All posts by Elizabeth Bent

In Which Our Heroine And Her Laser Cannon End a Relationship

This is an excerpt from a short story I wrote about the ending of a fraught relationship. You can find the entire thing here.

I paused, hefted the wide canvas straps of the cannon’s carrying bag, and continued plodding up the stairwell. This wasn’t really about Zack, although I was certain that the news media would jump to that conclusion. No, Zack had merely been the proverbial last straw.

I grinned, fiercely.

The cannon was Zack’s fault, really.  He gave me the idea last week, when he came by to pick up his rock collection. Our final meeting began badly. Zack informed me that he had arrived in his customary way; that is, he sat in his convertible and leaned on the horn, waiting for me to come down and open the security door.

Enraged, I had opened my window and began throwing his rocks—each carefully labeled, with a lovingly printed serial number and description of origin—at him, and his car. We exchanged a variety of insults, many unprintable, at full volume, as interested neighbors clustered at windows or on porches.

“Oh yeah?” Zack yelled, in response to a particularly inventive comment of mine on his sexual inadequacies. He picked up a large, green-flecked chunk of serpentine and hurled it up at my window, missing completely. A musical crash somewhere below and to my right marked where the rock had stuck somebody’s wind chimes.

“Well, you couldn’t blow me with a laser cannon!”

A few moments later Zack was distracted by the owner of the wind chimes, who was advancing across the lawn brandishing the sad remains of what had once been a trio of porcelain owls.

A wave of sadness swept over me as I watched Zack confront this new threat. There was something sexy about the way his nostrils flared, and he looked so passionate as he grabbed a piece of broken owl, threw it to the ground and began jumping up and down on it. Melodrama welled up in me, and with images of Scarlett O’Hara reeling though my brain I cried out his name, ready to say that I loved him, I forgave him—

“Shut up!” Zack screamed, momentarily distracted. Seconds later he crumpled to the ground, the unconscious victim of a sucker punch.

I sighed, remembering, and dabbled at my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket.

The fifth floor was, of course, deserted. I wandered past the security cameras without even attempting to hide my awkward bundle. If Steve, my survivalist brother-in-law, and his paramilitary chums had wired the cameras correctly, my movements on this floor would not be recorded. Steve had sworn me to several fearful oaths of secrecy regarding the source of the laser cannon and the video-rigging equipment, and had wanted to seal our compact by tattooing the complicated sigil of the Invisible Defenders of the American Nation on my right wrist. I persuaded him to accept a handshake and a case of Viagra instead.

I dragged the cannon over to my chosen window. Outside, people were milling about, and traffic cops in orange jacket were shooing people off the street. It was still early. I figured I had at least half an hour to wait before the parade floats came into view.

Assembling the cannon was easy. All I had to do was unfold the tripod and slip in the power cells. Cutting a small hole in the shatterproof glass of the window was a bit tricky. The glass cutter Steve had packed for me was different from the one I had been practicing with, but I managed within a few minutes. Focusing the telescopic sight took another few minutes. I flipped the cannon’s main power switch to let it warm up, listening to its high-pitched hum with a combination of glee and awe. Once assembled, the cannon looked like a fat silver telescope.

I stroked the shaft with my gloved hands, imagining I could feel the power running through it, that my hands, as they moved, were crackling with static.

Happy Valentine’s Day

Character diary entry: This one is fairly dark, and in my “Hamlet’s play” series, so if you wanted humor or lighthearted entries, I suggest something else. I am going to post something amusing in a short while to make up for it. -Liz

I woke up again thinking about the docks in Coal Harbor in Vancouver, or was it False Creek? I forget. I had been in Coal Harbor last thing I remembered, before the second attack.

I do not know where the first attack was. I was on Seymour Street, walking to the bus stop- it was late- a woman came up to me with a map, upside down (a tribute to Karla Homolka, perhaps) and she asked me for help finding something. And she said “We’ve all been waiting for you,” and that’s when someone grabbed me, the world went blank, and I felt a needle in my neck.

I did not quite wake up at first.

I was- not sure now where I was. My memories are disjointed. Did I wake up, escape the building I was in, and find myself in the Downtown East Side, or was it Robson Street? They are very different streets, but this was very early in the morning- all was fairly quiet.

The room I woke up in was dark. I managed to undo the knot tying me down, made my way to the door, I could see it because of light coming in under the bottom. I could hear voices. I think I was in a hotel, but what kind I did not know. I checked to see if the door was unlocked.

It was locked. From the outside.

I knocked and a woman answered. She was blonde, I think, but I do not recall a lot about her. It was 1997. This was an adult, not a teenager or child, and she said, “Don’t look at me” and then she said, “Get some rest, you’re up again in fifteen minutes.” My clothes were on the carpeted floor outside the room.

And she closed the door, almost all the way.

I had not looked at her, I was thinking about the door. I had held the door with my foot, just open enough that I could unlatch it again.

I waited until I heard her footsteps recede, and the hall was quiet. Then I left the room, grabbed my clothing, and made my way to the nearest exit.

I forget where I got dressed. Probably in a stairwell. I did not have time to put on the skirt, just the full length leotard. I remember going down a gray stairwell, as fast as I could, barefoot. My boots I had picked up at the end of the hall, outside another door. I held them in my hand. I dropped the skirt.

I put the rest of my clothing on just before leaving, and exited to the street through a fire door. I walked briskly away, not quite running, trying to get my bearings, but mostly trying to put as much distance between me and the building I had been in, the one that seemed like a hotel, a well-kept, clean hotel on a street that held many storefronts. Was it Robson Street?

Was that a bus? Buses were running! It was early, and quiet, but buses meant safety, so I grabbed one that was coming along the street and I took it. I did not care where it went. It was a number five, I think.

I left the bus when it seemed to be going to the wrong way, crossed into Mount Pleasant, walked home from there- a long way, and I ran sometimes, I went as fast as I could, and didn’t rest until I got home.

I knew I would not remember, as my memories kept slipping away as I walked, and by the time I got home, I only could recall being tired and cold, and frightened.

The second attack happened after Evelyn brought me to the people in the penthouse of the hotel. This was itself interesting. I did not know what was going on, who Evelyn was, what her name was… she told me that “you’ll be living here now” and I said I would rather not. I had no idea what was going on. I decided to leave once someone- a man- had mentioned “a boat to Riga” and how I’d “earn my keep”. I was told to “clean up” and was left in a very ugly bathroom, and instead of doing as told I left, again, only this time no one was watching me. My friend, who had come with me, was waiting outside the suite still, looking sadly out the window- he turned and was delighted that it was me coming out, not someone else.

I said, “We’re leaving.” We took an elevator down. My friend took charge. Once outside the hotel, my friend pushed me and yelled, “Run!” and I did. I do not know what he did but they did not follow me. And I did not see him again for some time. Not for a very long time, I am afraid.

The second attack I remember less. I was in Coal Harbor, at the marina, for “a wedding reception”. I had gotten a voicemail from someone- a woman- claiming to be my friend’s new girlfriend, and she told me they were going to this wedding, that there were not going to be a lot of people there and they wanted the bride to feel better about it, so would I come?

This was months later, months after the first attack, and the incident with the people in the hotel (whose names I did not even know, then). I suppose the timing of each event can be correlated with Evelyn’s flight patterns. She did not live anywhere near Vancouver.

In any case, I went to the “wedding reception” in Coal Harbor and found myself in an empty event hall- was it the marina members’ clubhouse?- with myself and a few other people, none of whom were female. People walked past me, looked at me. I would recognize them now. Several said, “it’s her”. I tried to leave.

The next thing I remember clearly is waking up on the dock in Coal Harbor with a plastic bag over my head. I was in a pile of trash bags. The breeze whipped the ropes and lines on the nearby yachts, making that distinctive ping-ping-ping noise. I heard seagulls. It was cold. I took off the bag, and saw my dropped skirt, from what must have been a hotel, lying on the dock nearby. Foolishly, I picked it up. It was a favourite skirt, and I was too poor to replace it.

As with the first time, by the time I got home, I had forgotten everything- and I think they knew this, for when I saw one of the family again, he gloated. I had no idea who he was or why he was gloating. And, guess what, Evelyn was there once again.

Evelyn, Evelyn, Evelyn… let me guess, you claimed to be “my manager” to these people, you claimed I was a sex worker, or exotic dancer, and you misrepresented me to the point where they wanted to kill me. Perhaps you tried blackmail? Pretty clever, blackmailing pretending to be me so you could profit or they’d kill me, and you’d win either way.

And you kept calling me “stupid” because I could not remember traumatic events where you reinforced the amnesia by hypnotic suggestion? I remember in the park, you scared me and then kept saying “you can only hear my voice, you trust only me, you trust only me, you will obey everything I say”- only it took me decades to remember. All the while you had my friend (the one who rescued me from them, and your stupid ugly scheme) tied up in your lies, and it wasn’t until I could talk to him without you around that I was able to start piecing together who he is, and who you were, and what you are. What you have done to me.

And I told him. He knows.

Tick. Tock.

Update on Anagama and my other works

Hello, readers!

I’ve been editing my most recent novel, Anagama. You can read the first chapter of it here: Sneak Peek at Anagama.

I sent today’s version to three friends to read and comment on it, and I’ll share with you the description of the work, and my future plans, that I shared with one of these friends:

“Hi, this is my science fiction novel Anagama, which is set in the same universe as Perigee, some time subsequently. It’s the story of how a pair of mutants considered nonhuman and their allies work to bring justice to a corrupt corporation on Earth, and involves intrigue, shady underworld figures, Cuban gods, and pottery. 

“My next steps are to see if I can formulate a synopsis, outline, query letter, and send this package along with a writing sample to an agency that might be willing to represent me. I also need to go over this manuscript a few more times to make certain I’m happy with it, but I really would like to finish it- this particular project has been on my plate for a very long time! 

“My next projects include possibly revising and adding new material to Perigee, then working on several novels-in-progress (Diamond and Wings), both of which are partially written but both of which I want to substantially revise and improve. I also want to plot and write a psychic spy thriller called Cloak which draws strongly from current events, and is about the fall of a corrupt White House administration. 

“I also have a finished manuscript which I am happy with called Infinity– the story of how the descendants of an important couple help protect their ancestors from cross-time assassination attempts. This story involves wormholes, quantum entanglement, romance and many hideous floral arrangements.”

So, readers, now you are up to date on my current novel-writing activities, just like my friend. I also plan to write some short pieces- I may elaborate on some of the more disturbing posts which are sprinkled throughout this blog (many of which may find themselves as concepts inside larger works I already have planned)- and put them up on Smashwords. Most of my current works on Smashwords are short pieces about Agent Diamond and Charming Guy, and I may elaborate on the backstories of these characters and make them a little more realistic in a series of short stories or podcast scripts in future, and compile them into an anthology.

I plan to write an additional series of scripts for a project I lack a name for which I am calling “October 6th”, and you can read a little bit about it here. This last one is very dear to my heart and I believe it would make a great TV series: it’s loosely based on The Prisoner, but instead of a spy being kidnapped and psychologically tortured to obtain information, a woman is kidnapped, has no idea why she has been brought to The Campus, a strange environment mimicking a university campus, and has to recover her memories of a traumatic event which she is a key witness to. Her ability to recall is manipulated by two people, both at odds with each other- one wishes her to remain ignorant, and the other wishes her to recall.

I hope you enjoy reading my works. I hope to add podcasts to my repertoire of future offerings and am considering, in addition to writing a fictional podcast about Agent Diamond and Charming Guy, practicing with the format and with voice work by reviewing Chuck Tingle books (I have yet to buy one but they look amazing).

I am difficult to reach, but can be contacted via the form on the Contact Me page.

More on Trump

I wrote about a wager which I lost here, regarding whether I would be implicated by President Trump in his plans and schemes sometime in December 2019.

Obviously, this has not happened. I’m watching the Senate trial with interest. My brain loves to remind me that I might have gotten the month wrong (I was remembering this from a while ago, apparently). Maybe.

I will be less surprised than everyone else if he does mention my name sometime during his Senate impeachment trial, because I’ve been expecting something of the sort for a while now, but because I’m bipolar I’m fully aware that my thoughts about this sort of thing are likely to be delusional.

I really hope someone has tapes, if I spoke to Trump on the phone at all, like I think I may have.

I bet a friend a box of gluten-free doughnuts that things are going to get seriously weird during the trial, so I guess I will just have to wait and see how things play out.

Buy a little piece of history

Hello, readers!

Just a little newsy update, no grim short pieces about torments or strange dreams this time.

My novel Perigee is on sale in Kindle ebook version for $3.99 USD!

I like my first novel Perigee but am not 100% happy with it. I messed up its republishing- I failed to get a new ISBN in 2013 even though I’m fairly sure I asked the person I was on the phone with to get one, for example, and upon rereading it, I’m not 100% happy with how it begins. I was thinking of revising it and adding in a novella, or else writing an entire other book, about the character Avesta Brunner-Tsu. She’s a favorite of mine, and her backstory is quite interesting. I plan to pull Perigee from publication at iUniverse, and then re-release it as a 2020 manuscript in a different form.

I was not 100% happy with the interactions I had with iUniverse, so I am unlikely to simply re-release it with them. I’ve been working hard on polishing two other science fiction manuscripts (one, Anagama, set in the same universe as Perigee, and another, Infinity, in its own variant of Earth) so I can start sending one of these to agents. Anagama involves a variety of humanoid mutants fighting for human rights on Earth, corporate intrigue, and underworld criminals. You can read the first chapter here. Infinity involves wormholes, time detectives, assassination attempts, and a series of incredibly ugly floral arrangements. Perigee is a more comedic take on science fiction than Anagama, and describes the chaos that hits a small planetary colony when a potent aphrodisiac is released into the colony’s water systems.

So if you want to get collector’s copies of Perigee, buy them now (you can get the book or ebook on Amazon here) before I pull this version from publication. I plan on changing the cover to something more evocative of the actual novel, as well, so the old version should be easy to spot.

I’m not famous now, though if my incredibly good mood, high energy levels, and lack of brain fog continue for some time, I should be able to pull my writing together enough to finish polishing, submit queries, and find an agent. In a little while, who knows? So if you’d like to take a gamble, buy my book and get yourself a little piece of history while it’s affordable.

Checkmate

This is again about the female character I call Evelyn. Truth can be stranger than fiction, but this little piece is very strange indeed. More about Evelyn in my prior post, and the ones referenced therein. I also write about my strange dreams involving Trump, and you can read about those in this post, and the ones it references.

A long time ago, in a place now far, far away from me, on the West Coast. She found me in a little park close to my home in the Dunbar Heights district of Vancouver.

I remember: Fear, abject fear, and then a woman repeating “You can trust me, you can trust me, you can only trust me and no one else, listen to what I say and do exactly what I say and you will be safe, trust me, trust no one but me,” over and over. And she held my back and pushed, pushed, pushed.

It was her first, most successful command which she gave me in the little game which she has been playing and which I have been trying my entire adult life to escape.

She would remind me, with a push to the back, and I would trust her. I always trusted her, even knowing I should not. She would always come at me, give me a friendly, vigorous pat on the back (push, push) and I would trust her.

She grew bored with this and added other levels.

There was “Mask” where I would be told to expect to see someone, then see the face and hear the voice of that person instead of the actual person I was talking to, when she or her husband were around me. I spent about a year talking to her husband thinking he was a 23-year-old Canadian graduate student in my laboratory who looked completely different, and had a completely different voice. But the masks started much, much earlier than that, I suspect as early as 1996 or 1997, when I started to be systematically isolated from my social circles, starting with the man I was dating. He could not recall dumping me on the morning of Thanksgiving Day, and was flabbergasted that I was upset with him for doing so. She used this handy trick to destroy relationships of mine that would help me professionally or in my social life, and use it to gain my trust when push-push didn’t work as well as planned, and pump me for information about things which she could then use to hurt and humiliate me.

There was “Tidy Up” and after a crime had been committed against me, I would, after it had occurred, be obsessed with taking all evidence of that crime and clearing it up- putting things away or in the trash, wiping down surfaces, cleaning myself up. Then I would go to where I had awoken from deep trance, and open my eyes, and awake fully- and I knew something was wrong, deeply wrong, but I would look around and- no physical evidence of it, no memory. Just a feeling of wrongness, deep unease.

There was “Freeze” which I first think was used in 2002 or 2003. I went to the Pageant of the Masters in Laguna Beach, CA, and woke up frozen, cramped, naked from the waist down by the door of the men’s room in a local bar. I woke up another time nude out on the street. I did not remember this at the time, merely tried to clean up the evidence that it had happened and that anything had been amiss. I remembered the events long after I had forgotten the date or year or any details of the event that could help me find who did this.

There was “Opposite Day” where I would be programmed to say the opposite of what I meant. I think the trigger for this was “it’s not your birthday” or “happy unbirthday” which was a thing that, lightheartedly, I used to tell people to cheer them up, to give them a reason to celebrate. I have stopped doing that.

There was “San Diego” and I don’t know exactly what the trigger was, but I both could not see cars on the road, and green and red were exchanged in everything I saw. I think the trigger had to do with reminding me of those green-red dots in eye tests. I believe this was designed to force me to get into a serious car accident, with the goal of killing me or killing someone else and making me responsible.

There was “Doorway” and after going through a door, including a car door, I would forget whatever important information there was- such as when someone phoned me and said they were about to kill someone and I had to stop them- I would forget what had upset me and my mind would blank out for a while. She used this one a lot.

And there was “Bury the skeleton” where she would take my emerging memories of a crime and rebury them, suggesting to me that they were locked deep, deep in a cellar, like the one the child in Ursula K. LeGuin’s story “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” was locked in, where no one could see or hear. And at some point she got tired of my enjoying my life as much as I did and made me think of myself as the child from Omelas, the one that was locked in the dark away from light and hope and kept slient, gagged, blindfolded, unable to comprehend why such cruelty had been visited upon her.

For over three decades I have carried around the subconscious memories of abuse, so much and so varied that I cannot really say when and where events happened. I am unable to remember events until long after they can be investigated, and it took me over three years of relative rest and contemplation, and serious analysis of the dream images coming to me from the “child from Omelas”, to even puzzle out as much as I have. I believe that Evelyn has largely been prevented from harming me all this time which is why I have not been re-traumatized and re-regressed, though I do recall an interaction at the Hillside Festival in 2019 where a woman I had not met before as far as I knew tried to give me commands in a quiet voice after the push, push trigger (which I noted). When I told her I would do to her what she had done to me, and reached for her, she panicked and ran, and when I grabbed for her, I wound up holding a wig.

So her hold on me has weakened, I believe, though I do not know if I am ever going to be fully safe from harm- she has done so much to me, and sees me as being inhuman (calling me “trash”, “cockroach”, “insect”, “garbage can”, etc.). She seems obsessed with preventing me from succeeding in any venture that might gain me respect or prove to be lucrative, or even anything as simple as hobbies which provide me joy. I have had to lie and lie and lie to strangers on the telephone over and over just to try and keep shreds of happiness and people I care about close to me, and prevent them from being attacked and killed or injured or stolen from as well.

She has used her power over me to try to kill me in different ways, most cruelly by trying to make me suicide, and to avoid her I have often pretended that this was a success. It works for a time, but then she finds me yet again and the cycle begins over.

This time I am ready. Knowledge is power. I have enough knowledge of what she has done to me and how I can be manipulated, now, that her lies no longer will have as much sway. She was the one that tied her life to mine, decided to pervert my words about the Tao and think that, as long as my life was in decline, hers would always be ascendant.

When you attempt to kill a Queen, you better make sure she’s dead on your first try. I have been in and escaped from checkmate for my entire adult life, and now I find my allies are back on the board and yours, strangely, have left, or are leaving. You are alone, and if you are not exposed now you will be very, very soon.

Checkmate is only a matter of time.

Tick.

Tock.

A new year, and some old thoughts

I made a wager in my last post, which I am sad to say didn’t seem to work out. That’s what I get for attempting fortune telling. It really just doesn’t work.

I wrote this some time ago, as part of the new project I have which is tentatively titled October 6th, and which I’ve written about here. A warning: this is very dark.

I dreamt first of the lamp, swinging, and the doors opening. Blood on the floor beyond. Paw prints leading away from the puddle on the marble floor toward oblivion.

I dreamt next of the captain of our high school football team, hanging dead, throat slit, from the lamp outside the double doors. This time the doors were closed. The body swung, dripping, and its legs suddenly scissored around my torso, latching onto me. It jerked, I fell down on the old worn stone stairway, and I woke up screaming.

I went about my days barely noticing the things I had been exposed to all that week, the events or images which I just assume were triggers of one sort or another. I was plagued by recurring thoughts, as I did my dull data entry typing each day, of a thrashing young man trying to grab me, swinging on a cord by his neck, a dark portal beyond with bloody paw prints leading into darkness.

I remembered, suddenly, as I sat quietly eating lunch outside, looking at a pot of rosemary plants. The rosemary smelled lovely in the warm breeze- today was warm for November, although I did not know what latitude the Campus was located at, or even which country.

I remembered a house. It was in Southern California, and had rosemary planted by the front door. A brown house, unassuming, with a pool in the backyard. No furniture. I had been invited by my coworker Laura to a barbecue and I went, and there was no food, no music, no patio furniture. Just Laura, a tall, sandy-haired man that I had never seen before, and the pool.

Laura and the strange man left me alone outside and I waited for them to return. I went inside. No one was there. I went looking for a bathroom and a woman I did not recognize found me. Dark hair, dark eyes, older than I was.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to be helpful? I can really use some help.”

She took me to a bedroom- one bed, a table with a computer on it, the computer was on and the screen was white, a little bit of black text around the edges. There was no chair, and the table was set low enough that one could not stand and type.

“I need you to type something into this page for me,” she said.

“I need a chair,” I said.

“Come outside,” she said, and I did so.

“Are you thirsty? Here is a drink,” she said, and handed me what appeared to be a beer.

“Here, wait, let me make sure it’s ready,” she said, and took it from me, turned around. She gave it back with a wide smile. I took a sip.

She went into the house. There were noises, a chair scraping across a floor, something sounding like a struggle.

She came out, watched me drink the beer, then brought me back into the bedroom. There was a chair in the middle of the room, under the lamp. I could not see anything hanging from the lamp.

“It’s your decision,” she said. “Do you want to help me?”

“Why is the chair in the middle of the room?” I asked.

“If you want to help me you will move it,” the woman said.

“What is going on? Where’s Laura?”

The woman looked annoyed.

“She’s gone to get some food,” she said. “She won’t be back for some time. Now are you going to help me, or not? I’ll pay you handsomely.”

I moved the chair. It did not want to move at first. As I forced it, I heard a thwacking noise.

“What was that?”

“Justice,” said the woman. She held out a piece of paper. On it were scribbles I could not read.

“I can’t read that,” I said.

The woman rolled her eyes and said something under her breath.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I’ll dictate,” she said.

“I want you to write, ‘Jesus wept for he saw an abomination before him, and he swept the earth clean of it, and the seas also will rise up and cleanse away abominations before the Lord.’”

I typed it, then added,

Some lady with dark hair is making me type this, this is fucking creepy. If I am found dead it’s her that did this to me.

I hit the small gray SEND button in the lower right corner.

“What was that? I needed to see that, what did you send?”

“What you told me to write,” I replied.

She left abruptly. I got up out of the chair, the put it back under the lamp, where it had been. I still saw nothing hanging from the lamp. But something bumped me as I put the chair back where it had been. I felt for it. What was it? I felt- clothing, cloth. Something hard. I slapped it and it jerked. What was it?

“Come out to the pool and leave that alone,” said the woman, and she motioned me out to the backyard, handed me a glass of water. I was thirsty, so I took a sip, but I wondered what the hell was going on. Something was.

The water tasted heavily of chlorine.

“Come into the pool with the rest of us,” she said, but no one was there. And then she pushed me.

I closed my eyes and frowned.

Disjointed memories, just fragments.

Hands, pushing my face underwater.

Waking up underneath a blue tarp, coughing, tasting chlorine burning in my throat, my nostrils. I was cold.

The house was silent, empty. I went to each room, looking. I thought I heard something. I saw nothing amiss save that the chair was knocked over. I righted it and felt something hit me in the face, bump against my side. I tugged and it gurgled. I got up on the chair, felt for the noose, loosened it by lifting the heavy object and pulling the cord away. Whoever had made the noose had not done it properly, it had not tightened on the neck. The heavy thing and I fell to the floor. I got up, then found it by patting the air- I still could not see it- and I took it to the bed and placed it on as gently as I could. I aligned the body- head straight, arms and legs straight- and all the while I was so cold. I put blankets on the body, and then curled up next to it in the bed, under the blankets, and fell asleep.

I woke, wondered where I was. It felt late. I felt the body next to me- warm, breathing. My vision was blurry when I looked at it. I could not see who it was.

I went through the house. Surely Laura had come back. No one. The front door was unlocked. There was one telephone on the counter so I used it to call police and say that the door was unlocked and I was leaving the house, and a man had been injured. I felt, so strongly, that I had to leave as soon as possible.

On the way out of the house, I met a woman with a black Labrador. Dark hair, dark eyes. I did not recognize her, or remember her from the house. She was coming down the sidewalk toward me.

“Leaving the scene of the crime so quickly?” she asked.

“What?”

“Never mind, you’ll find out later. How did you survive?”

I simply looked at her.

The woman petted her dog, who was interested in me. She pulled the dog back.

“Never mind. We’ll see how you do when you’re in jail, cockroach.”

The dog came to me and I petted her. The woman pulled the dog back.

“I did nothing wrong,” I said. I had a distinctly uneasy feeling.

“That’s what they all say, cockroach,” she said. “And thanks a lot, now I have to give my dog a bath, because you touched her.”

“I’m calling the police as soon as I get home,” she said. “You had better run while you can. Mexico is nice this time of year.”

Who was she, who was she, I wondered. I sat on the bench on the Campus, looking at the rosemary, and I realized: she was the same woman from Laguna Beach, the same woman from the pier in Santa Monica.

I don’t remember the end of my conversation with this woman- I recall being flustered, walking away when she started screaming at me in Spanish, and driving away in my car.

I wondered what happened to the man, who he was. I was fairly certain it had been a male body that I had taken down from where it hung, though I could not see it clearly.

I thought about this, thought about it long and hard. Who was he? What did he experience? Why could I see everything but him? Would he remember me? If he remembered me- would he protect me from the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who smiled at me all while she called me “cockroach” and drugged my beer- the woman I suspect was the one I met in Vancouver, the one in the hotel, the woman who tried to sell me to the man in the gilded penthouse, and, possibly, has done so much more to me? I didn’t know who she was, why she was trying to hurt me, and who her other intended victim was, but I felt certain that time would reveal everything to me. I just needed to keep my true thoughts a secret from everyone on this subject until I could figure out who he was, and how to reach him.

“Tick, tock,” I whispered to the rosemary bushes.

Some related posts: Character Diary Entry, To the World, The Smartest Woman in the World

Update: I often wondered how, in my dreams, one person was able to do so much alone. The answer is simple. There was more than one. I’ve known this for some time now but today I did a little genealogy research. This is going to go into a separate story than October 6th– I just wanted you all to have some insights into my creative process.

A little wager

Hello, readers.

Note: Dec. 10 2019 – I wrote this below in November, and of course, this has not actually happened- as far as the public knows, myself included. However. I’m going to try this crystal ball thing once again and say: something involving Trump and myself is going to happen next week, on or around December 16th. Of course, it’s really impossible to tell the future- foreseeing is impossible- I am basing this on weird dreams I have had, memories of conversations held over three years ago.

A little wager I’d like to place between my strange dreams about Trump, and the world: I have a strange feeling that on Friday, December 6 someone in the Trump administration is going to try to implicate me in some sort of crime or scandal. I actually don’t know what this might be.

For the record, I’ve had no contact that I am aware of with anyone in the Trump administration, and only have had strange dreams that, back in 2016 before the election, I spoke with him or with officials in his administration on the phone. I can’t explain that.

I’m watching the unreeling of this chain of thoughts with interest and expect that they will make for a great plot, or perhaps subplot, in a work of fiction I am writing called Cloak.

Keep watching the news, folks.

NB: December 17 2019 – For more information on my possible interactions with Trump: Treason, Caveat, Character Diary Entry. I apologize for the quality of writing, which is not always that good, in retrospect- however, I want to keep the original dates on the posts, and I’ll leave them as I wrote them.

What’s real? I am bipolar, I can’t tell you. I hope my friend in the corner of the room who was present for some of it will be able to testify in my stead, since his memory is better than mine and he is not delusional.

To the world

I’ve been interested in hypnosis since 2003, when I started having dreams about it being used on me. I’ve been having dreams since then about this. Here is a little character diary entry from someone who has been traumatized by the overuse of brainwashing techniques and shock hypnosis (or stage hypnosis).

I’ve been remembering so much. Every time she comes up to me, she pushes me on the back, in a particular spot. Every time. And every time I freeze. I don’t know for how long, but things have definitely changed by the time I can recover, and what happens to me during the time I am frozen? I wake up- my pants are pulled down. I am in a public place. How did this happen? What else has happened?

I’m remembering being coached on the phone. “When you open the door, you’ll see someone you care about, someone you trust.” Is this how she masked her face and voice from me, for so many years? The criminal investigations which all relied on me as witness, and I told them the truth- I saw people at my doorstep that could not have physically been there, and I never saw Evelyn. I never saw her- only a few times, only when she screwed up and used the wrong information to try to program me, and those mistakes are the only reason I am alive, and able to remember.

“When you pass through a doorway, you will forget everything that happened since you first heard my voice.” And after the man was hit with a brick and lay bleeding on the sidewalk, after a baby was maimed and I had to listen on the phone, I wanted to call for help- I did not have a working phone and I needed to go elsewhere, so I tried going to work, to my laboratory where I could use the phone. And I passed through a doorway, each time, and I could not remember anything immediately after. I stood in front of the phone, looking at it, panicking. What had I been about to do? Who was I calling? Why?

It took me ever so long to dredge up the pieces of these crimes from my subconscious, because, like all criminals, Evelyn makes mistakes- she made enough mistakes, and I finally had enough data, that I could piece together all the parts of the puzzles I had been left with.

“I’ll leave you alone, but you have to tell me my name.”

Guess what? I know your name, Evelyn. I know your full name.

I remember one night in Riverside, CA- I was at my friend Maggie’s apartment, and you looked like her to me, and left leaving the door wide open, with a pile of designer bags. And you made me watch a show on the television, and I did not understand why you wanted me to see it- but I watched, and I know the show’s name and I know the face and voice and name of the man on the screen. And maybe you programmed me further- to fail to be able to see or hear him, perhaps, maybe something else. I don’t know, because I remembered all of this now in the context of what I know, and when I looked up his image online, I also saw yours.

I saw you. And I saw your name.

I know your actual face. I’ve known for some time. And when the time is right and I have been able to confirm my suspicions, I will say your full name. Only this time, not just to you.

To the world.

Character diary entry

Inspired by the impeachment hearings, I decided to write a piece in the format of a character’s diary entry. She has my name but otherwise is a fictional character who receives calls from the Trump White House that travel through time, from 2019 or so back to before the election in 2016. This piece takes inspiration also from some true events.

Begin transmission, November 13, 2019.

I’ve been thinking about Evelyn, and the man in the hotel. It was puzzling for so long, how were they connected to me? And, of course, I remember. The tie in with the man is when she first tried to sell me to his family. I remember this: I WAS raped, kidnapped off the street, drugged, and raped, and later brought to a hotel penthouse where I was supposed to be sold into sex trafficking of some kind, there was mention of “a boat” and there was a woman that in hindsight must have been Evelyn telling me to just “relax and enjoy whatever happens to you”. This was about 1997 in Vancouver. I now suspect it was Trump and his family because (a) the hotel and (b) later when I got the series of suspicious calls from “Donny” who was “President”.

In my defense, I did not know of what, and for me this was in 2016 before the election, so Obama was POTUS and “Donny” had presented himself to me, when he asked for help, as running for “something like high school president” so I thought he was a mentally retarded adult in high school. “Donny” said something to me about how he had been introduced to me by his sons and how he thought I was “a very passionate young lady.” This was after he called himself “Mr. President”.

In any case, dear diary, that’s how Evelyn and the Trumps and I are connected. She keeps putting them in touch with me. She kept doing this when I lived in Riverside and later in North Hollywood, working full time as a scientist and making very little salary, while I was on the phone with what must have been influential and wealthy people, helping them with their problems, and not getting a penny in return, no names, no contact information, and any benefit from any of this was pocketed or claimed by Evelyn. She once taunted me that I was making her a lot of money and she owned me, I was her slave. That’s when I stopped answering my phone and refused all calls. I would not talk to anyone I could not identify and I blocked every number that came from someone I could not identify, whether I liked them as people or not. I just wanted to feel safe again. I lost contact with Seth M. this way, I lost contact with others, very valuable contacts, and the only way I re-established contact was via this odd connection we have, which can’t be tracked or traced and consists of… what? I have no idea. I think the tech handles it.

Anyway, from all of Evelyn’s shenanigans Trump knew I was a problem solver, and when he had his election campaign he asked me for help winning it. I thought he was just an unpleasant guy in high school and quickly grew tired. He didn’t want to win fairly, on the basis of popularity or a winning platform. He wanted to cheat. So he asked me if he could get help from “foreign students, like from St. Petersburg” and I was tired and fed up so I just told him that was fine, the school should allow it, something like that. And then the next calls I got he was “President” and he wanted me to call him “Mr. President” and I quickly got fed up with that. Frankly, he was a graceless, untalented and ineloquent twat. He called and called but for me it was all in a span of about a day or two in Guelph, ON. In 2016.

In hindsight, that was weird but as time progressed for me since 2016 and Trump’s presidency unwound and weird things kept being reported in the news, some seemed oddly familiar. I could sometimes trace them to vague memories of calls made. I remember thinking, in 2016, of the bizarre things I said he should do if he wanted “magical help”, thinking: surely, surely law enforcement will stop him. Surely the press will stop him. Surely there are checks in place. I told him about the bushes Shaun Spicer hid in, I told him about how Sicario was a real story of real events (it’s not), I told him to look at the eclipse. I told him to attack so many different groups. thinking, too many targeted groups, surely someone will see what he’s doing and stop him before he can do real damage. But, of course, no one has been able to and all the awful policies he has enacted are mostly in place, and all the laws he broke (whether actual law or simply rules of common decency) he can break with impunity. No one has been able to check him in any significant way that I am aware of. The impeachment hearings are going to be important but there is so much resistance from HALF OF CONGRESS that it’s tricky to see if it’s going to fall out for the rule of law and moral decency and justice, or if the traitors will stick to their underhanded game plan of making sure their side keeps power at any cost necessary, including the destruction of their own country’s government.

I know he is a traitor- whoever was on the phone- since I actually pretended to be a Russian and put on an accent and told him I worked for “Vlad” (I actually did not recall Putin, I was thinking of Dracula and improvising all the time) and once it became clear to me that he thought I was in the Russian government I switched and said that if he wanted Russian help he needed to “do some little things, maybe not so little things, but they will help us and you.” And then I made it clear, in multiple statements, that these things will harm America but they would be good for whoever I was talking to (I could not remember who it was). And then I pressured the person I was talking to to make a decision about whether he would betray his country for Russian help and some kind of profit quickly, and his decision was, yes, he would do it. He wanted instructions.

The man I was talking to was a traitor. And I don’t know if at that point it was Trump, or one of his henchmen. I won’t say “official” because they are mobsters, not government servants. But this person said he would do an unspecified act that was “good for Russia and for you” (meaning him, the person) “but bad for America”. That’s treason. To be clear, I’m not Russian. I’m Canadian. And I have no connections to Russia, I simply wanted to find out if the people I was talking to were traitors. I happen to like America.

I think at one point in 2016 Evelyn was in my office and she had a phone and she handed it to me asking me to talk to whoever is on the other end, and I’m accused of being a whistleblower and in government and asked all sorts of questions about events which, for me, would not happen for another 3 years. I did my best but honestly, I was so confused and my tech (that Evelyn could control, or partially control) was malfunctioning and I was unable to remember much of what I needed to tell the people I was talking to… diary, I don’t remember much at all of what I said but all I knew is that I was innocent and being framed for something, or set up for something- some criminal act, or some targeting with death threats, and I think at one point someone calls me (perhaps intending to call someone else) and asked me to arrange for a hit on “Elizabeth Bent”.

I’m Elizabeth Bent.

I said I’d do it and tried to get information on who they were but can’t now recall what they told me. This is always my curse. I just hope Steve kept the tapes. That’s the only proof I have that I’m not a traitor- that and the fact that my phone has not rung with a White House number since 2016.

This reminds me of the time Evelyn offered me money to impersonate myself. Again, I’d never have suspected her of wrongdoing if she hadn’t done that. I am so glad she did that, though, because my ability to talk to Steve at all all hinged on that day.

I don’t know what happens. I don’t know if my tech is working better now, has vanished, or if Evelyn will continue to be a problem for me by finding ways to misuse it and me. I feel like she’s been plaguing my life since I was thirteen, in 1985. I believe she knows so much about how to abuse me and all my weaknesses, physical and psychological and tech-created, like all my blackouts and inability to process certain information that is vital for me to be able to protect myself. Future tech like what I have been given is certainly a mixed blessing. I’ve managed to stay alive despite so many assassination attempts, but honestly, I wish I were allowed to know what is going on, and what has happened to me.

I wish I could finally find and talk to Steve. I worry so much that I’m imagining the tape he played a partial piece of in 2017. I worry so much that, frankly, I imagined the entire thing- the calls, the hearing or trial I found myself unwittingly in, not understanding what was going on, and Steve himself.

Time will show me if I am right, I only have to wait and keep watching.

End transmission, November 13, 2019