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Footprints on the Sands of Time By Dawna Tompson July 2014 -- The weird sexual lives of Emily Whittaker and Carlos Guzman appear to be spookily connected across time and space. Dave Freeman seems eager to get their story out to the public. -- From: [email protected] To: [email protected] DeRitt Metaphysical Publishing 7070 Independence Blvd. Marina Del Rey, CA Attn: Ms. Mitchell, Senior Editor Dear Ms. Mitchell, I have run across some material that I hope you will find interesting. Last year, I purchased the contents of an abandoned storage locker located in Burbank, California. It included a diary written by Emily Whittaker that she kept for a few months in 1943 when she was living in Ft. Dodge Iowa. I've enclosed a few of her early diary entries. I recognize that I still have an incomplete picture of her story and I'm going to continue to investigate it. My hope is you will be interested enough to help support my investigation so that we can eventually share Emily's story in one of your future Anthologies. If you are interested please let me know. Sincerely, David Freeman Enclosure: April 25, 1943. Oh, I am so sad. Hank's mom and dad drove him to the train station this morning after Easter Services. I had to say goodbye to him in the driveway of his house because his mom insisted on seeing him off and there was not enough room in his dad's truck for me. He looked so handsome in his uniform. He's off to Chicago where he'll catch another train for Miami tomorrow afternoon. He'll meet up there with his plane and the rest of his crew and then fly somewhere overseas. We had only a week together since the wedding so it doesn't even feel like we are married yet. And now he is gone. I'm not certain that my stay with his parents is welcome. They seem stern and old fashioned. I'm not sure they approve of our marriage either. I get the feeling they think I'm too fast for their son. Or maybe they suspect the truth. But I can't go back to mother. "Uncle" Frank gives me the jeepers'. I'll make due here. May 2, 1943. Still no letters from Hank yet. I know it's a bit much to ask for after only such a short time. His mother insists that I call her "Mother Whittaker and I must refer to his father as "Pa Whittaker." Frankly, I can't see Hank as having sprung from them. They are so different from him. The three of us walked to church together this morning. I guess Hank's father used up his gas ration and he won't get anymore coupons until tomorrow. It was nice to see Pa dressed in his Sunday clothes today instead of those dirty work dungarees he wears to the plaster mill. After church Mother W insisted that I help with Sunday dinner, which I was happy to do. After dinner I saw her grab a bottle of something from under the sink. She told me to stop gawking at her while she was taking her medicine. It smells just like Uncle Frank's breathe when he used to come into my bedroom to tuck me in. Afterward, we sat in the parlor and listened on the table radio to Ellery Queen and Fred Allen. Pa Whittaker kept looking at me strangely. Mother W didn't take notice because, just as I suspected, she was loopy after gulping several glasses of her medicine. I have a bad feeling about Pa W. I've seen that same look on Uncle Frank before. May 14, 1943. Sick to my stomach again this morning, I can't keep a thing down. Two weeks here has me hoping the war will end soon. I did get a letter from Hank. He's in Florida with his B-24 bomber plane. He can't say when or where but he hinted he'll soon be headed overseas. He's excited to have a chance to help kill Huns but I worry about him so. Oh, I miss him. His parents have not made me feel at home. Mother W screamed at me and called me a stupid kike when I nearly dropped a plate as I was clearing the dinner table yesterday. She is using me as hired help but without any pay! I'm ready to pull my load for Hank's peace of mind but she could be nicer to me. I was right about Pa W. He came to the coop yesterday morning to check on the chickens while I was pouring feed. He crept up behind me, reached around, and grabbed my breasts. "Take a Powder," I said and ran out the door. He caught me again and pulled me close like he was going to kiss me. He stopped when Ma Whittaker yelled from the kitchen for him to come in for breakfast. Lucky me I guess. May 30, 1943. I did receive a wonderful letter from Hank so I had a good day yesterday. He's not in Florida anymore but he couldn't tell me where he was. Mother W went to Miller's Store yesterday and bought me a new apron! Jeepers, what a live wire! We went to church this morning. Mother W. made me change my dress before church. She said my flowered chemise wrap made me look like a hussy and that descent white folks in Ft. Dodge don't cotton to such nonsense. And she made me take off my lovely curvette too. She gave me a stogy old hat of hers to wear instead. All that after spending the morning in the water closet throwing up didn't put me in a proper mood for praying. The regular minister has been called up for service as a Chaplain somewhere in the Pacific so Pa W is to give the Sunday sermons starting next week. He does seem to know his Bible. None of Mother W's friends would talk to me after services. I feel unwelcome. I wonder what she told the townsfolk about me. Even Mrs. Shuman's daughter, Becky, who seems to be about my age, turned her nose at me. Oh well, I've been there before, what with the scandal caused by "Uncle" Frank moving in with mother last year. No one at school would talk to me then either. But at least I could drop out of GVH. I feel stuck here. May 31, 1943. Pa W caught me just outside the coop again early this morning just as I finished feeding the chickens. He grabbed my thigh and declared, "You've got a steely set of gams." He then felt me up and down my breasts, "Healthy lungs too," and leaned over to kiss me on my ear. He pulled me hard toward him and I pushed him away. He complained that he was just having a little fun with his new daughter- in-law. I saw Mother W looking out the kitchen window but I guess she didn't see what he did. She acted like nothing had happened. He's a real palooka and she is a rube. June 7, 1943. Oh dear diary. Hank, I need you to take me away from here. I am cursed again. Pa is another Uncle Frank. Last night Mother W. passed out in the stuffed chair while listening to the president talk about his dog Falla and the war. Afterward, I went upstairs to Hank's room to write him a letter. Pa came to the bedroom. He said he was thinking about how Ma may have been too hasty in telling me I couldn't wear my wrap dress for church. He pulled it from the closet and told me to put it on. I hesitated at first and then refused. Then the old crow got mad and pulled on my arm. He grabbed my waist and yanked me toward him. When he pulled me close he started to kiss me and threw me on Hank's bed. In a minute he was on top of me pulling down my panties. It was just like with Uncle Frank. When I pushed him away he grabbed me again, called me a whore, and then pinned my arms. Dear diary, I won't describe what came next as it's too awful to write. His jerry is smaller than Uncle Frank's (or Hank's, for that matter) but he still hurt me. While he was on top of me I looked away, wishing I could be somewhere else. I glanced into the dresser mirror and I saw a stranger's face looking back at me. It couldn't have been my face because I was flat on the bed. It couldn't have been Pa W because his face was buried in my breasts. I thought it might be my guardian angel coming to save me. But he was a colored man. Oh gosh! Now I think he was the devil coming to claim my soul for what I've done. I must pray for salvation! June 16, 1943. I been here less than two months but I don't see how I can make it through 1943 unless Hank wins the war and comes home to save me. I don't dare tell him anything since Mother W insists on taking my letters to the Post Office herself. Most of the letters I receive from Hank have also been opened. Mother W says the censors need to look at them but that doesn't seem right to me. The old goat is reading my mail! I'm really a POW here. Even on the few occasions when Mother W has let me go to Miller's Store with her she keeps me close by. So my only confidant is my dear diary. Pa W has left me alone for a week or so but it is hard to avoid his glaring stares at the breakfast and dinner table. He always finds ways of "innocently" touching me and seems to do more of it when Mother W isn't around. June 20, 1943. Yesterday Pa W gave the sermon at church. His theme was the fifth commandment, "Honor Thy Parents", and then lots of other stuff about humility. Every time I looked up at him he was looking right at me. I finally just looked down for the rest of the sermon. Afterward I told him, "Thank you for that moving sermon Papa Whitaker.""Take heed to not be prideful, "he replied. I'm not sure what he meant but something's not on the level. But I must obey him for Hank's sake. Besides, it's God's Commandment. June 22, 1943. I received my first allotment check today. Hank set aside $50 for me from his military pay! I was delighted. Of course Mother W marched me to the bank and made me cash it in front of her. I handed over the entire sum. "It's only right I charge you for room and board, we feed you after all. Here, you can keep four dollars. You shouldn't need more than that. Four dollars! Phooey. I'm practically her slave. June 23, 1943. Mother W flipped her wig yesterday. I was cleaning up after supper and, without thinking, tossed a tin can in the trash. She screamed, "Are you a Nazi? You know that goes with the scrap metal!" She pulled me by my hair and dragged me and boxed my ears until I took the can and placed it in the scrap metal basket. Today she had me take all the scrap metal out to the street so the paper and rags wagon can pick it up for the war effort. I guess she is right. Imagine if Hank needed that little piece of tin to fix his plane! June 30, 1943. Something weird and confusing happened. Pa W came to my bedroom again last night. He slammed me down hard on the bed and I think maybe I hit my head on the bedpost. That's the only way I can think to explain what happened next. I could feel him push my legs apart and enter me but it all seemed like a dream. I looked away and saw the man in the mirror again. He was wide eyed, like Little Black Sambo, looking at me while Pa pressed into me. Then his face popped out of the mirror. He wasn't a colored man like I first thought, he's brown. He looked about as surprised as I did. He pulled back "inside" the mirror but he kept staring at me. When Pa W finished he slapped me across the face. "Don't go gammin your lips either or that will be the end of you. Besides no one is gonna believe you. Everyone in this town already knows you're white trash." He left and I got up shaking my head. My wrists hurt and my arms were bruised. I was sticky and it hurt down there. Tears streamed down my face. I was angry and ashamed. I used my nightgown to clean off his sticky seed just like when I used to clean up after Uncle Frank's visits. Just like then I took it off and threw it in the corner. I pushed my hair back and glanced in the mirror to check if I my face was swollen. The colored man looked right back at me. He leaned forward and his face came right through the mirror again, just like Mrs. Darple, the next door neighbor lady, when she leans over the fence to say hello. He was so close I could feel his breath on my face. I gasped and pulled away. The next thing I know he was climbing through the mirror onto the dresser and into my room. I was shaking with fear. I was certain that he was Satan coming to claim my soul. I stepped back to the window and silently watched him. He was young, about my age. He was brown but much lighter than I first thought. In the bedroom light he seemed so light he could almost pass for white. His dark hair was kind of long and full. He looked as if he just pushed it back from his face and it fell almost to his neckline. It was an unmanly look, but I was almost jealous of how beautiful it looked on him. He was dressed oddly too. He wore a black undershirt with an odd white checkmark painted on it. He wore denim dungarees and a strange pair of lace-up white and orange moccasins that had the same check mark. Maybe it's a uniform, or a national flag or emblem like Hilter's swastika. He didn't act like he was interested in harvesting my soul. He didn't have horns or a cape and pitchfork, so maybe he wasn't the devil after all. In fact, he seemed nearly as startled as I was. So I began to think that maybe he's my guardian angel coming to save me from this purgatory. "This place is so real looking, I can't believe it. Look how retro everything is, it looks more real than I ever thought I could imagine."He knocked on the wooden doorframe, "Look at that varnished woodwork! This dresser looks like it's an antique from the 30's. Those curtains. This wallpaper looks authentic. I can actually make out the seams in the paper and the smudges around the light switch. What's this? Knob and tube wiring mounted on the walls? The electricity must have been added after this was built. It even smells old. Look at the nightstand lamp. A wind-up alarm clock too. That's no knock-off. The ceiling looks like real plaster and the floor is vintage linoleum. Look at the detail on the closet doorknob. What's it made of? " Then he began to act strange. He opened my closet and then said something awful like, "Holy sh*t."He pulled out my grey woolen suit and held it up and then ruffled through the rest of my dresses. He laid my rayon wrap on the bed. Then he turned to my dresser and ruffled through my privates. He pulled out a pair of my panties and held them up to smell them! "Ah, scented powder. Awesome!" He says. Then he pulled out one of my best brassieres, my black lacy girdle, and my one pair of good nylons. He stripped off his undershirt, dropped his pants and boxers (not white, but red, can you imagine?) on the floor and stepped out of them. I could see his naked body. His thing was big and hard. Great goodness, he was getting excited just by touching my clothes. This is my guardian angel? Just the kind of angel I have come to expect, I guess. He spoke some kind of English but I couldn't understand much of it. "Epic! Man, this is unreal. I can't believe that hypnosis podcast works! I found the way to do it. It actually works. Look at these clothes, look at the print, feel the fabric, it's right out of the forties. I did it!" I was dressed in just my underwear and felt embarrassed. So I stepped quietly to the bed, grabbed the dress he had left, and slipped it over my head. I couldn't stay silent any longer. "What are you doing?"I asked. He turned and looked amazed. "You can see me?" "Yes, of course I can see you. I also see that that you are dressed in my girdle and you are trying to pull my only good pair of nylons up your legs. And besides, you have the seams crooked." I giggled. I couldn't help myself he looked so ridiculous. He shook his head. "You're a trip. I'd be embarrassed if you weren't a fantasy." "A fantasy? You're the fantasy. I'll pinch myself to wake up. Ouch! What's in your ears? Are you hard of hearing?" "These? No, they are ear pods. For my iPhone you Derp!" "Are you an angel?" "Angel? Huh? Hardly." "Then where are you from?" I asked. "New York, the Bronx. You are beautiful. Amazing thing, the mind. This is crazy, it seems so real, but I can't be really having a conversation with this beautiful figment. He turned and started to pull on my nylons again. As he did he nodded toward me. "I love your curls." "Just a pin curl," I answered without thinking, unconsciously cupping the curls in my hand. Then, "Hey, those aren't so easy to get you know, Hank gave them to me so I could wear them with my wedding dress, take them off you creep!" I was angry now. "Are you a Nazi spy? Are you some kind of secret G-Man? I've heard about strange science experiments to end the war, is this one of them?" "What the fuck? You act as if you're a real person living in this wayback machine. This is really fucking amazing." "Watch it you brown-skinned potty mouth. If Hank were here he'd have decked you by now. Americans don't talk like that. Are you an Indian? Or maybe you are a native, like from Guadalcanal? Buga-buga? You speeka da English boy?" "Guada what? Stop that shit. No stupid, I'm Carlos Guzman, I'm porter ricken." "Oh a porter, on the train?" "No, my family comes from porter reako, the island off Florida, but I was born in New York in 1995. You tard, don't you know anything? You never heard of Ivy Queen, Daddy Yankee? You must have seen Jay-lo or Marc Anthony on TV. You white cracker. I can't believe I'm telling this to a figment of my own imagination. Who are you anyway? Where am I?" "Emily, Emily Whittaker. I'm from Grand View," I said. "Grand View? I'm in Grand View?" "No, we are in Ft. Dodge." "Never heard of either place." "Ft. Dodge Iowa? Oh you big city boys don't know for nothing." "Figures. I was shooting for 40's Hollywood and got Cornpolk Iowa instead." "You were born in 1995? When's your birthday?" "April 14, why?" "So is mine! Hollywood? I'd love to go there, but even descent folk need $45 for a coach ride, and they'd be lucky to get there in four days what with all the layovers for the troop trains and such. Why don't you sign on as a porter?" I said. "So who are you? The Joan Blondell or Bette Davis of Iowa? " "Oh! Applesauce! Who is calling who a fig bar? You say you came from 1995 all the way back to 1943 just so you can come and peek in my bedroom and dress up in my underwear. You're quite the four-flusher. If you came from the future, then tell me when does the war end?" "It's not 1995, I was born in 1995 silly, it's 2013. Okay let's see. Which war is this? The president is Teddy Roosevelt right? "Franklin Delano Roosevelt." "We were at war with Russia, Vietnam, and Nazi right? No, Japan too? Heck, I don't I know, they drop an atom bomb on Japan or something. I was high on weed during most of history classes. Here I'll look it up on the web." "In Iowa we pull the weeds before they get high." He pulled out a beautiful glass cigarette case with an embossed silver apple on its cover. He fiddled with it but he couldn't get it open. "Shit, I got no web access." "Let me understand this future boy. You are going to ask a spider in your cigarette case to tell me when the war ends? And you think I'm the one who is a fig?" If you come from the future how is it that you don't know anything about the future but you know who Joan Blondell and Bette Davis are? "Okay, okay. It doesn't matter; we won that one I think. It was veetnam and north corea and I rack that we lost. No we won that or was it afghan-stan or gaza. I forget. Look, the podcast is ending, I'm about to wake up. I gotta go." "Liar, I never hear of those countries pea-pod boy. Hey, give me back my underwear!" He stripped and quickly dressed back in his own clothes. With that he jumped back through the mirror. Afterward, I looked behind the mirror and tried to put my hand through it, but it's just an ordinary mirror and there is nothing but a solid wall behind the dresser. I picked up the clothes he'd tossed on the floor, folded them, and put them back in the dresser. Hmm. 2013, seventy years into the future. It MUST have been a dream. p.s. I looked at a map, it's "Puerto Rico, not porter reako" -- From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Mr. Freeman, I'm always interested in reviewing material that might engage our readers. I read the portions of Emily's diary that you enclosed. Emily's situation certainly surfaced some strong emotions. However, I'm not sure this material is yet in a form that will resonate with our readers. I'd like to remind you that we only publish documented stories of real encounters with alternate realities. So far you have provided very little factual information. I regret that our company is not able to provide any financial assistance for your investigation at this time. Please keep me advised on your progress. Sincerely, Wendy Mitchell Senior Editor -- From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Dear Wendy, I've included the next batch of Emily's diary entries that I have transcribed. I also have located some official documents related to her life. I was able find her birth announcement. It appears in a small entry in the April 30, 1925 Grand View Times and notes only that, "Edie Golden gave birth to a beautiful 7 lb 3 oz baby daughter just before dawn on April 14, 1925. She plans to name the baby Emily." I have no other official records until her marriage to Lt. Henry (Hank) Whittaker Jr. in a civil ceremony in Sioux City, Iowa on April 17, 1943. She would have just turned 18 years old at the time of her marriage and he would have been 19. My guess is that he was stationed at the Sioux City Airbase at the time and perhaps she worked nearby. Hank gave his parents address, 106 Monroe St., Ft. Dodge Iowa, as his Home of Record. Presumably, this is the location where Emily was living at the time she penned her diary. She must have moved in with his parents shortly after she was married. I am frustrated with how difficult it is to find any information about Emily. I plan to travel to Ft, Dodge and see if anyone there remembers her. Even her contemporaries would be nearly ninety by now. Maybe there is an old folk's home or some official Webster County records. I should be able to find something about Hank Whittaker's service in the Army Air Corp. I'm also looking into any traces his parents might have left. I'll keep you abreast of anything I find. Dave Jul 4, 1943. Independence Day. The old prudes went to church this morning and then to the parade downtown. I was sick again so they left me behind. It felt like a trip to the beach. I was alone in the house! Freedom, just like Hank is fighting for. Hank left me his expensive Graflex for safekeeping; it has a timer on it. So I propped it up on the top of the chicken coop and then snapped a couple of pictures of me posing in shorts and my low-cut white cotton blouse. I'll have to figure out a way to get them developed so I can send them to him. I got a packet of Victory letters from Hank yesterday too. I stretched out on the backyard swing to read them again and answer every one. I spent most of the day alone doing just that. He said he completed some missions, milk runs he called them, and they weren't so bad so I shouldn't worry too much. I felt the baby flutter too! I am excited but a bit worried. I've missed my monthly four times so far. So I'm guessing that the baby is due in December sometime. I'm going to start showing soon and people are going to want to know when I'm due. They'll start counting I'm sure and I'll be caught up in yet another scandal. Hank loves me. We were planning on getting married before he shipped out anyway, so why should tongues wag? I wonder what Mother W will say? I think she already suspects I was in a family way before we got married. It's probably why she is so cold with me. People are strange. I wonder if there will ever be a time when a girl can just be in love and not have to worry about what everyone else says about her. July 7, 1943. The Fourth of July started so well but didn't turn out that way. Mother and Pa W came home cross with one another. Mother was staggering drunk and soon fell asleep. Pa W also smelled of whiskey. He is a mean drunk. After Mother W passed out I heard him crashing about in the kitchen. He went upstairs and brought down his shotgun to clean on the kitchen table. He started bragging about how he could shoot me and no one would care. He has friends at the sheriffs' office he said, so it wouldn't be hard to kill me and get away with it if I ever started lying to people about him. I said I didn't see any reason to worry as I have nothing to tell anyone. He seemed better after that. I went to upstairs to go to bed but Pa followed me into Hank's room. I ran for the closet but he grabbed me before I could get in and close the door. He tore at my shorts and tugged my blouse up over my head. I screamed but he covered my mouth until I couldn't breathe anymore. I was about to pass out. I turned my head and there was Carlos, looking through the mirror. He hopped off the dresser and landed right next to me. Pa W struggled to hold me while he slipped down his overalls. I gave up trying to push Pa W away and reached instead for Carlos. When our hands met he whispered, "Let me in." Instantly, I felt like I was standing where Carlos had been. I looked down and saw a girl struggling underneath Pa W. It took a few seconds to realize that was me on the bed. Somehow I was now standing where Carlos had been but there seemed like there was two of me. No, that isn't right either. I was me but I wasn't. I felt like I was in Carlos's body looking down at me and Pa. I could still think, feel, and act like Emily, but from inside Carlos! Yet, I could also feel part of Carlos' thoughts and emotions. Now, dear diary I want to confess the most private part of this experience. I am ashamed to relate it. Carlos was in my body just like I was in his. I could feel him struggling under Pa W. I was thankful to be out from under that man but revolted by what Carlos was feeling. He was actually getting aroused! Worse, I could feel a strange sensation growing in my private area. I was getting excited in Carlos' body by feeling Carlos in my body enjoying doing it with Pa! Oh, my goodness, it was disgusting, sensational, confusing, enjoyable, and sinful all at once. After a few seconds watching this I couldn't stand it any longer. I pulled down Carlos' dungarees and started to choke his chicken. My, how absolutely terrifying yet wonderful it was to feel that strange organ attached to me. No wonder the boys always begged for me to play with it. It was so hard and stiff! It was so pleasurable. I could hardly think of anything else. Once I started to pull and stroke it I couldn't seem to stop myself. I didn't want to stop! As I beat his meat I could feel what Carlos was feeling too. He had my legs spread wide and they curled around Pa's torso. He was panting and pumping in rhythm with Pa and I could feel a surge of revolting warm pleasure spreading throughout my private... , forgive me dear diary, but it's the only word that expresses my disgust... my c*nt. Pa and Carlos were both nearing a peak and so was I. I closed my eyes, my entire world centered on his stiff sensual organ. Momentarily thought I saw a corn chute opening at the feed silo. The gate lifted. The corn poured out! A wad of Carlos' cum shot onto the back of Pa's head at the very same moment he and Carlos climaxed! I bent over in ecstasy and Carlos' p-thing throbbed as it spurted more milk. What a sense of release! No, maybe it was more than that; it was a sense of throbbing achievement. At the same time, I could feel the diffuse glow of satisfaction Carlos was experiencing in my body. Or maybe I felt it directly, I was certainly confused. Pa W rolled off of Carlos and stood up, hitching his overalls back up to his waist and pulling his suspenders up. "So, just as I thought, you whore, you do like it. I know you had one. Descent women folk around here don't enjoy doing it like that, you slut! Hank should have never married the likes of you." He waved his hand dismissively at Carlos. "I thought we taught him better. I'll disown him if he doesn't divorce you the minute he gets back. I'd have him do it now if it wasn't for his allotment." He turned and he looked right through me without acknowledging my presence. I don't think he could see me even though I was practically face-to-face with him. As he went out the door he put his hand to his head and pulled away a sticky mess. "What the... ?" I rushed over to Carlos, felt a whoosh, and I was back to my normal self. I was on the bed looking up at Carlos' stunned face. His underwear was still around his ankles where I had dropped them. "Carlos, what in God's name did you do?" "Me? I was just trying to make the best of a bad situation. I missed the off ramp for Hollywood again and I ended up back here. So I figured, YOLO, lace-up, Nike-man. Just do it. Having sex as a girl is the one thing I've dreamed about in forever, at least since seventh grade when I snuck in the girl's toilet and beat off in a stall. Besides, I had no idea you were packing a couple of thermonuclear kittens. Geez, once he pushed up your bra and started pressing up against me I had crazy tingles going everywhere. Everything seemed to be lit up. I was squirming and on fire. It was new and amazing. So how was I supposed to deal with that, huh? Ok, it was less than perfect, but it was still pretty rad." "How dare you use me that way? I'm a married woman. I'm three months pregnant. You made me have...relations... with my perverted father- in-law. I'm disgusted. You embarrassed me and now Pa W thinks I am a whore. He thinks I enjoyed it with him. Yeechh! Do you want me to be damned to hell for this? And you even had an org... an orgas... a Big O too! You should be ashamed!" Oh, I can't stand you. Get out of here." "Don't get all salty with me. I had no idea this could be so real. So, I got a little carried away. I guess sex is complicated even in a fantasy. Besides, what about you? You wasted no time beating my willy off. That was cray cray the way you shot my wad onto gramps head like that." "This is no fantasy, I keep telling you that. And I'm sorry for what I did with your, your... I didn't create that boner. It grew by itself and it just took me over, I had no control of it. I've never experienced such a thing. It was like my whole world, everything about me, my entire awareness, seemed to be wrapped up for a few seconds inside that pulsing thing of yours. You should learn to tame it. Look at it now, the poor thing, limp as a dishtowel. "Carlos started to hitch up his underwear and then stopped, pulled his drawers open, and looked down. "Oh no!" I cried. I could see a growing bulge. Carlos laughed heartily. "See what I have to put up with? It's like this all the time." A surge of fear hit me. "Oh gosh! I masturbated you. You aren't going to start growing hair on your hands or go blind now are you?" "You're a trip. Girl, didn't you ever get the 'talk' in fifth grade health class?" "Carlos, what's with you? Why are you here? Why are you bothering me? "I'm not bothering you as much as gramps is. He's a pervert. He has a weenie peenie. And he smells bad too. Why do you put up with him? Call social services, call the cops, call your mother, call the FBI for crissakes. He can't do that to you and get away with it. Me? I 'm just looking to become a movie starlet, like Carol Lombard, Claudette Colbert, or Jean Harlow. They are all beautiful women. I'd love to be one of the stars from the glorious golden days of Hollywood. I thought I was on to something but every time I keep ending up here." "Are you a homosexual? You could get in a lot of trouble for that you know. Look at what happened to Tommy Lasko in tenth grade. He always hung around us girls and he even tried to sign up for Home Ec. They expelled him. My girlfriends told me he kissed Sammy Jonsley in the locker room showers, but Herb Kinslop said he was sucking his .... his... p-thing. He saw it with his own eyes. But I don't believe that. Herby tells a lot of stories. They didn't do anything to Sammy because his dad owned the bank in Grand View. But poor Tommy. No one ever heard from him again." "No, I don't think I'm queer, not exactly anyway. I just get excited by the idea of becoming a woman. I don't think I'm trans either. I don't feel like I AM a woman, I just feel like I need to be one. I used to get turned on just by thinking about dressing up in woman's clothes. Not that I ever had much of a chance to ever try it out. But lately I'm consumed by the idea of becoming a real woman. My dream is to become a Hollywood starlet. I just get turned on by the thought of living inside of a glamorous woman's body, like the starlets of the 40's. I wish I could be one of them. Or maybe even someone like you if you weren't stuck in this godforsaken cornfield." "I'm hardly glamorous, but thanks for the compliment. You know it's silly to want something you can't have. Boys are boys and girls are girls. You're a boy; you can't change into a woman. It's not natural. You are born what you are, God made you that way and there is no sense wishing to change something you can't possibly change. It goes against His will. There must be a Commandment that forbids it, even if I can't think of which one right now." "Yeah, my stepdad found me whacking off in my sister's thong. He called me a gay fag and then beat the shit out of me. Now my mom and sister think I'm a weirdo. That's when I decided to crossdream instead. It's a whole lot safer. Oh shit, I forgot to hit the repeat key. The podcast is ending, I have to go. " "Don't go! You are the first friend I've made here. Please, stick around, maybe I can help." "Maybe next time. What the... I can't get through the mirror. What happened?" I walked over to the dresser and put my hand on the mirror, it moved just a fraction of an inch. "Okay, false alarm. This thing is really touchy." -- From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Mr. Freeman, Thank you for your update on this story. My professional opinion is that this diary, in its present form, is not something that will engage our readers. Emily's vivid descriptions of sexual abuse by her deranged father-in-law and her strange sexual affiliations with this mythical Carlos person from the future are somewhat indecorous. If left in such a raw format the story will surely upset our readers. Perhaps the story will evolve into something we can use. I do feel a small personal connection to Emily since I too was married on April 17 th. Sincerely, Wendy Mitchell -- From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Wendy, I 'm leaving for Ft. Dodge, I'll send you updates once I get there. Here's the next batch of entries. Dave July 9, 1943. I've been thinking hard about what to do about Pa W. I don't think I can live this way until Hank gets back. I have no money and no place to go if I leave. I dare not write even a hint of this to Hank. It would just upset him and there is nothing he can do about it. Besides, Mother W would probably make sure he never got it anyway. I have no one to turn to. July 10, 1943. Dear diary, I snuck out to the movies tonight! It's 10:00 and I just got back. Pa W went to the Moose Lodge to drink with his buddies and Mother W fell asleep on the stuffed chair downstairs before 7:00. She had a half-finished glass of her medicine sitting on the side table. I went to the Hawkeye. Lowell Thomas gave his Movie Tone highlights before the main attraction. All the news is about the war. The movie wasn't very good. I don't even remember the name of the feature; Humphrey Bogart plays a cafe owner mixed up in war intrigue with Ingrid Bergman. It seems I can't escape being reminded of this tiresome war. Oh, I just wish it would be over. At least the cartoon took my mind off the war and Ma and Pa W for a bit. I love Betty Boop. Mother W is still sound asleep. Pa W will be home late. July 11, 1943. I guess I was not as sneaky as I thought. Apparently, Mrs. Shuman saw me at the movies last night and that got her tongue wagging after church this morning. She made it sound all innocent, "Oh, Ruth, I saw Emily at the movies last night, it's so refreshing to see that even a married woman can go out on the town on her own now. Quite a different world from the one we grew up in isn't it Ruth? I suppose it's the war, girls are so lonely without their boys." Then to me, with maple syrup sweetness, "Be careful honey, with such a small diamond on your finger the boys could be forgiven if they thought you might still be available." Mother W gave me the silent treatment on the walk home. After lunch Pa went upstairs for his nap and Mother began yelling at me. She called me a sneak and a whore. "Girls like you, they don't give a wit about their reputation, but for Hank's sake you should start acting like a lady." I tried to explain that I felt cooped up in the house, but that got her even madder. The next thing I knew she was pulling my hair, slapping, and kicking me. She grabbed the tub of hot dishwater and threw it on me. I wasn't hurt, just shocked. Then she made me pick up all the dishes and wipe up the spilled water from the kitchen floor. I sobbed through the entire afternoon. Oh, my life here is so awful. July 17, 1943. Carlos came back! I was writing a letter to Hank and I think I dozed off just after I finished it. He touched me lightly on the shoulder and I woke up with a start. I hugged him like he was the only friend in my life. Well, he is at the moment, at least until Hank returns. "Emily?" "Carlos, good to see you again!" His hug was the first tender touch I've had since Hank left. "What's this?" "My diary, leave it alone." "Does it say anything about me...?" "Give it to me," I said. He fumbled with it and the pictures I had kept in it for Hank fell out. "I'm sorry, hey, a selfie? Whoa, hash tag awesome." "Sometimes I don't understand a word you are saying. They're just some I took of myself in the backyard. I was going to send them to Hank. I wanted to remind him of what I look like now, before I get fat. They aren't very good. I had to sneak out to the drugstore to get them developed. I want to send them but I'm afraid Mother W won't approve. She looks at my mail you know. Maybe tomorrow I'll see if I can sneak out and take Hank's Schwinn over to the post office." "Bummer. What's wrong with these? I wish I could look as good as you do." He cast his eyes down and then set them on the dresser. "What's the matter Carlos? You didn't come here just to look at my picture did you?" "I can't make this thing work. I keep coming back here." "What, the buds on your pea-pods?" "Yeah. But this is my only escape. I've been in funk for a while. My stepdad is on my case and I didn't do so well in school this year. My sister told her friends about the thong thing, it's all over her Facebook page. All I ever do is dream about 1940's movie stars and how I wish I could become one. "I have no idea what a thong is, but I'd like to help." I told him. "No, you think I'm ridiculous, I felt it. Anyway, I probably am." "That's not so, I don't feel like that about you anymore. Look, maybe you can't get to Hollywood, but we can bring a little bit of Hollywood right here. I think, with the right clothes and makeup, and a bit of work on that long hair of yours I can turn you into a stylish girl. Here, look at this dress, it's the one I was wearing when I met Hank. You're thin enough; I'll bet it would fit you. I'd love to work on that beautiful hair of yours and I can give you some tips on makeup. You can be my wonderful starlet right here in Cornfield Iowa. "Well,... it is a pretty dress." He brushed his hands over the smooth fabric and fingered the buttons on the back. "Come on, it will cheer you up." In no time I had Carlos stripped bare naked. There is no sense in either one of us being embarrassed after what we'd already been through. I powdered his skin all over so he smelled wonderful. He eagerly slipped on my panties, a garter belt and a brassiere. I covered that with my black rayon slip. I showed him how to keep his stockings attached to the garters and his seams straight. Next I worked on his long brown hair. It has a natural wave to it. It wasn't as long as I would have liked it to be but it was long enough to style. I used the curling iron, a few bobby pins, a lot of teasing, and a little styling gel. He had enough hair to curl into the longish wave all us girls are wearing now. I pinned my beret to the back and managed a quite stylish coif. Then I powdered his face, applied my expensive Max Factor rouge, eyeliner, and the brightest ruby-red lipstick I had. I didn't let him look in the mirror yet either, not until I was finished. I took out my cream colored straight chemise dress, the one with the padded shoulders and narrow waist. I had him step into it and I pulled it up around his shoulders. He shuddered as the fabric of the dress slithered against the smoothness of his slip. He let out a long sigh as I buttoned up the back of his dress. "Down boy, not now," he muttered. I cinched my wide red leather belt, the one I bought in Sioux City, at his waist. He slipped on a pair of my sturdy red pumps. I adjusted his skirt a bit so just a hint of the lace on the bottom of his slip peeked out. A little racy, but I know from experience that it always catches a man's eye. I spun him around! "Wow! This is wonderful. I look like a woman straight out of the forties." He posed a bit for me. "Indeed," I giggled. "You don't look ridiculous. In fact, if I didn't know any better I could pass you on the street and think you were a natural born woman. Quite a looker I'd say. You could surely turn men's heads. Here let me add this brooch. And lace gloves, all the movie stars are wearing them now. Oh, I'm so jealous." He stared in the mirror and tears started welling up in his eyes. I put my arms around him to try to comfort him. Instantly, I felt a rush of air and I saw his reflection in the mirror. I was in his body again, dressed in my clothes, but feeling his emotions. It was all very confusing. First, I felt a wave of pleasure and excitement. This was the first time he had come so close to realizing his dream. Then I felt a wave of sadness. I was looking back in his mind, feeling the crush of his passionate desires, from the very first inklings when he was just a little boy. I looked though his mind's eye at the storefronts where women's mannequins showed off the latest clothes. I felt his heartstrings pull as he looked on with muted envy as excited girls walk into women's stores to try on the latest fashions. I pictured him looking into a mirror and see an imagined elegant woman looking back. I was exhilarated and shocked, proud and shameful, wonderful and sad. Then, I imagined myself standing on the staircase of an elegant mansion wrapped in Bette Davis' long sequined gown. I imagined a throbbing climax as I pressed the silky materiel of the make-believe gown to my groin. It felt like a manly release. Then unexpectedly a soft wave of pleasure swept over me. The supple silk of the gown excited every nerve on the surface of my creamy skin, I could see bows and ribbons in the long brown curls of my hair, I could smell lilacs, sense beautiful flowers blooming around me, hear the tinkling of a small waterfall, and grasp the serene stillness of water lilies floating effortlessly on the pond below. I curled graceful limbs around the tender skin of my imagined body. I never felt so feminine. Then, with a rush, I sensed pain. I felt horror, and shame, and embarrassment. Years of holding in this secret had separated me from my mother and sister. I drove away my friends, everyone. I had pushed them all away because I could not share my secret desire with anyone. I was too ashamed. I felt the blows of my stepfather and the hurt and anguish. I felt the hot flush on my face as girls giggled as they passed me in the halls. His tears were my tears. I began heaving. Carlos, in my body, was holding me now, telling me it was all right! I knew now both the pleasure and pain of being a man trapped in a spiral of passionate feminine desires. I wanted to become a woman more than anything in the world! This is so topsy-turvy. "Carlos, I had no idea. I'm ashamed to admit that I've often wished God would turn me into a boy. I need to be more appreciative. No, I need to cherish, honor, and respect what I have." I put my arms around him, half expecting to be sucked back in but he simply pulled me close. Two women embracing; each silently sobbing. "It's alright Em.... Oh, shit, shit, shit." "What?" "My stepdad is coming into my bedroom. I have to go, right now!" He hitched up the hem of his dress and struggled in his heels to get up on the dresser. "Hey can I take one of these?" He had my pictures in his hand. "Sure." I said. "Hold the mirror steady, will you? Good."With that he dove into the mirror. He left his T-shirt, dungarees and shoes on the floor. I picked up his colorful rubber sneakers. People of the future dress very strangely. Nike? A Greek god I think. Maybe he's a Methodist; I'll have to ask him. From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Wendy, I made it to Ft Dodge. I haven't found much. No one in their old neighborhood remembers the Whittaker's. I guess it's too far back. I located their graves. Ruth was born on Feb 12, 1904 and died March 13, 1944. Henry died in 1969, oddly on MY birthday! He was seventy years old. I couldn't find much at the courthouse. I talked the clerk into letting me rummage through some old records stored in the basement. I found nothing directly related to Emily. I did stumble across some old Webster County Sheriff's records. They are a disheveled mess stored in moldy cartons. I found the folder marked 1943 but it contained only a few reports from July. A couple of them might be related to Emily. On July 24, a Mrs. Darple at 108 Monroe St., she must have been the Whittaker's next door neighbor, reported that she thought something happened to the neighbor girl. She said she heard a scuffle in the backyard that morning. Scrawled across the bottom was a note from a Deputy Shuman. "25 July-Talked with Hank after church, nothing to it. Case closed". On July 26, Mrs. Darple called again. She reported seeing the neighbor girl in the yard early that morning gardening. She thought that was odd. She was stooped and moving slowly, and looked hurt. She called at the Whittaker's but Mrs. Whittaker slammed the door in her face. She wants the Sherriff to check on the girl. "27 July- Ruth was mad about me needing to go inside but I checked on the GV girl. She's okay. It looks like she's packing her bags to leave. Case closed." On Jul 31, Mrs. Darple says she hasn't seen the Grand View girl since Monday and usually she sees her every morning feeding the chickens. She expressed more troubling concerns about the girl's welfare. She is demanding to know what the sheriff is doing about it. Below, in different handwriting, "Doug, we need to be careful with this. Come see me before you follow up." Below that, in Deputy Shuman's handwriting, "1 August- Called at W's house after I finished the late shift last night. Hank was upset but answered all questions to my satisfaction." Finally, on the morning of August 1, Mrs. Darple reported hearing a gunshot next door late the previous night. The same Deputy Shuman reported "Henry stated that the gun went off accidently when he was cleaning it. Also mentioned his daughter-in-law ran off with a friend of hers. Advised Mrs. Darple to be neighborly and mind her own business. Case closed. Again! " I'm going to go over to the newspaper office and see if I can find out anything else. Also, I think forgot to include the rest of the diary entries the last time I e-mailed you. The missing ones are enclosed. These are the last of them. Dave July 19, 1943. Carlos came again, early in the morning before the roosters started. He came through the mirror as usual but stayed perched on top of the dresser. "I came back to return your clothes. Sorry, they don't look so good." He piled up a disheveled mess. My dress was torn, the stockings had runners; a strap on one of the pumps was ripped off. "You don't look so good either. Look at your eye. Your lip too. What happened?" "My stepdad caught me just as I got back. I'm sorry. I think the dress is ruined. I'll replace it. Maybe I can get you something from my sister's closet; she already thinks I'm stealing her clothes. I'm so sorry. Look, I gotta go. My alarm is about to go off, I gotta get up early to help my stepdad today. It's going to be a long day. "You know what? I even had a name picked out for her... me I mean. Gloria Stillwell. I think that would look have looked good in big letters, high up on the movie marquee. See ya." "Wait!" I cried. But he held onto the edge of the mirror, adjusted it a bit, steadied it with his hand, and then jumped back. His hand was the last part of him to disappear into the mirror. It seems like we are both hopelessly trapped. July 29, 1943. Dear diary. Today was the first day I've felt like I could form my raw emotions into words and write them into my dear diary. This has been the worst week of my life. I lost the baby! Hank will be so disappointed. He's been so worried about me but he's been very careful not to say too much in his letters. Now I must find a way to let him know. Maybe it doesn't matter anymore. Mother W knows, she probably did all along. Oh, I can't even find the words to write down how badly this feels. My little unknown darling. I wonder if it was a boy or a girl. I must find a way to get out of here. Last Saturday morning Pa W caught me just outside the coop again. He grabbed me and started kissing me. Ma W came outside to throw the ashes from the stove and saw Pa struggling with me. She came right over and grabbed the stick we use to keep the coop door closed. "You trollop, you hussy, you wench, get away from him!" She screamed. "You camp stalker! You'll bed anything that wears pants. Well, you got your way. You fancied our Hank in uniform and you trapped him. But there aren't enough young men around here for you now, are there? Couldn't find any at the Hawkeye? Did you try the saloon across the street? It's probably full of 4F'ers." She was shaking the stick at me now, "You can't stop yourself, can you? A tiger never loses its stripes!" She swung the stick at me. I jumped out of the way. Chickens squawked. I almost lost my footing and crashed into a wall of mesh wire. Chickens scattered. She swung again. I dodged again. Then another "Swoosh." The stick struck me squarely in my midsection. Chickens flapped their wings wildly and scattered around her head. I collapsed to the ground. I sat there crying, messy with chicken droppings, feathers, corn feed, and mud. She started to swing the stick again. Pa stepped in and actually held her back or I'm certain she would have beaten me until I was dead. I crawled to the coop and sat with the chickens, sobbing; until I heard the two of them drive off in the Ford. I limped up to Hank's room, stuck a chair under the door knob, and cried my eyes out until late afternoon. Mother knocked at the door later in the evening and called to me. I guess that's as close as she can come to an apology. I told I her I needed to rest some more. Sunday they went to church but I stayed in bed. I was cramping badly and late in the morning I started to bleed heavily. I was really worried about the baby. I slept off and on all day. Ma and Pa were quiet. I think they both got a little bit scared. Good for them. Late Sunday night the cramps turned into contractions. I knew things weren't right. By early Monday I knew it was over. It was mess. There was blood all over the sheets. My baby is dead. I took the remains and wrapped it in a towel. Just before sunup I snuck downstairs and buried it in the Victory garden out back. I could barely make it back. I cleaned up as best as I could but the mattress is soaked with blood. I slept in it anyway until mid-morning. The kitchen side door slammed shut so hard it woke me up. Mother W must have been mad at something but I didn't care a hoot about her problems. A bit later Mother W called again at my door. I told her I was alright but to please leave me alone. I cried some more off and on all day. Tuesday I felt better but stayed in my room all day. About midday I decided to try my hand at repairing my dress. I went to fetch my sewing kit from my suitcase in the storeroom down the hall. On my way back with the suitcase I ran into a Deputy at the top of the stairs. He's Mrs. Snotty Shuman's husband. He tipped his hat, "You alright ma'am?" I nodded. He turned around and walked back downstairs. I wonder what that was all about. Wednesday, Mother W. brought Mrs. Shuman by. I didn't want her to see me because I'd been crying again. But I wiped the tears away as best I could. She said she didn't think we needed to call Doc Brown and that these things happen, it's God's will, and that I shouldn't worry about it. Once Hank gets home we'll have another chance to start a family but I'd just have to be patient. Mrs. Shuman, of course, then had to ask, "How far along do you think you were, darling? There must have only been short time between the wedding and Hank shipping out. How blessed you were that God worked such a miracle." I won't give that old biddy anything more to chew on! It probably won't stop her from dishing earfuls to her church friends though. Mother W seemed a little bit relieved by the news and even brought me an egg salad sandwich later on. It was the first real food I've had. I haven't seen Pa W since Friday morning. Good, I say. I must find a way out of this place. July 30, 1943. It's unbearable living here. Mother W is drinking more heavily than ever. Her skin is like leather and her eyes are yellow. I've seen her coughing up blood too. Most days she is passed out by mid-afternoon, but Pa W is another story. He just glares at me with burning eyes of hate. He hasn't said a word directly to me but I can hear him grumbling under his breath all the time. July 31, 1943. Since last week I've had a really bad feeling welling up inside me that I can't seem to shake. It keeps growing and growing until I can't stand it anymore. It's an overwhelming sense of dread. Today it's even worse. I wish Carlos would visit. Maybe he'd lift my spirits. I keep telling myself it's because of what happened with the baby but something else tells me it's about Hank. I just know he is in terrible danger. I can't shake the idea. It doesn't help any that there is a terrible summer storm brewing outside. I see lightning flashes in the distance and can hear a low rumble after each flash. Each flash is closer than the one before. I can picture Hank in his plane dodging horrible German ack-ack. I close my eyes and I can see his bomber in trouble, he's trapped inside the turret, pinned against the blood stained walls. He's firing his machine gun at a German plane. I can see the winking of the guns on its wings and as it nears I see the German pilot's fierce eyes. Bullets are whizzing by. As the plane passes I see a red Swastika painted on its tail. I can even hear the motors of the B-24 straining to pull the plane up. An engine catches fire. It spreads to the entire wing. The plane tips over. A crewman is screaming in pain, Hank tries to lift him but the forces inside the plane are too strong. He can't get out. I join in, "Jump Hank!" It's awful. I can't close my eyes anymore or I see it much too vividly. It's too horrible. I'm so worried. I keep telling myself it's just my overactive imagination. He'll be fine. Pa W went out bird hunting this afternoon and hasn't come back yet. I suppose he'll come home drunk late tonight. So I have to worry about that too. I propped the chair under the doorknob again. Oh, this is terrible. Dear Diary, a post script, something to cheer me up. I was looking out the bedroom window at the approaching storm clouds. They are dark and ominous even in the gathering darkness. Then oddly, on the next flash of lightning I could momentarily see lights from a big city outside instead of Mrs. Darple's bedroom window. It lasted for a few seconds after each flash. I turned the desk lamp off and the effect was stronger on the next flash. I'm looking out my bedroom window right now. Flash! Rumble, Rumble! I see a wide avenue filled with cars. There are fancy diners and restaurants on the right. There is a theater off on the left, the marquee is lit up. Flash! Boom. Rumble. Huge black limousines pull up to a red carpet. A crowd is held back by velvet ropes. Young men and girls in maroon usher uniforms and jaunty caps patrol the carpet. Searchlights streak their white columns into the sky. Another flash! The storm is close now. The view is so clear I can read part of the marquee, "Also Starring Gloria Stillwell." Photographers are snapping flash pictures and then popping out the burned bulbs. Glamorous movie starlets with handsome escorts in tuxedoes walk them slowly toward frosted double glass doors. Two ushers open the doors for them. It's so wonderful. Dear diary, a post-post script. I pressed my hand against the window just now. My hand seemed to pass From: [email protected] To: [email protected] David, I'm furious at you. You really thought you had me sucked in didn't you? I'm on to you. Did Doug put you up to this? How could you play such a low game with me? You made this all up! He knows how I cherished my grandmother. He had you use her name as Carlos' fake glamour girl avatar just to infuriate me didn't he? That asshole always liked to play head games with me. If you have my stuff you'd better give it back. And tell Becky, that blonde Burbank bimbo, to fuck off! And as for you, you hack; if you want to publish this contrived nonsense then you'd better look elsewhere. The story is too trite and too pat. Besides, it's incomplete. It stops in mid-sentence for crissakes. Go try one of those short story fiction websites to see if they will publish this crap. Better yet, try www.fictionmania.tv as they seem to cater to readers with a prurient interest in the kind of trans-gendered sexual smut such as you've written. -- From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Wendy, I haven't heard back from you. What did you think? Unfortunately there isn't anything else. That's the last entry. It just stops in mid sentence. I just wish it didn't end so abruptly. I'm determined to find out what happened to her. I found out a couple of things here in Ft. Dodge that might help. I was able to uncover what happened to Hank Whittaker at a small war memorial sponsored by the local VFW. Sorry to say but Emily's life didn't get any better. On Sunday morning August 1, 1943, while on his way to bomb the oil refineries at Ploiesti, Hank's B-24 was shot down by a German ME-109 over Campina Romania, just east of Sofia. His plane went down in flames. No one saw any parachutes before it crashed into the low mountains and burned. Here is another weird coincidence. I looked up Campina Romania on Google Earth to see where it is. Oddly, both Campina and Fort Dodge are located at the same exact latitude: 42 degrees 28 minutes! I also have other great news! Carlos exists. Or at least I think he does. Last night, from my hotel room, I was finally able to access a Facebook account for a Carlos Guzman of the Bronx, NY. One clue that he is the correct Carlos is that he appears to be enthralled by 1940's pin-up girls. He posted at least 20 glamour shots of popular 1940's starlets and posted links to crossdreamers.org. I left a note but he didn't reply. In fact, it appears that he hasn't posted anything in the past few months. Dave -- From: [email protected] To: [email protected] You must have sent your last e-mail before receiving my stupid outburst. I am so sorry. Please disregard it. I was so angry that I sent it without thinking. I need to explain these confusing e-mails. When my ex moved out to live with his girlfriend he took some cherished items that belonged to me. It may have been an accident but it's just as likely he did it for spite. I've tried to get the items back but I haven't been able to locate him or his girlfriend. I was certain that you were working with Doug to torment me. But something happened to change my mind. After sending the flame I was sitting at my desk fuming. Then, I suddenly remembered something from a long time ago. When I was about nine or ten my grandmother was babysitting me. I was bored so she took out a cardboard carton filled with stuff from her days working at the studio. She had a bunch of framed pictures of movie stars from the 1940's, 50's and 60's. It was just the kind of thing that fascinates a pre-teen girl. Then, she pulled out a small photo from a red leather book. It was an old black and white photo of a woman dressed in shorts, standing in the back of an old house. "Grandma, who is that?" I asked. "This is my oldest and dearest friend. She stood by me during the lowest point of my life. I wanted to work in Hollywood as a movie star, and she helped me do that. But, more importantly, after that faded, she became my inspiration to become a screenwriter. She wrote so eloquently. I've always tried to write as well as she did." "What ever happened to her?" "I lost her one night. She walked into a cornfield and I never saw her again." "Can I read her red book?" "Not today honey, maybe when you get a little bit older." Then, I checked Carlos' Facebook page. You must have missed it. On his last entry he posted that very same picture, the one my grandmother kept in Emily's diary. How can that be? My Grandmother, Gloria Stillwell, was a beautiful and elegant woman. She had a short career as an actress in Hollywood B-movies in the late 1940's. She then married my grandfather, a producer at MGM. She remained very active and attractive even in her fifties and sixties. She took good care of herself and always dressed immaculately. She was a talented actress, producer, and screenwriter. She wrote and edited movie scripts until nearly the day she died. I'm sorry to say I completely forgot about that incident until today. I never did open the red leather book or read any part of it. You purchased my grandmother's mementoes that Doug took from me. They were stored in a cardboard filing box and it included some framed awards and publicity photos, old movie scripts, a few VHS tapes, and the old red leather-bound book she showed me when I was a child. I'd really like the opportunity to get them back. I'd like to read Emily's diary in her own handwriting. If you are willing to forgive my outburst I'd like you to consider selling the carton back to me. I'm willing to pay you more than a fair price to get these cherished mementos back. Also, another coincidence. My great-grandfather was born in Campina Romania right where Hank crashed! Wendy -- From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Wendy, I saw your rant; luckily the hotel Wi-Fi was down for a while and when it came up both e-mails were sitting in my inbox. I accidently opened the second e-mail first. That was probably a good thing. Wendy, I understand completely. I'm sorry about your break-up. I've just recently gone through a similar emotional meat grinder myself. I'm a journalist and author. I'm not an evil practical joker. I don't know a Doug or a Becky. The carton you described is the one I purchased. And yes, Emily's diary is written in clear, precise longhand in a red leather-bound book, something I never mentioned before. I have it with me. I have the entire carton with me. I'm certain you are the rightful owner and I want to return it to you. I can't charge you for it, it's yours. It m