Throughout recorded history, dreams have fascinated humankind.  Variations include faithful, full-color renderings of actual events;  ”composites” of persons throughout time who only interact in dreaming; a few remembered actualities which segue into fantastical detailed intricate stories; and nonsensical images which can be attributed to indigestion.  This collection of fictional short stories is a recording of many dreams representing the above scenarios…and more.

Unbelievable!

Etta Mae Sorenson sat on the fence between her two friends that August before they began their senior year in high school. All three were farm girls associated with large, rather poor land holdings and a small village near the US-Canadian border. They had labored all day repairing fences. They were smudged, scratched, and sweat stained. They laughed as Mrs. Sorenson rushed from the house and handed them glasses of homemade lemonade just the way Etta Mae liked it—skimpy on sugar, generous with ice.

As they sipped and brushed flies away, a tractor pulling a spreader moved slowly over an adjacent field. The driver idled the machine and opened the cab door. Its operator, a teenage boy with a battered hat and very large ears, grinned and waved. The girls raised their glasses to him. He nodded, closed his cab door, and once again began his ponderous journey.

“He’s that Jarvinson kid—the brainiac,” remarked Marilyn, the girl on Etta Mae’s right.

“Yeah. He’s on summer break from the University. He skipped several grades and got a humongous scholarship for some kind of science study I’ve never even heard of. He’s barely a year older than us,” continued Jessica on the left.

“Good thing he’s got smarts; he sure ain’t got looks,” chuckled Marilyn.

Etta Mae just gazed at the tractor circulating back and forth.

After her friends had left in their respective battered pickups, Etta Mae watched the tractor finally come to a stop at the equipment shed on her parents farmstead. She observed “that Jarvinson kid” maneuver the spreader in and then carefully detach it. He was getting back into the cab to drive the tractor to the next farm needing work, when she signaled him.

“Got time for lemonade,” she shouted over the tractor noise.

Sigmund (his unhappy given name) Jarvinson reached into the cab and turned off the ignition. As he ambled toward Etta Mae, he said, “Call me Sig. I sure could use a drink. Thanks.”

Mrs. Sorenson, who had been watching with a quiet smile from the kitchen window, was already on her way down the porch steps with a fresh pitcher and another glass.

Sig and Etta Mae chatted on as he finished his drink and she her refill. Later neither remembered even a word from their conversation. From that day forward until Etta Mae’s high school graduation they saw as much as each other as possible, given distance and limited finances. One day after Etta Mae’s matriculation, she and Sig were married at 10am on a Saturday morning and on their way to their student housing apartment near Sig’s University by 4pm. Except for visits home neither spent time outside of urban areas again.

Sig graduated with honors in three years and kept on going until he had several doctorates under his belt. He was sought after by large agrochemical concerns. During his career he contributed greatly to their bottom lines via research and development. As retirement age loomed closer, he became an independent consultant and guest lecturer with commensurate remuneration. Meanwhile, Etta Mae played the stock market….

As soon as they set up housekeeping in that little student apartment, Sig and Etta Mae began planning for children. Alas. No success. Visits to specialists confirmed that Sig’s distance bicycling competitions and tractor sitting as a youngster had rendered him sterile (or so the experts theorized). As they were researching the nuances of adopting, they heard about child advocacy programs. At a faculty cocktail party perhaps?

“What’s that?” mused Etta Mae to Sig.

“We’ll see,” he responded already pulling up details. “Basically, I think there are a lot of kids out there who could use an adult friend and mentor….”

So, the Jarvinsons forsook adoption and became active in working with young people in whatever capacity their needs dictated. They thoroughly enjoyed their “children” and were likewise appreciated. Besides spending a great deal of time with their charges, they campaigned, they contributed, they spoke out. In short, they were tireless in the pursuit of better lives for these youth.

One cold winter’s day as both Sig and Etta Mae were shoveling snow from their sidewalk for what seemed like the twentieth time that year, Sig said, “Enough! Let’s go to Florida.”

Sig cleared his calendar. Etta Mae booked rooms and flights. In two days, they locked the front door during yet another snow fall as a taxi pulled up. A few hours later they were treated to a magnificent sunset when their plane flew over a blue ocean kissing white beaches and a flight attendant announced landing was imminent. Sig and Etta Mae became enthusiastic snowbirds the second they breathed in the warm, subtropical air of their destination.

They purchased a top-of-the-line recreational vehicle that consumed their northern home’s entire side yard. After a few years on the snowbird circuit, they were en route back north when they stopped for dinner. Over still-their-favorite drink, lemonade, they barely took note of the television weather channel running on a corner mounting. However, their conversation stopped abruptly as the newscaster began describing an incoming northern plains cold front with a wicked windchill factor “this late in the spring”.

Etta Mae and Sig looked at each other and laughed. Etta Mae picked up her cell and dialed their realtor contact for a referral to a counterpart in Florida. Then she called the manager of the park they had just left to confirm an RV space. They turned the vehicle around and headed south again. Etta Mae and the Florida realtor spent a good deal of the travel time discussing possibilities via phone. Occasionally, Etta Mae conferred with Sig as he viewed the increasingly lush landscapes behind the wheel.

At the Florida RV park, the realtor, and her sleek laptop loaded with virtual walk-throughs, was waiting for them as Sig hooked up their vehicle. The three of them viewed various properties—so many that Sig was fast losing track and interest.

Once the realtor departed with a promise to begin showing them candidates the next day, Sig sighed and reached out to hold Ella Mae’s hands. “Do you think the two of you can narrow the search to a few places? I’m beat and would like to sleep in. Whenever and wherever you find one or two you like, come get me.”

In less than a week, Etta Mae had found the perfect condo. Since the market was depressed, she realized she could actually pick up two units a healthy distance apart in the same gated community. Sig approved.

Etta Mae was in her element. She made arrangements with the northern realtor to manage the sale of their home there after completing her instructions to place some crockery, a few pieces of heirloom furniture, and their clothing in storage. Then the endless details, phone calls, image and money transfers, and trips here and there occupied Etta Mae full time. (Sig was impressed with their net worth during these transactions. He paid little attention to finances which Etta Mae seemed to manage quite well in their life together. He was amused to discover that on an annualized basis, she was actually making a good deal more than he!)

Less than a month later, the Jarvinsons closed on the condo in which they would live. They traded their behemoth wheels for a snappy little car with great mileage. Etta Mae continued to spend a great deal of effort on the more difficult to sell northern house and the final sale details and tenanting of the rental unit. Sig was getting restless.

Returning from yet another invigorating morning walk while Etta Mae was pouring over her materials online at home, Sig stopped to catch his breath near the community center building. He stepped inside to peruse the bulletin board. A small hand-lettered notice read, “MATH/SCIENCE TUTORS NEEDED (desperately).” Sig tore off one of the little number tags at the bottom and sauntered home.

By 5pm the next day he pulled up the new little car in front of a dingy, unmarked building. “Good thing this vehicle is equipped with GPS. I would’ve had the devil finding this place otherwise,” he mused to himself as he stepped out and turned to activate the locks.

The interior, even murkier than the outside, was permeated with a rank odor–a combination of sweat, mold, and dirty socks. Several ancient computer stations were tethered by tendrils of cords and cables near one wall. Fold-up tables and chairs were set up haphazardly in what usually would serve as a basketball or volleyball court. One table was stacked with worn texts, paper (waste, it turned out, with printing on the face-down side), and stubs of pencils. Sig made a beeline for the texts which he saw were at least 10 years old. “Thank goodness basic principles haven’t changed for centuries!” he thought to himself.

His reverie was interrupted by a soft voice belonging to an elderly man in a shabby suit, stained tie, and copious flyaway white hair. “I’m Dr. Ralph Renosky,” he said as he extended a large, gnarled hand. “Our students will be arriving soon. We seem to have lost our internet connection…so online learning and searches are unavailable.”

Dr. Renosky went on to describe his private, bare-bones efforts to help bring some of the area’s most academically challenged boys up to a level needed to graduate high school. Nevertheless, Sig was unprepared for the rowdy, strangely garbed, highly tattooed, ill-mannered boys who strode in between 5:30pm and 6pm, grabbed hand fulls of paper and promptly began fashioning and tossing crude paper missiles. Although Dr. Renosky had assured Sig they were mostly high school sophomores and juniors, their sizes ranged from that of a small boy barely more than 4-foot tall to a large, black-skinned, muscled youth with dreadlocks approaching 6-foot in height.

“Some of them have been held back numerous times,” whispered Dr. Renosky when he noted the look of puzzlement on Sig’s face.

Sig walked up to a moveable old-fashioned black-board. He grabbed a piece of chalk which scraped like fingernails as he wrote “Algebra”. A collective groan went up and then silence as Sig introduced himself, smiled broadly, and tossed his piece of chalk to the hunk with dreads.

Sig told a story about farming, in which he was obliged to determine a unit price for his tractor work. Slowly and patiently he coached his appointed scribe with help (most of it silly) from the motley class in setting up an equation. Sig was in his element. Although these boys didn’t know a boar from a stoat, they all laughed at the way Sig was able to describe some of the ridiculous conundrums he faced at their age, which could be solved with increasingly difficult algebraic applications. Soon they were volunteering anecdotes of their own and formulating descriptive equations.

On his return from tutoring several months hence, Sig entered his home to dimmed lights, candles, music, and a beaming Etta Mae. “It’s not our anniversary, is it?” Sig said cautiously, pretty sure he’d not forgotten.

“We have a buyer for the house up north,” Etta Mae announced. “We’re flying up this long holiday weekend to sign the papers. I’ve already made the reservations and printed the passes for tomorrow. Tonight we’re celebrating with a real farm dinner: roast beef, baked potatoes, fried okra, creamed corn, and rhubarb pie for dessert.”

The Jarvinsons made the most of the brief trip to their birthplace. They were wined and dined by friends and family. They graciously endured the details of closing on their property there. A group of well-wishers saw them off at the airport with heartfelt promises to visit in Florida.

Sig was quiet on the return trip. When an exuberant Etta Mae inquired he responded that he was dreadfully tired. Later, as a shuttle took them to their parked car, Sig asked Etta Mae to drive home, “I’m just too exhausted to concentrate properly.”

As Etta Mae chattered and unpacked, Sig said he would rest a bit in his favorite large leather easy chair. Less than an hour later Etta Mae her him cry out her name. She rushed downstairs. She was puzzled when she saw him snoozing peacefully. Then, the hairs on her neck pricked up. She bent down over her husband of nearly a half century. His body was cooling; he had no pulse. Although she called the paramedics, she knew all hope was gone. They confirmed that Dr. Sigmund Michael Jarvinson had died of a massive heart attack.

Etta Mae numbly fulfilled the myriad tasks of a death. Inside she felt as if she was dead also.

Shortly after the hubbub died down, and the desperate cold of loneliness had set in in earnest, Etta Mae noticed an incoming call with an identification of Ralph Renosky.(She’d turned down the ring volume.)  She vaguely remembered him from Sig’s memorial service. Dr. Renosky said his tutoring program was not going smoothly without Sig’s work. In fact, he said it had come to a complete standstill. Could Etta Mae fill in temporarily?

After Etta Mae had “thought about it” for less than 15 minutes, she called Dr. Renosky. “My arithmetic is not Sig’s,” she began. “But I sure know my numbers. If I do say so myself, I’m a whiz in financials. Maybe we could start with basics of personal money management, or, stated differently…,” she chuckled, “how to stay about water and maybe even prosper!”

After only a few tutoring sessions, Etta Mae was as popular as her husband had been, but in a different way. The student-formed mock companies and investment strategies began to continuously look good on paper. Soon, her class had pooled members’ paltry monies into a group fund to play for real. Even with the usual setbacks, students were beginning to become more sophisticated and more successful.

Then the boon fell. Dr. Renosky pulled Etta Mae aside one evening after the last entrepreneur-in-the-making departed. “I’ve been canned,” he exclaimed sadly. “You’re to blame. We’ve been noticed; we’re hot,” he continued.

“So,” Etta Mae asked, “Isn’t this a good thing?”

Dr. Renosky shook his head. “They’ve decided to fund us from some government coffer. They hired a program director, one Linda Asher. She’s full of modern, progressive ideas and theories. And, she’s convinced the new, politically correct Board that there’s no room for the likes of me. She can’t get rid of you because you’re not only a volunteer but your work put us on the map. Trust me, though, she’s out to shut you down.”

“But why?” protested Etta Mae.

“Our advanced age. We’re too old to be cool,” he replied.

The new regime was evident at the next session. The place gleamed: cleaned, waxed, bright overhead fixtures, shiny new work stations, and a plethora of whiz-bang electronics. Unfortunately no sooner than Etta Mae plugged in the pencil sharpener she carried with her, the building and the newfangled gizmos went down. As she and the class investigated, they saw that the electrical system that barely functioned previously had been upgraded not a whit. The new look was all show. They unplugged all but the pencil sharpener and flipped the breaker.

An incident such as this one proved delightful news fodder. The class met in their high school communications lab to make a hilarious reenactment video that became very popular on YouTube and was picked up by national media.

Linda Asher was understandably furious.  She met Etta Mae and the students as they straggled in for the next session. Hovering around 50, her mannerisms, clothing, and voice mimicked a 30-something woman. Her flirtatious winks at the boys contrasted with home-dyed hair whose roots needed retouching. She droned on and on with need to “realize one’s potential” and “contribute positively to society”. A paraphrase would be, “Get with my program, no ifs, ands, or buts.”  But her wrath was undisguised.

After tediously repeating her words for nearly an hour, Ms. Asher sashayed mincingly from the room. Etta Mae addressed her students, “Please present your investment reports,” which they did without their usual enthusiasm. But instead of filing out after the abbreviated session, the group huddled together for a quarter of an hour.

The powerfully built young man with the hair who her husband had only noted as “dreads”, Josiah T. Johnson, “JT”,  came up to Etta Mae as their spokesman. “We have a plan—another video,” he said smiling broadly.

“Oh, no,” Etta Mae responded, “I have a suspicion we’ll be in even more trouble. But—I’m sure it will be good!”

“It will be superior,” enthused JT, patting Etta Mae reassuringly on her shoulder.

Etta Mae sprang into the air. “Son of a bitch!” she screamed in a surprising low register.

JT, on the other hand, had covered his face and moaned, “It just can’t be!”

They gazed at one another. The impossible, the unbelievable–they’d switched persona!

Etta Mae’s hand quickly touched JT’s arm. When she spoke, it was in her normal voice. JT just laughed—loudly and a little nervously—now that he was himself again.

As they strode from the study area to join the others ahead, JT looked at Etta Mae, “Do you know what we can do with this? The possibilities are fantastic!”

She smiled, “I’ll be thinking a great deal between now and when we next meet. Let’s talk on a day before class.” She suggested the next Tuesday, and JT agreed with a place and time.

Linda Asher came to observe the next class, often interrupting with demeaning remarks directed towards Etta Mae. As the class broke up, Asher confronted Ella Mae well within the class’s hearing. “Your tutoring is unacceptable. Please don’t bother to come back.” She then turned to the class and spoke sharply, “I’ll have a new tutor for your next session. Be prompt. None of the loitering and talking I’ve observed!”

The ensuing students’ parody video of Linda Asher was on par with any commercial comedic production–thanks in no small measure to when JT was Etta Mae. It went instantly viral. Naturally none of the class returned to the tutoring center, ever. The tutoring effort evolved into programs on self-esteem and anti-bullying skill development. Asher applied for and won a much larger grant under these parameters.

For nearly three months, JT and Etta Mae continued to switch personalities for fun and profit. Then, JT was unexpectedly killed in a “gang-related shooting”.

At the boisterous funeral, members of the original tutored class carried JT’s ornate casket. Etta Mae followed slowly. Only a straggler from the group heard the unmistakable voice of JT coming from the little old lady who could only be Mrs. Etta Mae Jarvinson, “Son of a bitch!”

Prepare to depart this life.

NURSE KEEPS ON KIILLING; NIGHT SHIFT NIGHTMARE; HEALTH WORKER SERIAL KILLER FINALLY CAUGHT; DEATH IN THE NIGHT FOR OLDSTERS ENDS. These were only some of the headlines resulting from the discovery that health worker Joshua Watkins was responsible for not only the murder of Myrna Goldstein but for as many as 40 or more deaths of elderly women–including his own mother–in nursing homes, assisted care, and hospices over 20 years. He typically worked night or late evening/early morning split shifts—mostly without direct supervision.

Joshua Watkins was an unremarkable only child. The son of a clerical worker and long-haul truck driver, his polite, quiet demeanor blended in anywhere. Neither his classmates nor teachers remembered him when queried years later. Neither did neighbors, shopkeepers, nor other community members recall any details as he grew to manhood. “Josh”—as he first signed his name—was a nonentity, a cipher.

From his earliest recollections revealed to Dr. Glen Haverstein, the examining psychologist attached to the arrest team, Mrs. Watkins ignored her son. She kept him neatly clothed, prepared his meals, provided lunch money and a nominal allowance, kept his room tidied. She expected good grades and no back talk. (In practice, Mrs. Watkins preferred no conversation of any type in their spotless domicile, except when his father was present for short stops between long-distance runs. Then she devoted all her attention to her husband, which segued into acrimonious arguments increasing in volume as drinking escalated.)

Josh recalls Sam Watkins as a heavyset man whose powerful presence filled the small house in those earlier days. He bellowed, he gesticulated, and he was mean and sarcastic, turning more and more physically violent with time and quantity of booze.

The same neighbors who remember naught of son Josh, recalled his parents’ royal all-out loud altercations at the Watkins’ house when Sam was in his cups. The ferocity Sam showed to police when an “interfering” neighbor called the cops, put an end to both 911 calls and visits from law enforcement as everyone feared him. Mrs. Watkins often needed a few sick days off from work after her husband’s homecomings, being unable to leave her bed due to injuries. Sam was careful none were visible when she was dressed in her work clothes.

By the time Josh was a teenager, his father’s visits home became increasingly infrequent and brief. As he began his sophomore year in high school, they ceased altogether. Life for him and his mother continued much as it always had. They existed as virtual strangers. Then, shortly before his graduation as an average student, his mother announced that she’d been fired as he was leaving for school.

“I refused to learn that damn computer stuff,” she huffed. She sat down in the recliner and punched the  remote to watch television. That’s where Josh found her when he returned home. But she had nothing more to say. She had suffered a stroke which rendered her speechless (not a big change really). Within the hour, Josh had installed her at a long-term care facility.

When he returned home, he stared with horror at the paperwork. “This will bankrupt me,” he thought in panic. As far as he knew, she had no money of her own—her company offered no retirement plan.

He immediately procured a late shift janitorial job at his mother’s facility and enrolled in a two-year practical nursing program at a local career school. His mother continued to live on with mechanical assistance as Josh completed his studies. Upon graduation, he successfully obtained a promotion to night health assistant at the same establishment. He was usually the only person on the floor, as most inmates were druggedly asleep.

Although outwardly calm as he made his rounds, his anxiety increased as his subsistence balance sheet begin to shift dangerously to red. Before he had mildly resented his mother’s neglect. Now, a burning rage began to build inside him. “She owes me more than a life of want and drudgery!” he thought angrily.

On his last room check during the final early-morning hours of his shift one day, he arrived at his mother’s bedside. He gazed at her lying there with the sounds of equipment mingled with labored breathing. Suddenly, he saw red and yellow mist swirling before his eyes. He was so overcome he could hardly breathe. Wrath coursed through his entire being like a blast from a furnace. Without conscious thought he donned disposable gloves and detached his mother’s life support systems. When the monitors began to fall to flat lines, he disabled the alarms until he was sure she was gone. Then he reconnected the systems and stuffed the gloves in his pocket. He provided a brief “no-changes” turnover to the incoming crew; donned his coat; and, as he crossed the street to catch the bus home, he took the gloves from his work pants’ pocket and tossed them into the curb-side trash container.

He took a deep breath as he alighted from his bus. He was uncontrollably filled with mirth. He actually laughed as he bounded up the steps of what was now “his” home. The phone was already ringing as his unlocked the front door. He could hardly contain his glee, much less sound shocked, when the caller relayed the sad news of his mother’s death. His euphoria ended abruptly as he collected documents from various drawers and files. He could find no will. Worse, the deed to the home was in his long-absent father’s name. He found one small checking account in only his mother’s name. Later that morning when most people were well into their work day and he should have been sleeping, he researched the legal ramifications of his situation. He soon realized he’d need an estate lawyer—which meant funds he could ill afford. He sighed, called in a request for time off due to the death, and went to bed.

His sleep was restless, but not due to any guilt. He was working on a plan.

The next day he requested an interview with his boss. His story was that continuing to work there was too painful with his mother now gone. How could he do his rounds and not see her there? He asked her advice on other employment possibilities. Not only did she agree to provide a glowing recommendation, but she called a nearby hospice as he sat in her office. She disconnected and turned to him smiling, “You’re as good as hired to work the night shift if you like the arrangements after you visit there. Can you interview now?”

A night later, Josh was doing his rounds at the hospice for more money and better benefits. He’d already come to an agreement with an attorney, who would be working his mother’s estate on a pay-for-service basis.

Josh worked and thought, “I should be relieved. I don’t have the drain of either school expenses or my mother’s care. Once I pay off the lawyer and sell the house, I’ll be in great shape.”

But he could not recapture the brief moment of elation he’d felt when he’d killed the old biddy. The color of his angry was intoxicating as well. He knew he’d have to kill again. This time, he decided, he’d try a different method, perhaps an insulin overdose? He settled in to research techniques that would raise no suspicions.

Josh’s lawyer was surprisingly efficient. He discovered that Josh’s father had died shortly after his last visit home—a good enough reason for his absence! With filings, and signings, and notarizations, and no end of new, impressive documents, Josh finally assumed his inheritance. It took some time to sell the house, but his plucky real estate agent (recommended by his sprightly estate lawyer), finally found buyers who pretty much purchased the property as is.

While these professionals were processing Josh’s meager holdings, he was enjoying the planning of the next kill. He targeted a homely, querulous old woman. Her medications inspired him to go with a nearly undetectable overdose. This time, he leaned over her and looked into her frightened wide eyes. He spoke softly telling her what an abomination she was and how he loathed her. He explained what he had done as he watched death steal her away.

As he quietly left her room and signed out, he experienced a warm, happy glow. He felt bathed in light. He wanted to dance and sing. He guffawed raucously as he settled down to enjoy his take out once he returned to what would be someone else’s home after closing scheduled a week hence. He saw a future full of possibilities with money in his pocket and free to go anywhere.

Which was exactly as life was for Josh for the next twenty years. He moved around the country, always working the undesirable night or split shifts. Although he found he needed to kill more frequently, his victims’ deaths were never wholly unexpected. Josh remained as unnoticeable as a killer as he had before he began his murder spree.

In his early 40′s now, Josh decided to began using his full name of Joshua. Although he was still nondescript in appearance, he was relatively handsome compared to most of his male contemporaries who were losing hair and gaining pounds and wrinkles through worry. Even though he saw very little of anyone, female staff and co-workers started noticing.  A single, pleasant, polite, fully-employed male was high on the eligibility list of women looking for marriageable partners.

Joshua was coming down from his latest murder high and realizing the need to find new employment. With his usual combination of good references and the glaring need for his skills in undesirable shifts, he stepped up to the nursing station to introduce himself the first evening of a new job in a new city. Dora Johnson looked up at him and smiled. (She’d been reading his personnel file online; her buddy in Human Resource had passed it on clandestinely.) Dora liked what she saw. She was particularly impressed with his continuing studies resulting in various certifications—particularly in the area of pharmacology. She decided to catch this one!

Joshua turned out to be more of a challenge than the fetching Dora had anticipated. He politely and adroitly sidestepped her overtures. “I’m sure the cafeteria special is delicious if you say so,” he would say, “but I’ve packed my own lunch—special diet, you know.” Or, “Fresh coffee sounds enticing, but if I have any more this shift I won’t be able to catch sleep afterwards.”

After several unsuccessful weeks, Dora discovered an effective approach. Joshua enjoyed discussing medicines, drugs, paraphernalia—any element of care devoted to their patients. She would often offer an interesting medical news tidbit when they set up for the long night shift. They’d chat at her station over herbal tea about various case histories. Dora arranged to run into him at the end of shift so they could discuss additional health topics as they departed the buildings. The more they talked, the more she was sure this was a man worth ensnaring.

One spring early morning as they checked out, Dora suggested an eclectic cafe serving breakfast omelets. She grabbed his arm. He chuckled as he strode reluctantly with her to the eatery. Dora soon steered conversation from medical advances to leisure time. Though Joshua had always been adept at blending into the scenery, he was less capable of dealing with a manipulative—and very attractive—woman. Dora did not press her advantage. She’d wait until the last working hour before their scheduled weekly off-time. Then she’d attack with free-time suggestions. Joshua breathed a sigh of relief as he turned the key into his apartment and settled in for some rest. He was only slightly disturbed by how much he’d actually enjoyed the hour breakfasting with Dora.

Later he was unable to resist her recommendation to visit a museum display of medical instruments/practices through the ages. They were both intrigued by the living leeches housed there. Both knew that what was considered byzantine practice decades ago was being employed again. Ditto for old and new uses of the active maggots exhibit from which Joshua could hardly tear himself. They stopped at a little bistro for a snack; then parted at the car park where they’d arrived separately. Dora blew Joshua a kiss as she pulled out in her little candy-apple red sports convertible. He smiled and waved in return from his conservative four-door American-made coupe.

While Dora was pursuing the cagey Joshua, he had been carefully researching his next victim. The beginnings of the familiar rage along with an anticipation of boundless joy were building. He’d settled on a 75-year-old diabetic widow named Myra Goldstein, no listed relatives, who had uttered nary a word since he’d first laid eyes on her. Nevertheless, he hated her on sight—she looked and smelled more like his mother every day as he made his daily rounds. Or, maybe, he was just beginning to see her as the instrument for obtaining the euphoria he experienced after every kill.

He also realized he was enjoying Dora’s conversation and company—particularly discussions around drugs and their properties. On her part, Dora was shocked by Joshua’s sheltered, narrow life to date. On a recent shared breakfast, she mentioned her love of opera and musicals to Joshua’s blank stare. “A production of Carmen is coming to town,” she announced enthusiastically. “It’s so popular…but, if you’re interested, I’ll try to get tickets.”

Joshua found himself thinking about how he might enjoy an evening outing with Dora. In fact, he noted clinically that his feelings were a little like those he experienced after a successful snuff. He nodded yes with an expression as close to a smile as possible on his emotionless face.

A week later, his plan was firm; he was bursting to act. Near the end of the last day of his shift he donned the ubiquitous latex gloves and stealthily filled a syringe with the appropriate, not likely to be detected, substance for Mrs. Goldstein’s demise. As he approached the nearly comatose old woman, he settled in to his soft litany of hate and disgust. He began to disconnect a tube just enough to insert his deadly cocktail.

About this same time, Dora, at her computer clapped her hands happily, “Got ‘em. Tickets to Carmen next week!”

She grabbed the printed confirmation copy almost before it left her machine and walked swiftly and silently on her crepe-soled shoes to tell Joshua. She could hear him speaking softly to Mrs. Goldstein. She quietly pushed open the door a crack—then stopped. She was aghast. She couldn’t believe either her eyes or her ears. “This can’t be happening,” she thought to herself.

Quickly she rushed to the drug cabinet, noting a nearly empty container of what had been a full bottle yesterday of one of Mrs. Goldstein’s more potent prescriptions. She returned to her desk with tears streaming down her face. She called security, then 911.

Portrait of a rapist?

Kyra Lindstrom worked the breakfast shift in a truck stop outside the small town. The town began as an agricultural crossroads: a railroad track, silos, a feed and machinery store. Now, since a branch of the state’s university system had located there, the town was growing rapidly by encouraging establishments catering to the academic population, including bars, fast food, and book/electronics stores.

Besides being ready to open at 5am, Kyra’s shift included setup for the luncheon crowd. As she was cleaning the tables in preparation for this final duty, Megan, one of the luncheon waitresses, ran in—breathless.

“Please, pretty please, Kyra, can you take my luncheon shift? I’ve just met this dreamy guy who’s invited me for a day on the river. Oh, just say ‘YES’!” pleaded Megan.

Kyra sighed. She had a evening class and had scheduled the afternoon for study. On the other hand, she surely needed the paltry wages and accompanying meager tips. As she nodded her head in the affirmative, Megan hugged her and dashed back out of the cafe, its bells clanging behind her.

So it was that Kyra met Daniel. He came with three other workman who were discussing their exterior painting job as Kyra approached with luncheon menus and a coffee pot.

Daniel’s two companions flirted shamelessly. “We’re painters. Want to paint the town with us? Ha! Ha!” one chortled.

“Yeah. Come stir up some action with me,” leered the other.

Kyra took their orders with a fixed smile on her face. When she returned with their meals also placing the cheque in the booth top’s center, she was subjected to more of the same, now with the promise of a big tip included. Still, Daniel said nothing. He stared morosely at the wilted lettuce as he lifted the decidedly dry white-bread top of his sad chicken sandwich.

When they left, Kyra unhappily noted that not only had they left a mess of spilled condiments on the table, but there was no tip of any denomination.

However, near the end of the next day’s breakfast shift Kyra was surprised to see Daniel, dressed neatly in what she thought of as preppy attire. He smiled as he slipped into a cleaned booth. “I know it’s too early for lunch, but am I too late for breakfast? Cereal is fine. No need to antagonize the cook.”

Kyra took his order, quickly returned with his food, and hurried to complete her now delayed setup work.

“Can I take you for a ride to Moser’s Ridge?” he asked as she whisked by him. “I know you’re off when you’re finished getting ready for the luncheon crowd. He winked, “I know Megan. We go way back.”

Kyra had been in the town less than six months. She’d run through what savings she had just locating a basement apartment (shared bath) and paying the deposit and first month’s rent. Then, finding any kind of work took another month in a town where college students grabbed the low-end jobs as soon as they became available.

She had been already late with her next month’s rent when she saw the owner affixing the “Help Wanted” sign to the window of the trucker’s restaurant as she drove by. She made a “U” turn and walked out with a promise to show at 4:30am for the breakfast shift.

Now she hesitated. She didn’t really know this young man. Even if he said he knew her coworker, Megan, Kyra was barely acquainted with her. All she really knew was that Megan seemed to build her life around the many lively parties she organized and/or attended nightly.

Still, Kyra was young and lonely. Like her, her co-students in night classes usually worked full-time and then some. Most were married with children and had no inclination to socialize as they hurried home. So, she smiled as Daniel glanced at her again before leaving after he’d paid his bill.

“Sure, I’d love to see Moser’s Ridge. I’m new here, so I’ve not seen the sights. Can I meet you somewhere after I change.” she said to Daniel.

“No need to change,” he replied. “Just hop in. My car’s right there at the curb.”

As they pulled out and began traveling, Kyra exclaimed, “But, we’re heading toward the married students apartment complex. I’m pretty sure Moser’s Ridge is at the other end of town.”

“I just need to make a quick stop.” he said as he pulled into a parking spot in front of one of the apartments. “Come on in. I want to show you my baby girl.”

Before Kyra could open her door and make a quick getaway, Daniel had opened it for her with one hand and gripped her shoulder with the other. “We’ll see Moser’s Ridge all right. I just need to make sure my little girl’s okay. I’m really supposed to be watching her, you see,” he said.

Up several flights of stairs (because the elevator was too “wonky” according to Daniel) and down a hall, he inserted his key and there, in the middle of the small living room of the studio was a crib. Sound asleep in its center was a dark haired, little child.

Before Kyra could utter a sound, Daniel had whipped her around towards the outside corridor. He reached up for something from a shelf in the nearby kitchen alcove and quietly shut and locked the door.

“To Moser’s Ridge,” he laughed as he raced down the steps pushing Kyra ahead of him. Once again, she had no opportunity for escape. He shoved her into the passenger seat. He bounded across her into the driver’s seat closing her door as he clamored over her, then locking all doors from the driver control panel.

Before Kyra could protest, she was slammed back into her seat as the car accelerated and peeled out of the lot. Although it was nippy, Daniel rolled down his window and whistled gaily as they headed out of town.

Heavy clouds had begun to roll in; the sky darkened. Daniel continued to race the car. Suddenly, he skidded as he made a sharp right turn onto a steep dirt road. Up and up they bounced, Kyra trying unsuccessfully to secure her seat belt.

“Doesn’t work,” muttered Daniel who then resumed whistling.

He came to a shuddering stop at the very edge of the nearly barren ridge. Only a windswept cedar broke the flat landscape of the mesa-like top.

That’s when it happened. He turned to Kyra and flashed the large kitchen knife he’d grabbed as they were leaving the apartment.

“I will cut your face with pleasure,” he said looking sternly at her. “Now get into that back seat and take off your clothes.”

“But, there’s a child’s seat there,” cried Kyra trying to buy time.

Daniel reached back and yanked the apparently barely secured seat and tossed it at Kyra who was forced to jump into the back to avoid being struck by it.

Soon, Daniel was on top of her pressing the knife to her throat. “Don’t fret, you whore. I won’t kill you. I’ll just hurt you so bad you’ll wish I had!”

Kyra remembered the advice she’d been given. “Don’t struggle. Just let them have their way. You can’t win.”

Despondently, she realized that even if she made it through this ordeal, she had little recourse. After all, she’d accepted the ride willingly. No one was likely to believe she hadn’t just wanted a little rough sex that kinda got out of hand. In fact, she could anticipate the sneers and disparaging remarks of anyone to whom she might report the rape.

She finally arrived at a bizarre idea.

“I just started my period (true),” she sobbed. “I’m a really heavy bleeder. I’ve already inserted two tampons. If you look, you’ll discover I’m already leaking onto your car seat. If you rape me, you’ll have a really big mess, not only in this car, but on parts of you that will be difficult to explain to your wife.”

“You damn bitch!” Daniel screamed. He pushed open the door next to Kyra’s head, grabbed her legs, dumped her over on the ground, tossed her clothes and coat on top of her, then jumped into the driver’s seat and roared off.

Though still early, the dense cloud cover made it nearly dark as she began walking down from the ridge. The rain started slowly. A few hours later it was coming down in sheets as a soaked Kyra finally limped to her apartment door. She changed into dry clothing, leaving her wet clothes in the middle of the floor. She stuffed her few remaining belongings into a large garbage sack and stowed them into the trunk of her car. She looked at the time on her cell which she’d inadvertently left on the counter before hurrying to work at what seemed like a lifetime ago. Even though it was pitch black outside now, it was just after 5:30pm. The cafe would be buzzing with the dinner trade in an hour or so.

Kyra pinned a note to the door of her apartment, saying she was leaving and would mail the key. She pulled into the truck stop eatery’s parking lot on the way out of town. As she had hoped, Megan was smoking a cigarette in the shadows near the dumpsters having just completed the dinner setup which was the back end of her luncheon waitress shift.

“Megan,” she gasped. “I’m heading out. Please give this note to Bill, the manager, so he isn’t relying on me to open up tomorrow.”

“Hey, Kyra, what’s the deal?” Myra responded—to space. Kyra was already pulling out onto the freeway.

Kyra drove all night. She gassed up once in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. As the sun began peaking over the distant hills, she noted her tank’s gauge was once again heading towards Empty.

As she pulled into a gas station at an even smaller town that the one she’d left, she noticed a “Help Wanted” sign in the small cafe attached to it. Beneath it, handwritten on flowery stationery, was: “Room for Rent. Private Bath. Across the Street”.

Krya asked the cashier inside about the Help-Wanted and Room-for-Rent placards as she paid for her gas. The pleasant woman behind the register responded, “My husband and I run both this station and the counter there. If you’re interested, we can sign you up as the waitress and introduce you to Mrs. Fletcher of the Room-for-Rent sign. She’s like a mother to everyone…. We open the cafe in an hour.”

The homely little restaurant had three booths and a counter with seven stools. The Kutchins divided the labor. She ran the station; he was the cook and fill-in waiter. They’d just lost their long-time waitress the day before. Her daughter had experienced a difficult childbirth and needed help desperately for care of the house and her other children.

Kyra couldn’t believe her good luck (for a change), as she completed the paperwork.

“I know Susan’s uniform is going to hang on you, but it’ll have to do for today,” said Mrs. Kutchins ruefully as she handed it to Kyra along with an apron. “Now just hang in here for the morning rush, because I know you’re going to crash soon from little sleep (an understatement). Then, I’ll take you to meet Flora across the road. You can rest up until tomorrow. Me and Frank can handle any business after the morning hit.”

Flora’s room-with-bath was grand and the rent very reasonable. Best of all, it also had a separate back entrance. Flora said she was perfectly content to wait until Kyra was paid her first wages. “I know you’re not going anywhere. After all, I can just open the blinds to keep an eye on you working.”

“Now, let’s get you settled in because I can see your eyes are drooping,” Flora continued as she handed Kyra a small contract to sign on the same stationery as the ad’s.

Flora pretended not to notice Kyra’s embarrassment as she hauled in her one garbage bag.

As Kyra turned to go into her new comfortable bedroom anticipating a long, hot shower, her eye caught a portrait of a boy on the mantel she’d failed to notice earlier. Her heart lurched.

“My adorable son,” gurgled the landlady happily.

There, smiling with white teeth in the professional photographer’s pose, was the likeness of Daniel.

The Draco sisters spent some time on Earth before returning to their dragon-like mum.

Doreen and Danielle Draco sat next to each other’s sleek study stations, peering down at geographic images on their slightly slanted digital screens. Doreen glanced at Danielle out of the corner of her eye; then to a red blinking icon on her screen. Immediately Danielle accessed the same image on her station. They focused intently on each other as their index fingers slowly descended onto their respective units. If one were to show their movements in slow motion, one would see that their pudgy little fingers with dirty, broken nails evolved into scaly digits with long, curved claws when they made contact with the screens’ red pulsating dots.

The allegedly 10-year-old Draco sisters—mistaken so often for twins, they declared they were—attended an obscenely expensive, progressive private school. All learning was interactively online. The facilitator (teacher) monitored activity and provided one-on-one instruction to those either stumbling or advancing ahead of the pack.

“Not again!” sighed Harriet Thurgood, a smart-looking mature woman wearing impossibly high heeled pumps. She held multiple doctorates and possessed an impressive curriculum vita. On her facilitator’s network monitor, both Draco girls’ screens had faded to a dull gray signifying offline. She glanced at the sisters. They looked like little statutes akin to the catatonic patients she had seen in her site visits which were part of her clinical psychology certification.

“I must try to speak with their mother again,” she mused to herself. Dr. Thurgood had called Mrs. Draco several times. A pleasant sounding, helpful voice always responded. Meetings had been scheduled. Each time, however, Mrs. Draco was a no show. In exasperation Dr. Thurgood had decided to drive past the address on record. She found herself in a little local park—a green space in an upscale new urban development. Her inquires yielded no information. No one had heard of a Draco family or recognized her description of identical little girls.

Just as Dr. Thurgood began to rise to confront the sisters, two student screen thumbs on her monitor began blinking red, indicating her attention was needed.

When she investigated the blinking icon belonging to James Wilson Clarke, III, she noted he still didn’t get the concept of algebraic equations. That is, the value on either side of the equal sign, though shown differently, must be the same. “I suspect that family has never experienced equality of any kind,” she muttered uncharitably under her breath.

The other problem student was Akisha Morales. She had had no interaction with her system for the default three minutes. She was staring out the window at the school’s manicured grounds, a small, sad smile on her beautiful little face.

“Arrgh!” exclaimed Doreen as she landed awkwardly on a leafless, charred branch. “They’ve clear-cut and burned this forest since we were last here.”

“Shit!” yelled Danielle. The branch upon which she’d alighted broke under her weight and she tumbled down into syrupy mud.

“Watch your mouth,” scolded Doreen primly. “You know how mother gets when we use slang…even if all earthing languages sound like cuss words,” she giggled.

“I’m not kidding,” protested Danielle as she kicked a large porcine creature lolling in the cool slime. “This is a pig pen.”

Her assessment proved correct when a squat bronze human came running brandishing a large machete half his height.

With great effort Danielle rose and alighted on another scarred tree, howbeit on a much sturdier branch just in the nick of time to avoid the swoop of the weapon.

“This sucks,” she commented to Doreen.

“Even more than that ridiculous educational lair,” agreed her sister.

For a split second they gazed into each others’ eyes. Then they disappeared.

[Author's Note: The Draco girls always spoke the language of their hosts when appropriate. Between themselves they reverted to their native tongue, a dialect of Frau-qcsx which sounds like a combination of American crow calls, the staccato cry of a pileated woodpecker, and a coyote-pack's howling. Their conversations here are depicted in English.]

A quick glance round the classroom as they invisibly returned told the sisters they had been absent less than the three-minute alert duration and that most students were still working on basic algebra. They quickly raced through the multiple choice competency quizzes for that subject, scoring the usual 100%, unless they couldn’t quite understand the terminology—a rare occurrence. They were already working on the trigonometry module when Dr. Thurgood stopped by.

She noted that they appeared alert and engaged. With a quick “Good job” a puzzled Dr. Thurgood returned to her monitoring setup at the front of the room. Then, a small, musical tinkling rendition of the opening four notes to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony sounded.

“Three minutes to shut down your systems,” Dr. Thurgood announced to her class. “Then, off to your workouts in the fitness womb.”

“I don’t care what mother Dorcas said,” remarked Danielle in an undertone to Doreen as they clamored from the study area. “Let’s visit her tomorrow during class before we tackle differential equations.”

“She’ll be annoyed,” warned Doreen. Then she smiled, “Yes, let’s see if she has new plans for us. This place is getting old.”

The next day the sisters waited until Dr. Thurgood was once again patiently explaining simple concepts to Master Clarke, III. They pulled up a mostly unearthly image with a blazing hot pink diamond symbol on their respective station screens. They made eye contact and touched the symbol, vanishing into a separate universe.

“Mama, mama!” they cried alighting on boulders in front of a mossy like cavern entrance in a place of startling primary colors, three planetary bodies in the horizon, and a reddish sun-type star on high.

The interior suddenly pulsed the same bright pink as their screen icon as the head of a faceted-scale dragon sniffed at the opening. When Dorcas saw her daughters, her scales lit up like an earth person’s Christmas tree.

“My beautiful ones. What are you doing here!” she said gruffly (but they could see she was delighted).

Doreen began, “That Earth is not a viable candidate for our purposes. All they do is war among themselves while they pollute their own nests.”

Danielle countered, “But their music is fabulous—such variety and verve….”

Suddenly, Dorcas’ eyes glowed a warning green. “Come no closer,” she spat. Then, rising slightly she nosed two eggs underneath her, one silver, one gold. “You’re going to have a brother and sister very soon,” she continued.

As Dorcas’ wrapped her mighty wings in front of her, the girls passed gingerly around them into the enormous dwelling place. Jewels and precious metals winked and gleamed; an entire wall’s face showed a real time view of the multiverse also winking and glowing.

“Tell me more about the earthlings’ noise they call music,” said Dorcas as she had carefully turned inward making sure her eggs remained warm and sacrosanct beneath her.

Doreen enthused about compositions by centuries-dead European males, while Danielle preferred something with a nonsensical nomenclature of “reggaetón”.

Then Doreen laughed, “But, I’m afraid if I heard that beginning measure of their Beethoven’s Fifth one more time, I’d have burned down the place with one fiery breath!”

[Postscript: The lead-person (principal) of the highbrow academy called in Dr. Thurgood on her way to her students the next morning. “Mrs. Draco has removed her daughters from our establishment. However, not only did she heap effusive praise on you, she requested no refund. Moreover, she left a handsome sum for a scholarship directed toward a student who excelled in musical ability, particularly something called 'reggaetón'. How about our  Akisha?”]

Sheila's chupacabra turned out to be her thieving dog.

Sheila Deaning sat on an upturned cinder block in the center of a metal-roofed, concrete-floored shed open on three sides. It was raining hard, a daily occurrence here in the subtropical montañas. An increasingly strong breeze swept rain inside depositing droplets on her bare feet facing the direction of the incoming wind. She used an iron triangle file to sharpen the large machete laying across the knees of her stained and worn camouflage cargo pants. Her grown-out, once stylish, haircut gave her head the appearance of a large sunflower: bright flared edges with a darkening center.

She paused. Her eyes wandered to a canvas cot against the only wall with mosquito net rigging using old PVC pipes. The suspended horizontal pipe arrangement also served as a rod for a few changes of tattered clothing except for a cheap sundress from Pitusa. She focused on an expensive pair of leather, cherry-red loafers underneath the cot. They represented her past as an urbanite in a large, progressive US city.

Behind her, using her body to deflect any possible exposure to moisture sat a very large dog which the upscale Berkeley shelter had called a greyhound-Staffordshire terrier (aka pit bull) cross. Behind the big dog curled a small, longer haired little mutt, the daughter of mutts. Both had accompanied her in the cargo hold of the plane over to the islands for what seemed like decades ago.

“What was I thinking,” she moaned to herself. She stared out at the various vessels collecting water streaming off the roof. “No agua, no luz, no teléfono, y no carro!” (No water, electricity, telephone, wheels. And, obviously no toilet facilities.) Once the roof water appeared clear, she’d begin collecting in a glass 2 liter Dom Q container for drinking water.

Sheila’s gloom was exacerbated by a throbbing headache fueled by the quantity of rum imbibed the evening before. (After all, she needed to empty the Dom Q rum bottle to collect water. Others at the within-hiking-distance neighbor’s impromptu party also contributed ample quantities of alcohol.)

The topic of conversation well into the night centered around the islands’ mystical, evil apparition, the chupacabra [literal translation: goat blood-sucker]. Guests told tales of valuable fighting cocks found dead and dehydrated in their cages; small goats with their stomachs eaten out; even foals dying mysteriously from large hunks bitten from their legs and bodies. Sheila had sneered into her rum. She knew the terrible problem of packs of feral dogs was no doubt to blame.

“But—how could a dog chew the leg off a cock in a wired cage?” objected one speaker to Sheila’s hypothesis.

“There are rats around here bigger than chihuahuas!” Sheila exaggerated only slightly. She knew whereof she spoke. She had seen them shimmying up and down the giant bamboo at night, their eyes reflective in her flashlight (before the batteries died). They could reach up from the bottom, grab a toe, and begin to pull and eat until the leg parts became too wide for the wire mesh. Furthermore, the craftiest predator of them all, the mongoose, had no compunction about attacking newly born critters of any type under any circumstance. (Sheila politely did not mention that the animal housing she’d seen was usually rusted and/or rotted with plenty of opportunity for entry by unsavory vermin.)

The rain was settling down to a steady, soothing drumming on the corrugated roof. Without the sun, night would descend swiftly. Sheila placed the machete atop her bargain rubber, ill fitting work boots purchased along with discount dry dog food from the local Casa Agricola when she last bummed a ride there. She exchanged her costume for well-worn sweats and pulled on long cotton tube stockings which had not been white since her first day at the site. Securing the mosquito netting about her bed, she immediately drifted off to sleep serenaded by the calls of the small coqui  tree frogs. She dreamed intermittently of various manifestations of chupacabras.

The morning’s sun shone bright over the mists rising from the quebrada with its fast running water at the bottom “v” of a large chasm. Sheila planned to endure the arduous descent—and worse ascent back—to stand under a waterfall between large boulders. Both dogs would float in the pool above. Sheila had noted that this habit effectively drowned their resident fleas.

As she suited up, she noticed one of the red shoes was missing from beneath her cot. “I must have drunk more than I thought the other day. Somehow I misplaced it?” she mused, knowing logically that this was not the case.

She forgot about her red shoes until the predawn of the following morning when she was awakened not only by the usual cocks crowing, but another slithering sound not part of the ordinary cacophony. When she peered out of her netting, she was only able to make out vague shapes. One was large and moving up the steep side of the hill. It appeared to have turned down horns and a large, slathering tongue hanging from its mouth. Sheila decided on the best course. Close eyes. Go back to sleep. Not real.

But when she awakened later that morning to the sun’s glow and hopped off her bed, she noticed with alarm that the remaining red shoe had also disappeared. She shivered in the warm, humid subtropical heat as visions of her chupacabra images rose unwittingly before her eyes.

If it wasn’t raining, Sheila was in the habit of climbing to the highest point thereabouts to watch the sun set where a large rock jutted out over the hills and valleys. A few weeks after the disappearance of her shoes, she sat with her faithful canines taking in the breathtaking scene. If one squinted, the silver glow of the Caribbean Sea could be seen separating the terraform from the heavens—all shot through with dazzling light yellow and rosy gold. Her large dog had ambled off into the jungle to investigate and now returned with something in her mouth.

“My red shoe!” exclaimed Sheila. The dog left and returned with its mate. Then she lay down with her head resting on the pair gazing sorrowfully up at her mistress. Sheila gently removed the footwear from under the animal’s powerful jaws. She patted the dog’s head with its slightly folded ears, suspiciously like the turned down horns on the creature climbing the mountain in the gray predawn some weeks ago. Sheila hurled each shoe high over the canopy of tree ferns, towering bamboo clumps, giant climbing vines, and the dreaded, skin-shredding salsa entwined in ancient mango trees.

She looked down at both dogs and murmured, “We ain’t going back, girls—or should I say— chupacabra wannabes. Get used to it.”

Scrambled-brain sandwiches were once a favorite of mine....

My early life was shaped by both poverty and fascination with my father’s professional activities as a large-animal veterinarian. I took a keen interest in the fruits of castrations and autopsies (now called necropsies). This combo of circumstances provided an endless variety of foodstuffs comprised of organ and mystery meats from various domestic, wild, and “wayside” sources.

We were not alone. Our poor rural neighbors had cultivated generations worth of tasty tidbits and heirloom recipes involving these nutritional sources.

For example, the local general-purpose store—selling everything from under-the-counter condoms to hay and feed—also provided a limited luncheon menu. Their specialty was scrambled-brain sandwiches on homemade bread. They always had an ample supply of  this main ingredient–the butcher and locker storage establishment was across the road. Nothing went to waste in our community.

When I accompanied my father on his calls, we always tried to schedule a stop around the noon hour to partake of these ample sandwiches and a chocolate soldier drink from the cooler for me. Delicious.

Fast forward a decade. As a barely-making-it college student I worked full-time and took courses before and after my eight-hour work day. Out of the blue, my parents made a rare (expensive) long-distance phone call to say that they planned a visit to a brother in a town close by. Did I want anything: home-canned goods, frozen meat?

Glancing into my pristinely empty, ancient refrigerator and its freezer compartment, I replied that I’d take anything. Suddenly, a vision of sitting at the counter of that little country store with shafts of sunlight from a back window lighting up the luscious scrambled-brain sandwich on my chipped crockery plate propelled me to request brains in particular.

No problem. No one likes them but you and your father….

So it was that I became the recipient of a feed sack full of  glass jars of produce, topped off  by what I suspect were not the family’s frozen meat favorites: venison, beef neck bones, and a hefty package of brains.

Somehow I was reluctant to fix the brains. The package lay in the farthest corner of my little freezer space gathering ice for nearly six months. Then, one Friday evening before going out to what was billed as a “really wild party”, I checked the refrigerator as I regularly did hoping something yummy would miraculously appear.  As usual, it was bare except for the ice-covered package in the far reaches of the freezer. With the aid of a sturdy wooden spatula, I removed the  frozen brains and placed them on a plate on the counter to thaw, thinking I’d have scrambled brains for breakfast the next day.

Saturday morning’s bright sun on my closed eyelids roused me from my heavy slumbers fueled by a healthy amount of dancing, pool-playing, and booze from the night before.

I staggered into the small kitchen alcove for some instant coffee and spied the package wrapped in white butcher paper sitting on its shallow plate. Blood oozed over the plate’s edges across the counter, dripping methodically onto the cracked linoleum floor.

“I can do this,” I muttered to myself, forgetting about the tasteless coffee.

I placed an iron skillet on the antiquated gas stove and lit the burner with a large kitchen match. I tossed a half stick of butter into the skillet. Then I gingerly opened the package. As I looked at the contents, I realized that (1) I didn’t have the foggiest notion of how to fix scrambled brains, and (2) if I looked at them any longer I was going to vomit.

I ran to the stove and turned down the now smoking skillet. I averted my eyes as I reached down with both hands to grab the brains to toss them into the pan. I was past caring what kind of mess I was making.

Just as I began lifting them from the plate, the gelatinous mass slipped through my fingers onto the edge of the counter, its weight causing it to slowly ooze off the surface and down the drawers onto the floor. I surveyed the scene of blood, brains, and splatter; opened a window; and took a deep breath of frigid fresh air.

I began to scoop  up the mess into a trash bag, as my craving for scrambled brains vanished forever.

Becca's boyfriend Paul urged her to sleuth the jewel heist.

Becca’s fresh 19-year-old face was frowning as she called her boyfriend, “Paul, Daddy’s gone missing!”

Minutes later, a large red-headed young man sporting geeky black-framed glasses and a plaid work shirt burst into the apartment. “What! The world-renown detective cop, Patty O’Donnelly’s gone AWOL?” he boomed.

“Mom called. She was hysterical. Dad was to speak at that national spook convention. (I don’t remember its proper name.) He’d booked a room in the conference hotel. Mom checked them in early and waited. Chilling champagne. Fruit bowl. Negligee I helped her select. He never showed. Now it’s time for his presentation. No one can find him. He left no word with the organizers.”

She had just taken a breath ready to continue when the wall security speaker announced someone at the doors. “John Grimaldi, Seattle Police. May I come in?”

Grimaldi did not look much older than the two seated opposite him. “A man meeting your father description was seen leaving a hotel adjacent to the one housing the Security and Detection Annual Symposia. And—nearly $3 million in jewels, cash, and other small valuables were reported missing from that hotel’s safe about the time of the sighting.”

Grimaldi left shortly thereafter when he discovered O’Donnelly’s daughter and her friend were as in the dark as law enforcement. Soon, media headlines screamed, “Famous Sleuth Patty O’Donnelly Missing along with $3 Million”.

Later that day Mrs. Patrick O’Donnelly was hustled out of the conference hotel via a back entrance and ensconced in the family’s nondescript suburban home, incommunicado, where she soon became a recluse.

For a few weeks after the disappearance of Detective O’Donnelly and the money, Grimaldi and others interviewed Becca, Paul, and Mrs. O’Donnelly mercilessly. However, when neither the man nor the stolen items surfaced, the O’Donnelly case was shelved with others gone cold.

The loss of a financial provider and the worsening mental health of her mother, prompted Becca to give up her University coursework and city apartment. She moved back into the unkempt familial abode and enrolled in a 2-year health-related program at a local career college. Boyfriend Paul continued to be a moral support, but his life was challenging and exciting, while Becca’s had become a drudgery. Policeman Grimaldi continued to drop by every month or so to report no progress, probe with the same questions, and share some of his more intriguing cases. Becca found herself looking forward to these senseless interrogations if only to break the monotony.

When Becca discussed Grimaldi with Paul one Saturday evening when she was able to escape for a couple of hours to share a pizza and beer with him, Paul suddenly looked at her sharply. “You know, I have gut feeling about that guy. Something’s just not right with him. This may seem way out into left field, but I think he knows a lot more about this case that he’s telling. In fact, I think his continuing attention is more to make sure you and your mother remain in the dark than to solve the case,” he mused.

Becca cast her mind back to all the contacts with Grimaldi. “You know,” she said, “We should have been talking with many more people in law enforcement based on my memory of Dad’s big cases. Even when others were with him, Grimaldi did all the talking.”

Paul looked at Becca, “Becca, it’s time you followed in your father’s footsteps and did a little sleuthing yourself.”

“Now, Paul, how am I going to do that? I’m just a civilian who knows nothing. Dad’s old colleagues will just refer me back to Grimaldi if I ask around,” she countered.

“Let’s look at our options,” continued Paul ignoring Becca’s protest. “We can find the names of who was in charge or had access to that hotel’s safe. It had to have been at least partially an inside job. And, why haven’t any of the valuables surfaced anywhere? Or, possibly, Grimaldi himself has fronted them. No one would know then, now, would they?”

“Also, don’t you think it’s ironic that so many in law enforcement were attending that conference with only skeleton staffs minding the stores? A great deal could be accomplished quickly. Rounding up the personnel for comprehensive police follow-up would be delayed.”

“Becca, my love, Grimaldi may hold the keys to this case. At the very least he has the bare facts in the case which, to my knowledge, have not been published. Believe me, I’ve searched the Internet. I’ve talked to my reporter friends. There’s an unusual dearth of information.”

“You, Becca, have access to Grimaldi,” concluded Paul.

“Oh, Paul, he really is creepy. It’s not just you…,” she said.

“Girl, you can flirt with both eyes closed and each hand holding a wineglass. See what you can get out of him, especially when he’s bragging on his other cases, the puffed up little warthog! Let’s devise a code. You let me know when he’s at your place. Stall him until I can park somewhere close. I’ll send a silly text back to you when I’m at your place. Keep the blinds up and the curtains open so I can keep him in view. And, hey, let’s set up a camcorder too. You can make sure there’s only one place for him to sit, so he’s always in frame.”

And, so they parted with a plan. But, before they could spring into action, Patrick O’Donnelly’s very dead manacled body with bashed-in head along with traces of duct tape was found. A wrecking crew were knocking out the interior of an old brick warehouse to construct designer apartments. His desiccated remains were in the corner of a stripped bathroom. Too much time had passed for either the investigative forensics team or the medical examiner to find evidence other than to identify the corpse via dental work.

Mrs. O’Donnelly folded. Becca found herself in charge of the arrangements and minutiae of a death, a death of a well known and respected member of the force. She was gladdened by the support of local and state colleagues of her father. She and Paul devised a set of questions she might ask in the throes of tearful reminiscing about her father, his obvious murder, and the unsolved theft attributed to him.

After the last empty bottle of scotch hit the trash and one last casserole was tucked precariously into the refrigerator with its many brethren, Paul and Becca stretched out on the sofa to compare notes. Mrs. O’Donnelly was under sedation, which, according to Becca, did not change her countenance all that much now that her husband was irrevocably gone.

Although Paul and Becca now had much more detail, they weren’t much closer to solving the mystery. Sadly, Becca noted that finding her father murdered did nothing to dispel law enforcement’s theory that he did the deed. They theorized that “person or persons unknown” were part of the heist and had offed him for a bigger share of the bounty.

“No!” Becca concluded.  ”I know Daddy wasn’t one of the thieves.”

“Becca…,” said Paul hesitantly. “I think the time has come to push Grimaldi. Is there a colleague of your father’s you can trust? A former partner? The boss who gave him so much latitude?”

They settled on contacting her father’s boss and devised an interview script.

Several days later, Becca, dressed down in mourning black, met Superintendent Samuel Farenstein at the appointed time in a small coffee house, lacking windows on any side.

Becca poured our her concerns and suspicions to the avuncular appearing head of the force.

“I realize how frustrating, sad, and fearful this must be for you and your mother,” he began.

Becca’s heart fell. “This is his kindly preamble to ‘Bug Out’,” she surmised.

So she was somewhat taken aback when he continued. “I’ve had my suspicions from the beginning. The file seems too thin, the follow-ups perfunctory.”

“Your father had a special talent—a sixth sense—for smelling trouble and getting on the right track of the perpetrators. Always best to take him out of circulation for a complicated heist. What better assurance than by having him tied up (pardon the term) as a speaker to an audience consisting of a good deal of senior law enforcement from here and around the country. I often wondered if somehow he had an inkling that something was going down…. I think he was discovered and killed  following a hunch.”

“Further,” continued Farenstein, “our best men had reviewed and reinforced security for all the area’s establishments catering to the conference. Who better than one of our own to plan a major robbery? Also, I was surprised when Grimaldi insisted in staying behind. It turned out he left early on his shift and did not return. No one remembers any contact. Sign-out information was uninformative.”

He paused abruptly and turned his head to look at a lone diner seated at a distant table. “Let’s join your boyfriend, Paul, over there,” he smiled.

As they went to Paul’s table, Farenstein said, “Don’t bother to look surprised. Becca has told me that the two of you have arrived at a hypothesis together and had even arranged to do a little clandestine videoing—am I right?”

Before Paul could reply, Farenstein grew grave. “If your (and my) suspicions are correct, we are dealing with a dangerous, clever, and connected person. So, before we engage in a version of your plan which includes backup and monitoring from us, I would caution you that you will be at great risk. You know you can’t undo a murder. One of our best detectives is dead and buried. With the facts as they are known now, I can assure you that the media will have enough information to conclude your father is likely not one of the robbers. His reputation will be restored more or less. We have measures in place to quietly begin our probes.”

“On the other hand,” he continued. “A decision to use you as the decoy, Becca, has an advantage of being quicker, surer, and (he paused) of providing you some personal satisfaction in settling a score for your family.”

“You’ll remember that I called this meeting,” Becca began. “I am relieved you want to enlist us in capturing a murderer—who’s gotten away with it! Not only is my father dead; but my mother might as well be,” she sobbed just a little.

So it was that Becca, Paul, and a skilled law enforcement team refined a plan to coax a confession from Grimaldi. Using Becca as the grieving, credulous, and naive “interrogator”, she would again lead Grimaldi to discuss his cases in the frayed comfort of the O’Donnelly living room, finally querying him about the great hotel heist. She would simultaneously tease and push, relying on Grimaldi’s ego to eek out bits of information known to no one but the thieves. The team rehearsed tirelessly.

And, when the time came, it worked. Grimaldi’s bravado in living video color did him in! As police rushed in to cuff and capture Grimaldi, Chief Farenstein thanked Becca, “That was really brave. But, I must ask you for something even more difficult. Testify. I can assure you the defense lawyers are like starving wolves.”

“Not to worry,” came a scratchy, but loud, voice at the top of the stairs from a frail, disheveled woman in a tatty robe and worn bedroom slippers. “I’ll talk to the court, too! Becca’ll have me looking smart and together in my widow’s weeds. That snake and his cohorts will not walk!”

The brothers used machetes to clear around the grave site's stone marker.

The grizzled man walked hesitantly in the gray dawn diffused with smoke trails of fog rising up between the trees on either side of the rugged, rock-strewn trail.

Suddenly, dimmed headlights shown behind him as the vehicle’s driver leaned on the horn of his 4-wheel-drive pickup. The man stepped hastily to the side of the path.

“Hey, old man—git on up here!” yelled one of two men in the back of the truck strewed with paraphernalia which included a large cooler, gasoline-powered trimmers, a variety of landscape tools, and an impressive collection of machetes. As the walker climbed onto the rear bumper each man took an arm and heaved him up into the truck bed. Although he was barely 60, his gnarled hands and hunched walk spoke of years of hard work, exposure to the elements, and general abuse.

Altogether, five men now bounced inside the truck’s bed and cab as it pulled to a stop near a small, flowing creek about 20 feet to the right. Except for varying ages—early 50′s to the 60-year-old—they could have been carbon copies, differentiated by their tattoo designs and the amount of gray in their hair and beards. They were brothers.

The men set to work as the sun attempted to break through the cold and mist. First, they used machetes to clear larger brush along the creek’s bank. Then, they gingerly used trimmers to cut closer.

After about an hour, a cry went up from one of the men, “I’ve found it!”

The remaining brothers ran to the one standing near a very large, rectangular shaped small boulder. The one with the keys traced his way back to the truck and brought it round close to the site. The men exchanged their tools for a beer each and surrounded the marker rock.

As they popped their cans, the eldest began, “Here’s to our parents.”

The one next to him raised his brew, “Here’s to freedom—from them.”

Brother number three continued, “And…here’s to a 35-year-old double-murder.”

Brother four chimed in, “May it never be solved in our lifetimes!”

Silence reigned as each took healthy sips. The youngest brother who had yet to toast did not raise his beer. In a quiet voice he said, “What about our sister Rachel?”

His brothers bowed their heads. Finally, the oldest spoke, “She’s still in that thar mental place. Looks like an old crone. Don’t speak. She ain’t never gonna be right. Not after what they done to her.”

The men spat on their makeshift grave’s headstone. They downed their beers, stomped them flat, and lumbered into the pickup. The driver turned the ignition and gunned the engine. They lurched around in a crazy turn and drove back up the road, dropping the eldest brother at the side of the trail where they had retrieved him at daybreak.

He faced the vehicle. “Same time, same place, next year,” he said.

“Aye,” they chorused, as the men in the back broke open two beers each, passing one through the passenger window and one through the driver’s side and keeping the second. All four raised his can before chugging it and tossing the can out as they accelerated up the logging road.

In an instant I lost my bridge toll and my life.

I urged my aging Volkswagen bug onto the San Francisco Bay Bridge, glancing down at the paved surface showing through the constantly enlarging rusted-out floorboard gap on the passenger side.

It’d been six long months since that day our little company called us all in to say the firm was belly up, and we were unemployed. Although it seemed I’d never worked harder and longer in my life to find work, I still had no job. I had just enough cash saved for next month’s rent of an illegal basement room and a bathroom I shared with three other similarly hard-up tenants.

I’d carefully counted out the quarters for both bridge tolls in two separate stacks, then stowed them in each coat pocket for the two crossings.

Tonight’s session in the City was billed as a networking soiree to match job seekers with companies offering positions. It was a bust. An overweight corporate human-resource type wearing expensive but ill-fitting business attire droned on about self-actualization and “finding your innermost voice”. At the meet-and-greet afterward, I, along with the other out-of-work attendees, discovered we were the majority. Nay, any representative of an entity offering jobs was nary to be found!

I dejectedly trudged out of the brightly lit conference hotel. I noted in passing that the speaker was headed into a parking garage as she clicked her key. A silver BMW responded. I continued down a dark alley where I had wedged my car between dumpsters. I couldn’t afford to spend a cent on parking.

I faced my driver’s side door to unlock it when I felt an arm around my neck. My assailant whirled me around, grabbing my attache case. He became enraged when he opened it and dumped the contents on the pavement. Resumes and business cards fluttered briefly before sinking into the wet crud alongside the crumbling sidewalk.

He called on a confederate to remove my jacket and check the pockets. Now both were angry when they discovered only enough quarters for bridge toll back into Oakland. Nevertheless, the second assailant greedily pocketed the change.

A third member of the group joined them to rifle through the car. He unfortunately jammed his leg into the passenger-side floorboard hole while checking out the glove compartment. He cursed as a fourth man helped him painfully extricate himself. They were joined by an even more furious fifth man (a boy really), who, in an instant, flashed a small Saturday-night special.

As I felt the impact of the bullet enter my forehead, my last thought in this world was, “At least I don’t need to worry about having no bridge toll for my return trip.”