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.


“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.


“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


Hello, readers!

It’s late at night tonight and I am really looking forward to a calm Thanksgiving with family this coming weekend (in Canada, Thanksgiving is this coming Monday).

The news from the USA is just insane and it’s so hard to keep up with it all.

That being said, some of it just keeps reminding me of calls past, though I have not spoken to anyone recently. To explain, in years past I received many strange anonymous calls and those have, thankfully, stopped- including ones from a man only identifying himself as “Donny” (here and here and possibly in other posts) who sounded, in hindsight, a lot like Trump, though I did not recognize it at the time. I’ve speculated at length about what it all means. I have been wondering who called and why, and since I seem to have been asked to do various things which are impossible (psychic magic stuff, editing documents, handling correspondence and “the media”, contacting lawyers or finding new lawyers), well, I wonder exactly what has been going on. And how am I involved?

The easiest and simplest explanation is that I’ve dreamt up all these phone conversations (and the ample coverage of Trump scandals in the past 3 years has given most people aware of US news plenty to think about). I do keep thinking, though, that I will be “thrown under the bus” as it were, and blamed for some kind of bad conduct or a bad decision on the part of the Trump White House (like their abandonment of the Kurds, which is absolutely shameful). So just in the very, very slight chance that my name is tossed out in the maelstrom of Trump impeachment news, and people find my blog because of this, I thought I would say: I’m not an operative of any government, and if Trump has been calling me in times long past, I would like to know (a) how he got my number, and (b) why me?

I’m not a politician, I don’t know any politicians other than my husband’s uncle who is retired, I’m not a lawyer, I’m not a “fixer”- I’m a Canadian scientist who has been spending a lot of time visiting her husband in Dayton and writing fiction. If you want to know more about me, my consulting site is here, and my personal science project page is here. I also have published stories on Smashwords and I have written articles for The Conversation, and one is currently in progress.

In the past 3 years I have been debilitated by what are possibly simply dreams, delusions brought about perhaps by poor sleep or some kind of stress (though I take great care to manage stress adequately), from my being bipolar, or actual fragments (distorted, or not) of real memories relating to real traumas. I have hinted at or described some of these in my writing on this blog and am currently working on a number of short stories and novels that pull from these dreams/ideas/memories. I have so many story ideas, in fact, that I stopped being able to afford to register them all with WGA West and I have been keeping them to myself (there are now about 60).

As far as I remember, I lost my temper a number of times and resorted to pranking and/or sarcastic “advice” while on the phone with “Donny”, but as far as I can tell this happened a while ago- before the 2016 election. I’ve often joked that I’m a part of the Deep State, so deeply in the Deep State that I am not even aware of it, but as I type this, I wonder- who was “Donny”, why did he call me multiple times, and since I can’t clearly recall much of our conversations (see the above links about conversations with a possible Trump for details of what I do recall), well…. what happened, exactly?

I had another memory, a very clear one, that in 2017 someone played me a part of a recording from one of these calls- it was very memorable- so I’m sure that somewhere in the world, someone was listening in and recording the conversations I had had with “Donny”, and I for one am agog to find out- is this real? Was there someone in the room with me, or someone listening in on the call, or both- and is there audio? Video? How long before that person releases it? Who was this person, exactly?

Aside from Cloak, which is a fantasy story about spies, and its planned sequel, I have thought up a quasi-autobiographical work which I’m calling The Accidental Spy, which basically will untangle the many ideas I’ve had about who has been calling me, why I was selected for calls in particular, how I might have been put in contact with Trump, and essentially, my side of this whole weird (and possibly delusional) story. I would absolutely love empirical evidence of any real-world actual connections, conversations, or financial transactions linking me to Trump (for the record, I have never received money- but I believe in the late 1990s, when I lived in Vancouver, BC, someone in a hotel was trying to “buy” me from a woman I didn’t know, and I had no idea what was going on). I would love to, as has been said, “turn this log over and see what crawls out”.

I realize that the most likely explanation for all my dreams is illness, in which case The Accidental Spy will simply be a fantasy story, like Cloak.

However, journalists and government agents of the USA, if Trump releases my name or claims I am his representative, agent, or subordinate, or that I have influenced him in any way, well… start digging, please. I would like to know the truth.

October 6th

This is [Edit: the beginning of] a rough draft of a short story which I plan to turn into a novella. I liked the bones of this story enough to share it, though I admit the writing is a little sparse. I hope you enjoy it. [I am taking out everything but the very beginning because I want to work on this a little more before sharing, but I am having a lot of fun with this one. It is based on true events.]


Every October 6th, starting when I was about twenty or so, something odd would happen to me. Let me give you an example.

On the Santa Monica pier, October 6th, 2005. A woman walked up to me and said she wanted to take my photograph. I demurred, she insisted. She snapped a photograph with me saying she wanted me to wave to her family, and feeling put upon, I did so.

“I’m done with you now,” she said, and pushed me, hard, toward an oncoming couple.

I stumbled but did not lose my footing, nor hit the couple. They stared at me. I turned around.

“What the fuck, lady?” I yelled, and the strange woman looked at me, smirked, then her face crumpled theatrically and she went to her family, pointing at me, clearly aggrieved.

For about a week afterward, everywhere I went, different women would follow me, walk up to me, tell me that restaurants or parking lots were closed, tell me that I had to go with them (I never did), tell me they needed my signature on petitions, they needed my address, they needed to see my ID.

Another October 6th, I was attempting to see a pageant in Laguna Beach, a display of tableaux of old masterwork paintings put on by live models. A woman claiming to represent the play gave me a free glass of lemonade. I drank it, sat down on my picnic blanket, prepared to enjoy the pageant. I woke up on my picnic blanket, the pageant finished, I had a headache, I was groggy, people were leaving or had left. The woman was there and said she would see me to my car, then when we were alone, she took my things, put them next to a trash bin, and said I needed to take off my clothes.

I objected. I was weak, I pushed her away but she was stronger, and my cries for help were weakened. I blacked out and woke up with my pants removed by the entrance to the men’s bathroom in a local bar.

Sometimes it was a woman. Sometimes it was a man. Sometimes it was someone I thought I knew asking me “Do you know who I am? Who am I to you?” who did not seem to know basic facts about our relationship. Sometimes it was merely a phone call. But it happened, like clockwork, on or around October 6th, each year, and each year toward the end of September I’d wonder what would happen this time.

They took me about a year ago, last October 6th. I thought I’d be returned home within a week or two, but I’ve been here almost a full year, here on this Campus, and I have no clear idea of where I am or why they took me.

[What’s been happening to our protagonist? Where are they? What is the purpose of the Campus? Answers to these questions and more in the finished version, expected in November if writing goes as planned. Depending on length I may make the work available on Smashwords instead of here.]


Never trust a genie, especially if it’s angry about having been kept as a slave in a bottle.

Some news: I am currently working on a novella about psychological manipulation, and also am unearthing a couple of novels, one partially written. I may have mentioned Diamond and Cloak before. I’m replotting Diamond to add in some scenes analogous to what happened to me in Vancouver in the late 1990s (these are difficult scenes to write, since they involve rape by powerful people and being trafficked by someone I trusted, a woman I am calling Evelyn), and to fix a few plot holes. Diamond, in case I didn’t already mention it, is the story of how an abused woman survives and then thrives with the help of both human allies and goddess figures.

Cloak is much different: a fantasy spy novel about the fall of a corrupt White House administration. I’m actually watching current news with great interest, as this will inform the ending of Cloak.

Both of these stories are fantasy, but draw from events in my life.


Everything was at stake.

The voice on the phone spoke with a Russian accent. The man from the hotel listened.

“I can help you,” the voice said. “I can make all your problems go away. But I need you to do something for me.”

“What’s that? I’ll do anything.”

“I need you to carry out… a particular task. We will tell you what to do when the time comes.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

There was a pause.

“I am in touch with Vlad,” is all the Russian voice said.

There was another pause.

“Will you do this for us?”

“I don’t know… I don’t know.”

“There is a lot at stake. We can help you. We can make it all go away. But you need to do what we say.”

“All right. All right, I’ll do it.”

A smile.

“Good, good. Now, just so you know, what we ask, it is not so good for the United States. Good for you, yes, but not so good for America. Are you still going to do what we tell you?”

A pause.

“Well? Yes or no.”

“I’ll have to call you back.”

Some time later, there was a return call.

“Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”

“We will be in touch.”

I smiled grimly. I didn’t know why the man in the hotel had me on the line- perhaps because he thought I could help him, as I have helped so many others. I closed my eyes.

Evelyn knocked on the door. At the time, I did not recognize her. She spoke to me and I could feel my memories slipping away, as they always did after she manipulated me.

I may not be able to recount exactly what passed between the man in the hotel and I. My memory is terrible and has been manipulated extensively.

However, there are tapes. There are tapes of all of it, tapes of this and all the other conversations. It is only a matter of time before they are released. There is also another witness, who will be revealed in due time.

Tick, tock.

The Smartest Woman in the World

“You think you’re smart? I’m smarter than you. I own you.”

I looked at the cell phone in my hand. Who was this? For years I had endured strange calls. The ones from this voice were abusive. I was told I was making a lot of money for someone, that I was stupid, that my ideas were worthless, that they owned me, that I was their slave.

At the time, this was almost true.

I also shared phone calls with persons unknown about projects they were working on. Books, films, TV shows, personal problems that the anonymous people I could never identify wanted help with. I never heard back from any of them and I was never paid for any of the advice I gave- rather, I was never paid. I am sure that the anonymous abuser of mine, the woman I later identified as Evelyn, and her co-conspirators profited handsomely. I continued working quietly as a scientist, making very little in my academic job, wondering who was calling.

I was stalked, I was harassed and asked for my opinion of celebrities I was not familiar with, I was threatened, and I noticed problems with my paper mail, my voicemails, my emails, my social media messages, even my ability to access certain websites on the internet. I literally could not see some billboards or posters, or news articles. I literally could not hear some voices. I was being manipulated and abused in so many ways, and stolen from, mind-raped with brutal and abusive stage hypnosis, completely. This, after years of half-remembered actual rapes which stopped once I showed enough physical strength to defend myself, and enough presence of mind to be able to report some attacks. To this day I am not 100% certain all of them occurred, though I do know that I have endured real rapes which have given me traumatic nightmares, and I have figured out that some or all of these were arranged by Evelyn. She sold me to the man in the hotel in Vancouver, she sold me to random strangers invading my home, she manipulated my mind and what information I received so I never could identify her, and she stole, or tried to steal, almost everything I owned which had any value to me.

It has taken me about three years to finally remember her, to put her name to the face from my memories, to figure out how she manipulated, not just me, but her famous TV husband and everyone around us. And that was only because I became curious about his career, looked up his body of work, looked up his image- and there she was, next to him. I remembered her Tasering me. I remember her holding a brick and walking down some stairs after a man who said he wanted to help me, and I remember seeing that man in a pool of blood, face down, and asking passersby to call police (I had no cell phone then). I remembered her confessing to crimes, knowing I would not be able to remember, because that’s how I had been programmed. I remembered her coming up to me in public and asking me to pose for photos with her, which later became “evidence” of a friendly relationship.

Her stage hypnosis tricks were effective on me and I had no way to tell who she was, so much of the time, which allowed her to gain access to my keys, my homes, my workplaces, my computers, my phones, my mail… my entire life. She destroyed so many relationships of mine by pretending to be other people.

I see it now, I see her greatest work, which has been the attempted ruin of my life. I see her attempt to humiliate me by forcing me to talk about subjects I was unfamiliar with (TV, film, acting) with experts in the field, and to market me as “The Smartest Woman In The World”. It was her initial hope that people would seek me out and she could prove how ignorant I was of the profession she marketed me as an “expert” in. When I proved to actually have useful advice, she claimed credit, stole money or influence that should have been mine, and abused me.

I stopped responding to the anonymous calls and threats. I tried to warn people who called me that I was being abused and that the woman who had set me up for it was not to be trusted. Too often, I would hear her talk to me and then lie, skewing what I said, and years later I would see projects come out and flop, and I knew that if my actual advice had been followed, they would have had a better chance. I do not know if anyone heard me, any of the times I attempted warning.

I don’t know what happened to this image, this puppet, “The Smartest Woman In The World”, but I want you to know that I am the woman who used to be asleep- answering the phone, speaking, but asleep- behind her.

I am awake now.

The man from the hotel phoned me up more recently and asked to speak to “The Woman”. I reminded him about Vancouver, the attack I endured there when Evelyn trafficked me. He said I was “a very passionate young lady.” I did not need to know who he was to know he was a terrible man.

I see him. And I see you now, too, Evelyn.

Tick, tock.

Sneak peek at Anagama

Dear readers, I’m 99% of the way finished with Anagama– just one last pass, and then I can feel secure in it, and start the process of finding an agent to represent it. I have thought about self-publishing and if finding an agent proves to be impossible, I’ll go that route. I already have a few short stories on Smashwords (here, at bottom of page), some of which I am very fond of, that are self-published, as well as a novel (here). The main reason I don’t want to go this route again is that I am not fond of marketing my work and no one will see it unless I do, or unless I hand that off to someone else (the publisher, for the most part, though I know if I do get a contract I will have to promote my book as best as I can).

Here is a sneak peek at the first chapter. If you like it, send me a note at cloaked.diamond@gmail.com.

Chapter One

She ducked out of her lab for a moment to take a sip of coffee from her travel mug, since food and drink were forbidden inside the lab. In order to do this she had to first take off her protective gloves, safety glasses, mask, and lab coat. Under all the protective gear she was just another middle-aged woman, long dark hair streaked with silver and twisted up into a bun, slightly overweight and soft from spending long hours sitting in front of a computer or laminar flow hood.

Two armed, helmeted figures in black security gear rounded a corner at the end of the hall, one on each end of a white stretcher. A slender figure lay trussed up on the stretcher, barely conscious, moaning. She noticed blood on his—his? It was difficult to tell, but the lines of his ashen face she thought the figure might be male—temple, under short dark hair, more blood coming from the neck. The towels put on his neck to stop the bleeding were soaked in blood.  The rest of him was hidden under cords and a pale blue sheet.  From his bare shoulders, she surmised he was naked—perhaps stolen from bed.

The stretcher moved past and Beatrice, standing in the hall with her coffee, pretended not to be interested in the figure on the stretcher.

She closed her eyes and pushed.

Are you there? She asked, silently, listening intently as the guards and the figure moved down the hall. Can you hear me? Think your name.

I’m cold, was all she heard, indistinctly; she took a sip of coffee, and then—


Beatrice started and nearly dropped her coffee; she slammed her mental gates shut just as a loud, screeching wail emanated from down the hall, in the direction the guards had taken.


There was a crash, sounds of a scuffle, wordless cries, and finally, a thud.

Beatrice set her coffee down on the small table by the lab door that was situated there just for that purpose. Her hands shook slightly.


She turned, saw her supervisor. He wore suit pants, a pressed shirt, a black and white tie which, when examined closely, was a repeating tiled pattern of the Zurvan Corporation’s black octopus logo. Beatrice had looked closely at it hundreds of times.

“How’s the run doing? Specimen 5-15?”

Beatrice blinked.

“The run will be ready in one hour,” she lied. The run would be ready in fifteen minutes. However, her customized script which she had set to alter the run statistics would take forty-five minutes. “I can send you statistics after that.”

“Good, good,” Phil Knight said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and jingling some change. He looked toward a wall.

That one may be particularly valuable, she heard him think.

“I don’t need to tell you that the more mutants we uncover, the better it is for Zurvan, and for the stability of your job?”

Beatrice smiled back at him. “The run says what the run says. I don’t alter the data,” she lied, and thought back to the boy they called Specimen 5-15.

She remembered drawing blood specimens from him. His eyes had been bloodshot and he had been able to hear her.  Luckily, he had not given this away.

Where am I? he had asked. Where is my family? What do they want with me?

She had collected his blood into a vial and put a cotton ball on the wound, then a bandage.

They don’t think you’re human, she told him, and his eyes had widened.

Shhh, she said. Don’t react. I will make sure the data shows you are human. They will give you back to your family. But move, after—make sure you move, and make sure no one knows you can heal so quickly. Try to keep it a secret. 

He had simply looked at her. Why are there people locked up here? What did we do?

You didn’t do anything, she said, taking an inordinate amount of time to write the boy’s specimen number on her labels. It’s your DNA. They think you have DNA different enough to make you not-human.

The boy started to cry. Beatrice put down her blood sample vials, reached instinctively toward him to give comfort.

The black barrel of a tranquilizer gun appeared between them.

“What are you doing, Dr. Holloway?” The guard’s voice was female. She still wore her helmet here, inside this room they had caged the boy in, as was regulation.  “You know the rules.”

Beatrice smoothed over a scowl and an angry reply, and instead reached for a box of tissues from her medical kit, handed one to the boy. He took it, did not look at her.

I will make sure they let you go, she said. I promise.

My stomach hurts, the boy said. I’m hungry.

I will make sure they feed you, she said.

“How long has it been since he’s been fed?” she asked.

The guard shrugged.

“He’s young, make sure he gets enough food and rest,” she said. “After all, we don’t know that he isn’t human yet. We could have a lawsuit on our hands. Bad publicity.”

The guard shrugged again. Both of them knew no one who wound up in these cells came from financial wealth able to take on Zurvan Corporation.

The captive boy, sitting on his thinly padded cot, seemed to shrink in on himself, and Beatrice felt him withdraw. 

She bit her lip, then collected her things, and stood, blood sample vial in hand.

“Feed him,” she said, trying to not seem very interested in whether they did or not, and hoped for the best.

She would spend the next few hours preparing the blood sample for sequencing and running it through the sequencer, and the data through her custom scripts—scripts she had quietly set in advance to make the percentage similarity of the boy’s DNA to standard human DNA rise above the cherished 99.5% cutoff. She could do this for the normal-looking mutants they brought in without raising too much suspicion.

Coming back to herself in the hallway, she watched her supervisor’s smooth, handsome face, listened without moving a muscle.

“You’re always in the lab, Bea,” he said, jovially. “Maybe we should hire you an assistant.”

God, woman, you look like shit.

Beatrice smiled.  She hated being called Bea.

“It’s just that I love my job,” she replied. “The workload is not that much. I’d prefer to be the one doing this work, and I like to work alone.”

Suit yourself.

“That’s the spirit,” Knight said. He clapped her on the shoulder.

Does the work of three people, for one salary. Cost too much to replace her, she heard him say to himself. What a chump.

“Keep up the good work,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he sauntered down the hall, no doubt to look at Zurvan’s latest acquisition.

Beatrice ducked her head so the cameras couldn’t see her expression, then ducked back into her laboratory, pulled on her protective gear. It was as much there to protect her equipment and reagents from her own DNA as it was to protect her from harm.

Beatrice thought of her own DNA. Her DNA that was only 99.2% similar to human normal—DNA which, if she hadn’t altered her own sequence data files, would peg her as nonhuman, with the same lack of rights as the poor souls kidnapped and locked up by Zurvan, just down the hall.

She checked that the sequencer was running, checked that her software was encrypting the raw data files as each was written. She checked that the files being uploaded to company cloud storage were the faked ones which would give Specimen 5-15 freedom again. Beatrice hated that she hadn’t asked him his name.  She checked that her own private cache of files on Zurvan was there, and that her scripts were adding to this pile as they were supposed to, without interference.  Every other day she synced this cache with the one on a data cube she kept on her person. Someday, she hoped, the files would be useful in bringing Zurvan to its knees.

Beyond the heavy door to her laboratory, she thought she heard someone screaming again.

Beatrice walked over to the lab computer, set it to play soothing jazz music. She started tidying up her lab bench, moving boxes of pipet tips to one side, closing boxes of microcentrifuge tubes, wiping down the bench surface with 70% ethanol to clean it. She knew it was only a matter of time before blood from this new acquisition wound up on her lab bench—and she would be ready for it, she would be waiting. It meant another evening spent in the laboratory instead of at home, but she didn’t mind.

What was waiting for her at home, anyway? An empty apartment, seeming to echo with the ticking of the grandfather clock she had inherited from her parents; the small comforts of a glass of wine and a book with dinner. But no other living soul, no pets, not even a potted plant. She needed to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. She lived with a packed bag ready to go in her closet, her account information carried with her on data cubes she kept concealed in a keyring, she had her personal cloud storage encrypted.

Her lab computer pinged. She walked over to it.

The new one’s retroviral, the screen read. Give me the run reports on 5-15 tomorrow morning. If the new one makes it through the night, you might have to get ready to sequence once the infection clears. It’s already showing signs of great strength and altered musculature—I think we have a winner here!

Beatrice pursed her lips. There was no way she could save him if he were undergoing genetic change after a retroviral infection. Even if he had been human prior to the infection, afterward he was almost guaranteed, with the bad viruses, to have experienced enough mutation to make him either nonhuman-looking or dead. Or both.

She thought of walking down to Specimen 5-15’s cell and trying to speak to him one more time, but expressing too much interest in the acquisitions would bring too much attention to herself, and might lead to the uncovering of her work. Best to leave him be, and hope someone had fed him, at least.

As for the new specimen, Beatrice felt with a sinking heart that he was doomed—most retroviral infections led to abnormalities that were fatal. It would be fine for Zurvan—they could learn things from the genes that could lead to medical breakthroughs and new therapies—but not so fine for the poor man they had picked up somewhere.

As she stripped off her protective gear on her way out of the lab, she silently pushed toward Specimen 5-15 and the new man they had just brought in, so new he did not yet have a specimen label.

Please be at peace, she thought, pushing out as hard as she could.

Nothing in response.

Beatrice made her way to her locker, collected her coat and purse, made her way out the staff entrance side door. Every doorway she passed through required her to swipe her keycard, white with the black Zurvan logo on it. Every doorway she passed through, getting closer to the outside world, felt like the lifting of a noose from around her neck. She finally drove her small electric car away from the Zurvan parking lot, finally was out of reach of the cameras for good. Her keyring, nestled in her jeans pocket, pressed into her thigh. It was innocuous, featuring cartoon characters popular in the 2000s (a white dog carrying a martini glass, a baby with a football-shaped head).

She drove silently. The news story on the radio was about the Humane Treatment Party, a fringe element with no resources and the best of intentions. They wanted to change the global legislation that made it legal for Zurvan to kidnap and incarcerate humanoids with a less than 99.5% genomic DNA match to human normal, basing this on legislation commonly found on some the outlying planetary colonies. Beatrice actually agreed with them, but did not do a thing to support them in her personal life because she knew if this were discovered, she would be investigated.

Halfway home, she stopped at a red light. She exhaled. The news was now about stock prices. Zurvan stock was up thanks to its invention of a genetic therapy for treating Parkinson’s.  Beatrice remembered hearing gossip about this in the cafeteria—the gene therapy idea had been sparked by a mutation found in a retroviral victim. Someone had died, incarcerated, and Zurvan had turned this into profit.

“Fuckers,” she spat. Then she grinned, toothily.

“One day you will slip up, and I will get you. Fuckers.”

The light turned green, and, smoothing her expression, Beatrice continued her drive home.