATED ROCK REPORTED SOUTH OF COMPOUND B” “Rav…” Rav looked through the compound's windows. Suddenly, the artificial gravity of the compound shut off, throwing people around. Aerav was able to grab onto a railing by the window and reached to grab Tria’s hand. He was successful, and pulled her closer to the window. They both watched awestruck as rock just south of them appeared to be glowing from the heat. Suddenly, the rock exploded. Rav and Tria started moving back from the window slowly, but the low gravity inhibited their reflexive movements, throwing them around. Rav faced Tria, falling slowly, and scooped her up in his arms. Suddenly, a crash was heard in the levels above them. A piece of rock the size of a large dog landed directly where they were just standing. Another crash, and a larger rock struck a coworker, making him disappear almost instantly. Tornado level wind was rushing through the compound, and separated Rav and Tria. After a moment, Rav finally located her, and attempted to grab her hand. Another crash hit the compound. Tria was crushed a few paces in front of Rav. Once a human being full of fear and adrenaline, red mist sprayed in every direction. Rav tried to open his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Rav backed away slowly, tears floating in front of his iris, mouthing the words, “I love you” over and over. Another crash and Aerav himself was gone. Mea and Hawa were in the woods late at night when the explosion appeared in the skies above. The explosion appeared on the western side of the moon, jutting out like a geyser. They began to cry, horrified for their parents. \-Two rotations later- A reunification center had been set up at Mea and Hawa’s school. They waited without much hope. Only one family had been reunified so far. The hours ticked by slower than they ever had. Hours later, a PA announcement called for Mea and Hawa. Overjoyed, they ran to the office, Mea got their first, Hawa not far behind. “Mom!” Hawa screamed. “Honey, I am so sorry I took so long.” Tria turned her attention to Mia and kneeled down, “Mea, I am so sorry,” Mia started sobbing. “Your father saved my life and a few others. He was a hero on the base. I am so sorry.” Mea struggled for a second then broke down into Tria’s arms. Tria smiled, slightly.


Betty was the youngest of three children. Her sister Lorraine died as a youngster following a severe illness and her newlywed brother Jerome was killed subsequent to a head injury after having been thrown from a horse. Not only that, but Betty’s mother and father were only children. Without Betty having any aunts, uncles, or siblings, and now with her having been involuntarily sterilized, the Belcher family bloodline would come to a despondent end, or would it? Mother found herself infertile due to a teenage malady that impacted her ovarian complex. Such a misfortune warrants a brief explanation. Young Betty had been misdiagnosed with appendicitis and agreed to surgery for removal of the supposed inflamed small hollow organ. However, a surgical incision under anesthesia revealed the true nature of the problem; the surgeon decided to forthwith completely withdraw the suspect infected ovaries. Keep in mind, this “butchery” occurred without any previous consultation with the patient. Naturally, when the medical doctor in charge met with Betty to coldly inform her that she would never bear children, she was distraught. Nonetheless, fiancé George Adams married Betty in spite of her medical history. Now let us introduce the main character in this story. The daughter in question here was the second addition to the wealthy Adams Family in 1957. The proverbial stork in this case was the Children’s Home Society adoption agency. Lorraine was named after the deceased aunt on mother’s side of the family. Previously in 1955, and after ten years of matrimony, the childless couple had already arranged the adoption of an infant boy whom they named George, after father. The happy pair (George and Betty) were pleased to have begun their dream of raising a pair of beautiful children. Never had there been a discussion of needing or wanting to adopt a third. Akin to an unplanned pregnancy, this is what occurred next. In September of 1958, it was time to celebrate toddler Georgie’s third birthday party. First, let’s take a moment to “rename” the little boy. Understand that Dad had begun to call his son “Dibbons” after a business associate in Great Britain with the same name. Eventually, the nickname was revamped to the simpler form of “Dib” and it stuck. Now back to the story. While the majority of family and friends participated in the celebration of the birthday party, the godfather of the birthday boy, Dr. Garrett, was absent. He had been called to the hospital to deliver a baby. The unwed mother planned on putting the newborn up for adoption. Well, just three short days later, a boy they would name James, became another member of the Adam’s Family! George and Betty had never planned such a move, but the story Dr. Garrett shared with them tugged at their heartstrings. This led them to reach out to make a sacrifice for the sake of the unwanted child. Where beforehand the couple had purposely adopted two children with matching green eyes, James was a brown-eyed boy. As the children matured, naturally their unique personalities came to the forefront. Of course, the two boys having shared the same birthdate, would celebrate the occasion together on the same day every year. Dib revealed an occasional mean streak at home, but was better known for having been an outstanding student. Dad claimed that James would “rather climb a tree and tell a lie, than stand on the ground and tell the truth”. Based on the substance of her fake “crocodile” tears, it was common knowledge that the family characterized our subject Lorraine as a phony. While still in grade school, Mom portrayed her as “boy crazy”, which would foretell things to come. Dad, whose ancestors had once held an interest in cattle ranches in the State of Nevada, had always wanted to be a cowboy. With an inheritance windfall in 1969, he purchased a cattle ranch where the Adam’s family moved the following year. Raymond, the caretaker of the ranch, had been living in a two-bedroom mobile home located just yards away from the family residence. When Ray and family relocated, Lorraine and James (just teenagers) asked permission to move into the vacant mobile home. After some whining, badgering, and pestering (and against his own good judgment) Dad agreed to the proposal. After all, with just a holler, the two kids could be called back home for dinner. If that did not work, they could always be called on the other phone line that Ray had left behind. Now that Dib would no longer need to share his bedroom with James, he had little to do with the his younger siblings living in the space next door. With all the new found freedom for two of the least mature members of the family, what do you suppose could possibly go wrong? Lori (Lorraine), who by this time had established a reputation for being a “sneak”, found herself slipping out at night. Jonathan, her boyfriend, would pick her up some distance away so Mom and Dad were never the wiser to her shenanigans. As a co-conspirator, younger James was sworn to secrecy by way of some kind of blackmail, gifts, or threats on Lori’s part that were never unearthed by the adults next door. Previous to their move from the city, all of the children had attended nearby Catholic schools. This first school year at the ranch, the kids needed to commute about half an hour to the nearest parochial academy. Later, in part to avoid the long daily drive, they began to attend the local public high school. Dib graduated in good standing. On the other hand, James was once busted for stealing audio-visual equipment from a locker. Of course, after Lori stopped seeing Jon (Jonathan) on the sly, at least a couple of other guys would take his place. One day an intimate buddy of Jon’s shared a rumor with Dib that his sister (now fifteen years old) was “expecting”. Dib brushed off the outrageous gossip as a boldfaced lie and thought nothing more of the matter. Oddly about the same time, although the weather had not yet begun to chill, Lori was observed constantly wearing her heavy jacket indoors. Then one evening, Dib overheard a discussion brewing in the other room. Lori was crying and both parents were upset. All the rumors were true after all, Lori was pregnant and an adoption for the coming child had already been secretly arranged. The father was called out to be a classmate from an affluent family. However, other reports spread that the guilty party was someone from “the other side of the tracks”. Purposefully, the adoption put an end to the scandal. With that behind her, after Lori graduated from high school she attended a business school financed by father and lived in the campus dormitory. Dib completed a community college two-year degree program and became a peace officer. James enlisted in the Navy as a submariner. After Lori completed her course of study, she never again returned to live at home. While living in her own apartment, she worked in retail sales and eventually was promoted to manager of a music store. Lori began to date the manager of another affiliate music store in the neighborhood. Michael was quite the gentleman and one who left a good impression on everyone. The couple married during a summertime church ceremony where Dib gave the introductory welcoming remarks. After an expensive country club reception financed by father, Michael and Lori honeymooned for a couple of weeks on a Caribbean cruise. On their return, and very unexpectedly, Michael separated from Lori for a short period. When it was revealed that Lori had conceived a child (girl) on the honeymoon, Michael dutifully returned to her side. Four years later, a second girl was born into the family. Forever evident during family gatherings, and in the back of his mind, Dib wondered why he did not behold more frequent public displays of affection between his sister and brother-in-law. On the other hand, Dib did notice it was awful nice of Michael to help do the dishes while Lori often sat down in the other room to watch television. Well, Lori did have the reputation of being lazy and messy. Dib still remembers having to clean all the trash out of her car the one time he asked to borrow her Chevrolet Camaro for a Friday night date. Mother Betty and father George were lifetime smokers who supposedly quit at the age of 50. However, Betty only pretended to quit. Once she fell asleep while smoking in front of the television and the cushion of the chair she was sitting on caught fire! Later in life, Betty began to have some strange dental problems. For example, one day and for no apparent reason, a tooth fell out. She was very afraid of consulting with medical professionals, preferring for some reason to stick her head in the sand like is said of the proverbial ostrich. With encouragement from a dear family friend, she eventually made an appointment with a dentist. It was too late; even after gruesome treatments and surgeries, she succumbed to mouth cancer in 1988. Returning to the subject of Lorraine again: about the 18 year mark of the marriage, Michael decided he had completed his obligations and departed, never turning back this time. After the divorce, Dib called Michael to thank him for always being kind, considerate, and helpful. A strange thing took place afterward. Namely, Dib’s father (George) specifically referring to the phone call, began to insist that he never speak to Michael again. Being the fact that during this last telephone conversation with Michael, Dib was more than 500 miles away from home, how did Dad even know a phone call had taken place? Something sneaky must be going on here! Since Lori did everything possible to turn her girls against Michael during and after the divorce, she evidently had also turned father against her ex-husband. Dib could only wonder who Lori had employed as her personal spies, her daughters perhaps? For sure someone was surreptitiously keeping a close eye on Dib. Before the aforementioned call came to a close, Michael divulged something that Dib would never, ever have imagined. Michael confessed that previous to the day he exchanged vows with Lori, he was positive he was making a grave mistake! However, with the expensive celebration already planned (country club venue, live music, catered bar/dinner) Michael could not bring himself to back out of the marriage. That disclosure would explain everything Dib witnessed for years. Michael must have forged on with the marriage wholly for the sake of his two children. Now Dib suspected Lori may even have “trapped” Michael on purpose by making sure her honeymoon resulted in the conception of a first child! Or more accurately in her case, a second child. A short time before his demise, father George sold some property for several millions of dollars. As the old man’s health deteriorated, faithful son Dib would drive 400 miles one-way on weekends to visit father to help administer his medication and perform chores around the house and ranch. One evening while Dib and his spouse were visiting Dad, Lori arrived from her own out of town residence and began a private conversation with father in his bedroom. The following morning, Dad was very upset about something and ordered Dib and his wife to leave and never come back! Up until that day, Dib and father had always been “pals”. The only explanation for this extreme and uncalled for change of heart must have been something instigated by Lori herself the night before. In order not to upset father any further, Dib and his wife followed the request to leave. After that day, Lori began to take over all of father’s affairs: intercepting his phone calls, redrafting his health care directive, accompanying him to conferences with his attorney, and driving him to every one of his doctor’s appointments. Rumors began to unfold that the filing of a restraining order was being considered to legally prevent Dib from seeing his father again in the future! After Lori had sequestered father for about a month, Dib decided to stop by unexpected and uninvited to visit Dad. Again, a four hundred mile drive, but he lovingly made the effort. When he walked in the front door, Dib was aghast to find father flat on his back in a hospital bed. His stomach was extended and swollen like Dib had never seen anyone else before. The room smelled like death. Obviously, father had not bathed or been provided proper hygiene for quite some time. Dib was in shock when he understood this surely was going to be the last time he ever saw his father alive. Lori feigned a welcome and patronized Dib by stating that father was pleased to see him. A widower now of 18 years, father died the following day due to an untreated bowel obstruction. According to Lori, corrective action was not taken because the condition was considered inoperable. Because of Lori keeping her dastardly doings with father secret, no member’s of Dib’s side of the family had an opportunity to bid farewell to father, including Dad’s lady friend of almost twenty years (who considered herself his significant other). For the funeral, Dib stayed at a local motel, since Lori had taken over the Adam’s family home when Dib was asked to leave the month before. Two weeks later, Dib received a copy of father’s updated last will and testament. Lori received all of father’s personal property and millions of dollars in cash, except for one million dollars left to a weirdo ranch hand named Tom whom Lori had recently hired to help her and father with chores. Dib, his wife and step-daughter, brother James, and father’s significant other had all been disinherited during Lori’s recent “kidnapping” of father. Neither was even a penny bestowed on any other family member, friend of the family, church, or charity. Dib hired an attorney to sue Lori in Superior Court for fraud and elder abuse. She employed father’s attorney for herself. If you can believe it, the female judge selected in the case just happened to have been previously employed during her youth as a babysitter for father’s attorney (now Lori’s attorney). Dib was made the fool during the course of the trial (kangaroo court) and lost on every charge and motion. We still have not answered the questions: Why did father suddenly turn against his adopted first son George (Dib) just a month before his demise? And why and how did father leave all his earthly possessions to adopted daughter Lorraine and her friend? Well, father’s most terrifying fear would have been to find himself dumped off at a nursing home. Knowing this, Dib would never have considered that course of action under any circumstances. Being so far from reality, neither had the subject ever been approached or discussed between father and son. But not until after the trail decision was finalized in Lori’s favor would the truth be revealed as follows: Not mentioned beforehand, but brother Jim (James) had gotten himself into deep trouble and had been incarcerated for several years already at this point. During a prison visit, Dib’s brother revealed what would have to be the biggest lie ever told in the history of the world. Lori had told her incarcerated sibling that Dib intended on putting their father in a nursing home! Unmistakably, Lori had convinced both her brother and father (during his failing and weakened state of health) that Dib was an imminent threat to Dad’s well being and freedom. Pushing the idea that only she could protect him, Dad believed he had no other option than to surrender his life to his conniving daughter. That would explain the dramatic switch of father’s love and affection for his son to his uncharacteristic state of paranoia. In other words, Dib was eliminated from father’s life and estate plan after Lori convinced him that her older brother was the enemy. Another dishonest practice on Lorraine’s “rap sheet” is what one may consider outright embezzlement. You see, father lent Lori and Michael all the money they needed to purchase a new home for cash. One stipulation mentioned in this interest free loan agreement was that, at such time the house were sold, father would be re-paid the loan amount in full. After settling in to their new place, and without any funds of their own, the couple purchased a second home by placing a mortgage on the house father helped them to purchase for cash. In order to accomplish this, Lori had to trick father into signing a document that stated he had either forgiven the loan or the loan had already been repaid. The poor man must have failed to examine thoroughly what the document he signed actually entailed. So Lori and Michael moved into the second home and rented their first home, now both with monthly mortgage payments due. After having overextended themselves with this imprudent scheme, they secretly declared bankruptcy and lost the first house father had purchased for them. Afterwards, whenever father mentioned that home in conversation, the two continued the ruse by claiming it was rented and provided for them an extra income. Father went to his grave without ever finding out about their crime. If father had known about this felony, would he have favored his daughter so generously in the end? Now we must come to recognize the dire consequences of leading a life of deceit and manipulation. Well, in the case of sweet Lorraine, we find none at all! Looking back on it, feigning sadness or remorse by crying crocodile tears, as performed by the juvenile version of Lorraine, may very well have been early signs and symptoms of a sociopathic personality. What do you think?