Three Sentence Mystery

I started a mystery novel once, wrote about six chapters, and then never did anything with it. My cousin Rebecca Huehls spent Christmas Eve writing three sentence mysteries, so I thought I’d do that with my old novel. Here it is:

Dr. Juliet Tierney sat in the all college fall faculty meeting and wondered which of her colleagues in the great hall was capable of murder. Eight days ago, her closest friend among the faculty, Dr. Alfred Butler, came to her office to discuss what he should do about some evidence that had come into his hands, evidence that implicated a colleague in falsifying data in order to obtain grant money that was subsequently embezzled, and then just two days later he was found dead in his backyard swimming pool, a drowning that Julie was absolutely convinced was NOT “accidental,” as termed by the police. After the long meeting, Julie rushed to her office, gathered up all the photos she could find of likely suspects among the faculty, and drove to Alf’s house to show them to his neighbors, none of whom recognized any of the people in the photos, except for the elderly woman next door, who said, “I never saw any of these people, but I saw this fellow back here a few times,” putting her finger firmly on the dean.

Meeting the Queen Mum

Written 12/24/11

For the years 1970 - 1973, I taught evening classes at Birkbeck College, University of London, right behind the British Museum. One night, just as I was walking out with a couple of students after class, we saw some young men in strange outfits brandishing swords on the sidewalk outside the college. We cautiously stopped to see what was happening.

Suddenly this HUGE limousine drove up. It was covered with shiny things and flags. The young men quickly formed themselves into a walkway, with swords held  up like a canopy over the walkway, leading up to the entrance to the college. Two elaborately uniformed chauffeurs got out of the limo and opened the back door. Out stepped the Queen Mother.

 Yes, the Queen Mother. She was wearing a long, blue, evening gown, with long gloves, and she had on gobs of diamonds and jewels with some even in her elegant coiffure. The students and I were standing there open-mouthed in our trousers and sweaters, when she very graciously came up to me, took my hand in hers, and said in that aristocratic British way, “Thank you so much for coming.” She did the same to the two students before gliding under the swords and into the college. 

I was so impressed with her kindness and felt so special to have gotten to meet her like that. Just now I checked her on Wikipedia and found this sentence: “She charmed the public in Fiji when shaking hands with a long line of official guests, as a stray dog walked in on the ceremony and she shook its paw as well.” Oh, well, it’s still a special memory. 

The Chicken Dinner

[I wrote this memory 12/23/11. It actually occurred some time about 1963.  Dad was raised in Terre Haute, Indiana.]

My father absolutely hated chicken. He was a PK (Preacher’s Kid) in Indiana and apparently the parishioners would frequently have the pastor’s family over for dinner and they always served chicken. He also said it was because he had had to kill the chickens for dinners his mother prepared. Whatever the reason, he hated chicken and would not eat it.

My parents, sister, and I were invited to have dinner at the home of the parents and brother of my first serious boyfriend. I was a teenager and extremely worried that my dad would do something crazy or weird or otherwise embarrassing, but I simply did not think to warn Blanche (my boyfriend’s mother) about my father’s aversion to chicken and no one asked. 

We go to their house and gathered around the table, and there it was -- heaping platters of pieces of chicken. My anxiety level shot sky high. As food was passed around the table, I saw that my father used sleight of hand and only pretended to take some chicken. In the hubbub of dinner for eight, he might have got away with it, if he had just kept quiet. But no, he had to make several loud compliments, “This is the best chicken I’ve ever tasted!” and “This is great chicken!” and even “I sure love chicken!”

Dinner was ending and I almost relaxed, when Blanche offered Dad more chicken. He said, “No, thanks, I had plenty.” Then Blanche finally noticed and said, “But there are no bones on your plate!” I am dying, but Dad just says, “Well, I REALLY love chicken!”

Taking Communists to Disneyland

In 1966 or 1967 Victoria and I were active members of Women Strike for Peace, one of the more radical anti-war groups of the time. A delegation of Communist women from the USSR were scheduled to visit Los Angeles, and they had requested a visit to Disneyland. Somewhere some bureaucrat must have thought, “Who can take Communist women to Disneyland? Oh, there’s that commie pinko women’s group --let’s ask them.” (I was actually called a commie pinko at demonstrations.) How ever it happened, the President of our Chapter of Women Strike for Peace asked for two volunteers to take the Communists to Disneyland, and Victoria and I were the only volunteers.

Victoria and I were in our early 20s and looked much younger. We were very slender and had long, straight, blond hair parted in the middle (hers was natural). I was wearing my patched bell bottom jeans with a halter top and she had on jeans and a T-shirt. We went to LAX and managed to find the Communist women, who were not what we expected. We met three rather stout, middle-aged women dressed in business suits and high heels. I guess in addition to expecting women nearer our own age, we thought they would look poor and starved. We later realized they were wives of high up Communist officials and not radicals.

We found the women, gave them a brief greeting since I was in a hurry to get to Disneyland before it got too crowded, stuffed their suitcases in the trunk, wedged the three of them into the back seat of my yellow Camaro convertible, and hit the freeway at 80 mph with the top down. With the wind and the freeway noise, conversation was impossible. After a while, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw three completely terrified faces, so I responsibly slowed down to 70 mph. When we got to Disneyland, one of them said, “We’re actually here.” This statement did not reflect their amazement at achieving a life long dream, but, as they later told us, their relief that they had NOT been kidnapped by drug-crazed hippies who were taking them out to the desert to kill them.

We marched them down Main Street and got in line for the Matterhorn. The line was long, so we were finally able to converse, and they relaxed a little when they learned that I was a doctoral student at UCLA and Victoria was a married mother of two. They told us about their families and where they were from: one from Russia, one from Mongolia, and the third I can’t remember. Finally we got to the part of the line that is “inside” the ride, where it winds endlessly between barriers. The Russian woman said in disgust, “Typical capitalist deceit! Just when you think you reach the end of the line, there is another line.” She may have been serious, but Victoria and I giggled and started riffing on all the capitalist propaganda in Disneyland, such as Walt Disney’s idealization of Main Street, the exceptionally clean environment, and the unrelieved cheerfulness of the staff.

We five had a grand time, and at the end of the day they hugged us and gave us gifts (we, being clueless, had none for them). Looking back, I can see there were many cultural misunderstandings, but I like to think we overcame them to some degree. We were surprised at how conservative they were, and they were surprised at how liberal we were. We shared a good laugh over their thinking we were drug crazed hippie kidnappers, something they had apparently been warned against before they came. We were mocking their propaganda and our own, and I think they were mocking ours and their own. We were all women simply trying our best to make a better world for our children, and to have a little fun on the way.

An Unusual Report

(This was written in the 1980s when I wondered how humans might look to other species.)

Safety Issues with Killer Squealers

This report by the International Safety Council has been prepared for the purpose of summarizing the current level of knowledge about killer squealers in order to make safety recommendations to the community regarding contact with them. While squealers, so named for their characteristic cry of greeting, are known killers, having murdered hundreds of thousands of us over the years, recent reports that some of them may be approached safely have raised questions in the community as to how best to behave towards them.

Scientific knowledge about killer squealers is based on the reports of the few individuals who have wandered far into their territories and lived to tell about it, as well as on systematic observations of their summer herding behavior. During warm weather, millions of killer squealers herd together at the edge of the sea. It is quite a fantastic sight: there are so many of the nearly identical creatures that they turn the beaches pink with their bodies.

Killer squealers are small mammals with a small head and four long appendages. Two appendages are used for locomotion, while the other two are used for manipulating objects and for contact with others of their species. Many of them are covered with a smooth, pale skin, while many others are brown or almost black. Most killer squealers have a bit of varicolored fur of various lengths on their heads, which seems to have signalling and mating purposes.

Like us, killer squealers usually travel in friendship/kinship groups composed of two to six or more adults and several young. When they greet each other or when they first see us, they make their characteristic loud squealing sound. They also make quiet, short, repetitive sounds almost constantly. They emit these sounds through their small, flexible mouths, which are in almost constant motion. It is believed that these sounds have signaling and communicative purposes, probably of use in bonding.

The killer squealer has limited swimming ability, virtually no sense of smell, and a limited sense of hearing. It apparently has an acute sense of vision. In spite of their nearly identical appearance, killer squealer mothers easily recognize their own young among the herd. It is hypothesized that killer squealers are able to distinguish subtle variations in the physical appearance of their own kind, so that the mothers learn to recognize their young by sight.

Killer squealers seem to be very attached to their own young. If a baby killer squealer becomes separated from its mother at the seaside, she will run frantically up and down the beach squealing loudly until she is exhausted. If she does not find her baby within a short period of time, her screams become louder and more piercing and water pours from her eyes. A curious observation is that when the mother is reunited with her baby, some mothers hold the baby in their appendages and pour more water from their eyes, while other mothers scream and strike their young. In spite of their apparent strong attachment to their young, killer squealer parents strike their young for no apparent reason quite frequently, and some experts believe that this behavior helps the young develop their aggression and killer instincts.

Recent reports from the Northernmost Sea, the Middle Coast, and the Southern Gulf suggest that a subspecies of nonviolent killer squealers may have evolved. It was reported two years ago that killer squealers rescued three adolescents who had been trapped in winter ice in the Northernmost Sea, where squealers have murdered us for centuries. It is well known that during certain months along the Middle Coast, hundreds of squealers crowd daily into sea vehicles in order to observe us go by, and they do so without killing anyone, although they are a nuisance. Likewise, in the Southern Gulf, some squealers enter small sea vehicles in order to closely observe us with our babies, rarely causing any harm. Some mothers even allow their babies to play with the squealers while they take a nap.

Nevertheless, because of their long history of extreme violence towards us and because of their continued violence toward their own young, which is likely to heighten their murderous tendencies, the International Safety Council has concluded that killer squealers remain highly dangerous, despite recent reports that some are not. It is recommended that extreme caution be exercised at all times, even along the Middle Coast and in the Southern Gulf. The Council recommends that all killer squealers be avoided.

Translated by Prof. Zenar-2-4 Bondad, noted Grayback linguist

Poems from the 1980s (Mostly)

Without Hugs     (1/20/83)

Without hugs

My paper skin is stretched on stiff wires

My flesh dries away, my edges crumble

Only hungry guts

Keep me three-dimensional

Ode to the Oil Refineries      (2/14/83)

Under a dangling crescent moon

Under smoking L.A. skies

The molecules of dinosaurs

Course through the starry lights

On the skeletons of refinery towers

And rear their heads again

Ungraspable millions. Dead millions of years.

Extinguished for almost eternity.

Enormous grand creatures, reigning for eons,

Gone forever.

Yet their blood turns on the refinery lights

Enormous grand structures

Grotesque spewing towers

Frozen mid-stampede

Glow and glower over the city.

They come alive at night.

Changes     (11/21/83)

Sometime

In the not distant enough future

I must give back the molecules

That temporarily organized

Into my life

Will there be a feeling of release

When I let go

And entropize into the universe

Sometimes I wonder

With peaceful envy

What my molecules

Will form into next

Dirt and worms I bet.

Eventually

Maybe birds and stars.

In eons

Maybe one or two

Will make it to a star.

In Kenya     (1984)

Lines of a million wildebeests

Like black ants crawling

Over the plains

From one luminous horizon to the other 

Fill the eye

Stun the mind

Life here is extravagant

Profligate in diversity, number, beauty

Life to spare

A few thousands

To death

Bones and bodies among the herds

Replenish vulture, lion, crocodile

Barely dead

At once enter life again

Life into death into life

The eternal cycle renders

Familiar dichotomies irrelevant

life death

good evil

human animal

kind cruel

free determined

Have no meaning

It is all beautiful

It is all pure

It is the garden of Eden

Without the will of man

It is paradise

Thoughts on Separation      (3/8/85)

So I made every change

You said you wanted

Now you say

I didn’t love you.

What do you call

All my trying?

Now you’re leaving me

Now you’ll become

Everything I wanted

Why do you need to leave me

To do what I wanted?

Why didn’t you love me enough

To stay and do what I wanted?

Why didn’t you love me enough

To grow up?

Sing Song     (8/1/86)

My little lost girl

Appears before the concrete walls

That years of competence helped build

I told you so, I told you so, she skips and sings

I told you not to fall in love

Then she goes into hiding again

My well kept secret from myself

I used to try to catch her

Coax her out with offers of care and kindness

But she doesn’t believe me either

When I think of love I sometimes cry and

She sometimes leaves the bunker to come sit by me

My Babies     (11/6/87)

Last night I cried for my babies

I turned my head for a blink of time

Just to do something or other

Earn a living, write a book

I can’t remember what it was

And they were gone

Whenever I see a baby

A little like mine

With big round eyes and

Toothless grin spreading dimples and sunshine

Or pudgy knees or the way

They stretch out their little baby feet

My gaze is captured

My head will not turn

My arms twitch with longing

Until the nervous mother

Pushes the cart into the next aisle

Or disappears down the street

When I was lucky

I should have held them

All day, all day

I would give anything

To hold them again

The Fake Mom    (2/88)

You’re not my real mom

My indignant six-year-old said today

My real mom wouldn’t yell at me

Then go live with her

We spoke burning poison

A few tears sparkled in her eyes

I revealed nothing

You’re cold, she said, 

At only six

After I had fixed her french toast

Dad     (2/14/88)

When I dream of you now

You never speak

While in life

You were such a good talker

Though you said little

When I was little

I could not risk

Exposing my feelings to

You who demanded the

Proper amount of joy

And allowed no sadness

Pain or anger

And you with all your sadness

Pain and anger

Never spoke of it

Letting it leak out in

Bits of puzzling behavior
Fits of rage

Frightening little me

Into a tower of strength

When I was big

The habits of denial

Became a suit of armor

Rusted shut

And we spoke not

Hello    Good-bye

Your last words to me

When you telephoned

Nothing in between

As always

We did not relate

You didn’t know me, father

I didn’t know you, father

I cried for you today

Nine years late

Exposed     (3/17/88)

Like a naked sea urchin

Stranded on a city sidewalk

Mortally wounded by an unintended touch

I search puzzled

For my spears

And fallen armor plates

I finally put them down

He said it would be alright

And without their weight

Ran wildly free

For a minute

In the sun

The protecting spines keep things out

But also in, I forgot,

Ripping off a scab,

And the blood of ancient wounds

Begins to run

In salty tears

Happiness     (1/28/89)

Happiness creeps in on little fog feet

Unlike misery crashing in

Or the felling blow of hurt

Quietly, softly, it seeps in

I have great children

I have my dear mother

I earn a decent living

At work I mostly enjoy

I own my own house in Pacific Palisades

I have my independence

I have my health

Most of the time

Happiness creeps in on little fog feet

Quietly, softly, it seeps in

So you may not notice it

Until it’s gone

Heart    (2/14/89)

Ten years past

I spent Valentine’s Day

Burying my father

In earth and red roses

Amazed and impressed

That he had managed to die

I had never imagined

Ten years without him

Hello, Darkness (with apologies to Simon and Garfunkle, 9/21/05)

To the tune of “The Sound of Silence”

Hello, Darkness, my old friend

It’s time to walk with you again

Good parts of life are done

My mother is gone

My daughter is lost

Darkness, let’s review it all once more

Time’s flight explains a lot

But not the daughter who is lost

To an obscene world

That destroys her soul

And the drugs that

Seal the deal

Look here, Darkness, tell me this

A rare day of happiness

Seems unseemly

Until I can feel

It’s acceptable to accept

The unacceptable

Now 2011

Dad has been gone for over thirty years

Darling Mom for nearly nine

The lost daughter came back to us

The older daughter has three children

Whom I adore with abandon

My life is rich with hugs

I get to hold my babies again after all

My molecules are still pretty well organized

I’ve grown a lighter set of swords and armor plates

Darkness is countered with gratitude lists

Painting replaces poetry

Plenty of challenges to embrace (I hope with grace)

Time too short to do other than

Enjoy all that I can while I can

And give only money to good causes

Good Advice

How to Increase the Probability of Good Health and Long Life

(In Order of Importance)  (Short Version)

1. Do NOT partake of any tobacco products.

2. Exercise regularly.

3. Eat healthy.

     a. Eat plenty of vegetables, fruit, whole grains.

b. Avoid simple carbohydrates, especially sweets and potatoes.

c. Avoid animal fat -- use olive or canola oil.

d. Eat little, if any, animal protein. (Fish OK.)

e. Avoid added salt. 

4. Floss regularly.

5. Drink alcohol very moderately, if at all.

6. Be kind and compassionate to all.

"The Empath"

Empathy Revisited

(A short story based on Star Trek: The Next Generation)

by Judy Todd

(Majority written 1999 -- the ending “letter” written in 2011)

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate 41986.1    Empath.  Dr. Crusher has ordered me to spend 20 minutes each day period making an entry into a daily log.  [20 minutes of silence.]  Computer, end log.

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate 41986.3    Empath.  [20 minutes of silence.]  Computer, end log.

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate 41986.5    Empath.   [20 minutes of silence.]  Computer, end log.

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate 41987.1    Empath.  Dr. Crusher said silence would not do for a log.  I must say something.  Something, something [“something” for 20 minutes.]  Computer, end log.

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate 41987.3    Empath.   Something, something [“something” for 20 minutes.]  Computer, end log.

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate 41988.2  Empath.  Dr. Crusher was frustrated, annoyed, sad, and puzzled with me.  I could hardly hear what she was trying to tell me because I felt so frustrated, angry, and sad.  She said I had to speak for a log, tell something that happened.  I said I could not think of anything to say without some feelings to direct me.   I cannot have feelings unless I am with someone who is experiencing some. But I have to make log entries alone in my  room.  She ordered me to describe everything that had happened to me since I first met her.  I can remember and report. 

It felt like I had been asleep a long time.  I became aware.  I became aware of being aware.  I opened my eyes.  I could not see well.  I looked down at myself and saw I was lying flat on my back. I was clothed in a white dress. The cloth was thick and soft and warm. It felt fuzzy on my skin. There were brown coverings on my feet. They were not soft. They felt tight and itchy on my feet. It appeared that I was lying in some sort of container.  The container had hard sides. They were cold and appeared to be made of metal. The top of the container was open. I could see a darkness.  I could hear breathing. The breath went in. The breath went out. The breath went in. The breath went out. I lifted my head and saw a humanoid shape.  [Rest of entry deleted.]  

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate 41988.4.  Empath.  I ended up spending eight hours on yesterday’s log entry, but I had to delete most of it after Dr. Crusher reviewed it.  Again, I had to strain to listen to her over our feelings of amused aggravation.  She said I did not have to report every detail.  She ordered me to cover only the “main events.”  I will try again.

I was lying in a container when I first met Dr. Crusher two months ago.  I opened my eyes and saw her face above me, her red hair hanging down, and I felt her warmth and caring.  She told me not to be afraid, but of course I was not.  I was loving and concerned.  She explained that I had been in protective stasis for a long time, that a Dr. McCoy had placed me there in order to save me, and that she, Dr. Crusher, thought it was “only right” to release me at this time.  She smiled encouragingly, and I smiled encouragingly back.  She said I was in a special room and needed some special treatments and food.  She told me to relax, and then she got busy with some instruments.  After a while she brought me a bowl of nutritious gruel. Since she was hungry, I was able to eat it all.  This made her very happy, so I was happy.

She asked me if I could talk. I answered yes.  She felt surprised and pleased.  I felt surprised and please. She asked me if I wanted to ask her something.  I had to answer no.  She seemed more puzzled, and so did I. She was starting to get distressed when she stopped herself. She said, “I forgot that you are empathizing with everything.  I will calm down.”   She showed me around my room and demonstrated how to operate some of the devices. Then she said she had to go back to work and that I should “make myself at home.”  She left the room, and I felt and did nothing.  

The second time I saw Dr. Crusher, she said it was “the next day.”  She asked me how I felt and what I had been doing and what I had had to eat.  As I kept answering nothing, she became more and more upset until I was crying.  She forced herself to calm down and I stopped crying.  She walked over to a device on the wall (she said it was a replicator) and ordered a bowl of nutritious gruel.  She brought it to me, but I did not eat it.  She asked me why I wasn’t eating, and I replied that I wasn’t hungry.  She asked “How could that be?” and started to get upset until she saw my lower lip begin to tremble and she calmed down right away.  She thought a while, and then she touched a small gold thing on her shoulder (she called it a com badge) and asked Ensign Kee to report to Room 12E Deck 8.  After a while, a young man entered.  He was puzzled and anxious, but polite and very hungry.  Dr. Crusher smiled at him, and he relaxed.  She offered him some lunch, and he ordered something called a hamburger from the replicator.  Before he finished it, I had eaten all my gruel.  Dr. Crusher was very happy again, and so was I.  [Rest of entry deleted.]

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate 41988.7.  Empath.  I had to erase most of the previous log again.  Dr. Crusher said to just “summarize” the last two months.  Summarizing is hard, but I will try. I spent a few days in my room, doing nothing unless Dr. Crusher came to talk, which she did frequently for short spells.  She sent a young ensign to my room to eat each meal with me, and with their big appetites, I began to gain some weight.  She sent a young man every day to my room to exercise with me, and I gained strength.  Unfortunately, she had to stop sending him after he felt certain feelings, then I felt them, and then….but Dr. Crusher said not to describe this incident in my log.

During her visits, Dr. Crusher explained many things to me.  I will list them:

I am an Empath, a species that little is known about.

I was found on the Planet M819 by Captain Kirk of the starship Enterprise. Something bad happened and Dr. McCoy put me in stasis.

Dr. Crusher read about me and believed I deserved freedom.

She asked for permission to bring me here and release me from stasis.

She is responsible for providing any training I need to adjust to “normal life.”

We are on another starship called the Enterprise.

Jean-Luc Picard is the Captain of this Enterprise.

Dr. Crusher has many complicated feelings about Captain Picard.  At times she feels a deep love for him, deeper than even she knows, and at times she  [Rest of entry deleted.]

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate 41989.0.  Empath.  Dr. Crusher was very angry this morning.  She yelled at me that I should not include things about her private feelings in my log.  I screamed, “How am I supposed to know?  This is getting too complicated!  I can’t anticipate everything in advance!”  She began to apologize until I started to cry, and then she forced herself to calm down.   She ordered me to put daily events in my logs and to describe my thoughts and reactions to them.  She also ordered me to do several hours of reading, and then she left.

I can do things if Dr. Crusher orders me to do them. Dr. Crusher assigns me to read history textbooks and scientific papers on psychology and anthropology.  She said there are readings called fiction and poems, but I am not ready for those yet.

Today I read three articles on the role of the amygdala in emotional regulation in humanoids.  I ate three meals.  I exercised forty minutes.  Computer, end log. 

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate 41989.2  Empath. Dr. Crusher is still disappointed with my log.  I am so disappointed!  She is going to sit with me while I do this one.  She says to remember that the logs are supposed to be an exercise for me in “introspection” and “getting in touch with myself.”  She says to tell what happened today and then to tell what I thought and felt about it.

I woke up.  I cleansed and dressed.  “What were you thinking?” Dr. Crusher is asking.  I was thinking that I am awake and I must get clean and dressed.  She is nodding wearily.  I am feeling so tired.  “Never mind,” she is saying, “what happened next?”  Ensign Kee arrived and we ate a huge breakfast.  It was delicious.  I enjoyed it.  How’s that?  “Are you sure those weren’t Ensign Kee’s reactions?” she is asking.  Yes, but they were mine, too.  “That’s right, they were!” she is getting excited.  So am I.  I had a reaction!

“OK, OK,” she says, “go on.”  I read a book on intergalactic anthropology.  “What did you think of it?”  It was interesting.  I learned a lot.  “Anything else?”  It sounded like Betazoid people are similar to me.  Yes, that is very curious!  I want to meet Betazoids!  That would be so exciting!!!  No, it wouldn’t.  It would just be disappointing.  “Stop,” Dr. Crusher is saying, “you are just picking up my feelings.”

Dr. Crusher left and ordered me to keep trying.  Computer, end log.

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate  41989.4.  Empath.  I had a long conversation with Data today.  He has no computer chip for emotions, and he wants to experience them.  I do not understand how he knows what to do if he has no emotions.  How does he protect himself from dangerous things if he has no fear?  He does not understand why I cannot decide what to do by using logic or duty.  He keeps trying to explain logic to me, but I cannot see the reason why certain things follow others if there are no emotional links.  He keeps saying, it is necessary to be cleansed every morning;  it is morning;  therefore I must get clean.  I keep asking why it is necessary to be cleansed every morning and how does morning fit in.  He says my questions are irrelevant.  Duty I can sort of understand because it is like being given orders by an abstract person.  I will study duty.

Data asked me to describe a feeling for him.  I tried to describe one from memory, being hungry for breakfast with Ensign Kee this morning.  You have little bubbly, empty, achey feelings in your stomach, you are energized and tired at the same time, it is difficult to think about anything other than food.  Data thought it sounded unpleasant, but useful for ensuring adequate nutritional intake.  He asked me to describe anger, and I tried to remember when Dr. Crusher told me not to discuss her private feelings for the Captain.  Your heart suddenly beats fast, there are spurts of heat through your torso, there’s an urge to engage in strong or loud behavior, your face is hot and tight. Data said that sounded unpleasant, too, and that it would lead to illogical behavior. 

We talked a long time uneventfully. Computer end log.

Computer, begin daily log. Stardate 41991.7. Empath. Today I left my room and walked around a corridor of the ship. Dr. Crusher thought that I could handle it if I went with Data. Some other humans were walking in the corridor, but they walked by quickly so I only felt twinges of various feelings, such as worry, hunger, resentment, and occasionally neutrality. When I felt uncomfortable, I looked at or touched Data and immediately felt at peace. When we got back to my room, Dr. Crusher and I felt happy and excited, and Data and I felt nothing. Dr. Crusher set a plan for Data and me to take walks through the ship at certain intervals, with the walks gradually becoming longer and more varied. She said that after a while I could try short walks by myself. I felt great satisfaction with my accomplishment until Dr. Crusher left. Computer end log.

Computer, begin daily log.  Stardate  41995.0.  Empath.  Dr. Crusher, sniff, thought I was ready, sniff, hic, to try psychotherapy with Counselor Troi.  Unfortunately, she scheduled the appointment yesterday just before lunch.  I went to Counselor Troi’s quarters, and arrived on time since all the crew people I passed in the corridors were preoccupied with work.  She was happy and curious to see me and invited me to sit down, which I did with great happiness.  She explained that she was there to “be there” for me and that she would empathize with me so that I could “get in touch” with myself.  She settled into a Betazoid open awareness, and I immediately felt nothing.  She empathized with my feeling nothing, so I felt even more nothingness.  She felt more nothing and so on.  It became oceanic, with us merging and spreading out into an infinity.

Suddenly Counselor Troi allowed one of her own internal experiences to flit across her mind, and it was hunger and a brief craving for a bit of chocolate.  Naturally, I picked up on that and got hungry for chocolate.  She empathized with my chocolate urge, and I empathized with hers, and soon we were both barely able to keep from drooling.  Counselor Troi smiled and allowed that ordering some chocolate from the replicator wouldn’t hurt anything.  I said I had never eaten chocolate, so she said I must try a chocolate sundae first.  The replicator produced two large dishes with a mound of white stuff covered with black stuff and small other things.  

We ate the sundaes together, and what an experience it was!  Counselor Troi really enjoyed hers, and I experienced incredible tastes, textures, and joy.  The smoothness, the coldness, the melting in the mouth, the sweetness mixed with bitter, the energizing feeling that flooded through my entire being.  We were very happy.  She asked whether I knew about other types of chocolate, and when I said no, she ordered chocolate fudge brownies for us.  Wow, new textures, new tastes, but that same sweet-bitter energizing flavor.  By now our happiness was expanding even bigger than the nothingness.  She ordered Tyrellian cocoa puffballs, hot chocolate to drink, and chocolate mousse.

I was feeling extremely happy and fulfilled, but she suddenly felt a bit of discomfort in her stomach.  I immediately felt slightly nauseous.  She empathized with me, and also felt nauseous.  I began to feel very sick.  Counselor Troi was quick-witted and grabbed herself a bowl and shoved a flower pot at me, and while we were both retching into our receptacles, she hit her com badge and called medical emergency.

Dr. Crusher arrived out of breath and frightened.  Before I could get too afraid, her feelings changed to surprise and disbelief.  She looked at Counselor Troi, so I looked at her, too, and saw that she was covered with chocolate and vomit.  So was I. Then the strangest part of this day happened. Counselor Troi and Dr. Crusher began to laugh. Then we all laughed a great deal and felt very good together. Finally they choked back their laughter, and Counselor Troi began to feel regret and Dr. Crusher became overwhelmed with guilt and pity and discouragement, so I began to cry.  She rushed me sobbing along the corridors to my room, cleaned me up, and left quickly so I could calm down.  She said we might need to reconsider psychotherapy.  Computer, end log.

Stardate 61225.0. 

Dear Beverly: 

I enjoyed reading these old Enterprise computer logs that you recently sent me. It was nice to see how far I’ve come in the 14 years since you took me out of stasis and starting trying to make me into a self-contained individual. You gave up on the logs and on traditional psychotherapy, but you never gave up on me. You continued trying different things, remember, everything from acting lessons, thought control training, and exercise to various chemicals to reduce my neurosympathetic reactivity. And you eventually “succeeded,” since now I have a successful career in interplanetary counterintelligence.

When I look back on those three Enterprise years, I can see that others besides you and Deanna contributed to my development. It certainly helped to spend time with Data, and I followed him around until he almost felt an emotion towards me (exasperation, I think it was). Captain Picard, with his ability to control his behavior while experiencing strong emotions and passions, was an influential role model for me. Even Ensign Kee, with his single minded focus on food, was helpful, as was nearly everyone in the crew to some degree. The Enterprise was a good environment for me. But you are still my hero, Beverly, and I will always be grateful to you. 

Looking forward to seeing you next month at the Enterprise reunion. 

Fondly, 

Em