Who Dares Wins

Qui audet adipiscitur

 by Ellen Pepper


Spring rain pounding on a slanted roof.
Wind causing walls to strain against it.
Water pooling on the kitchen floor -
The window left open a welcome bit.

A peculiar man with pecuniary leanings
Determines his nut for the night.
A candle burns low on the wooden table.
His hat nearby on a rough-hewn chair.

An apron-clad woman ladles stew
 into crockery as old and cracked
as her face.
Places it gently near the man
and leaves the room.

Tonight, he must break free.
He must pack swiftly and depart.
He must somehow earn fare,
And board the last train for Marseille.

His Alsatian waits at the door.
Does not want to be left behind.
He will remain at home with the woman.
The man may not return this time.

Now, standing under the window
of his wealthy neighbour, that man has a plan.
Seeing the family within bickering and squabbling,
He knocks at the door.

"Hello, my neighbours! How goes your night?
I've come to bring peace for a small fee."
Invited in, he sets himself near the fire.
The master of the house waits patiently.

"It seems there's a point of contention here tonight.
I can easily determine who is wrong
and who is right, if you would only
Give me one thread to unravel this perplexity."

The family confer. One voice speaks, then another.
Then all speak at once. Cacophony results.
The mystical man begins to sing a lullaby.
And as minutes pass, the shouting dissipates.

"The issue is resolved to my delight.
 It's plain to see that the Master is in the right.
He knows the ways of the world and
wants only the best for his clan."

"And now, forsooth, I must be off.
I've a train to catch and I'll need the fare."
The fee presented and he's at the door.
"Thank you good sir, you're noble, I swear."

 Qui audet adipiscitur  

©Ellen Pepper 2025

Je ne regrette pas

 

 Je ne regrette pas

by Ellen Pepper


Do not regret the loss of winter.
It splayed itself across the landscape for a time.
That icy stillness swathed in snowflakes
Had its moments, its fine apparel.

Do not regret the fleeting passage of time.
At once speedy or sluggish,
depending on perspective.
But passing just the same.

Do not regret encounters with the brave and bold.
Nor those with terrors and too craven
to save themselves.
The many issues they present, so little time in hold.

Do not regret dancing alone in the dark
under the maple tree.
Nobody saw you. Nobody knows.
Do it again - touch the bark.

After all, what is regret?
Loss and sorrow are in the mind.
Some say also in the heart but...
Evading the big "what if?" skips past regret.

I do not regret.
 Je ne regrette pas.
I witness the moments,
Je suis témoin des moments,
Sort them into memories,
Triez-les en souvenirs,
And continue strolling through.
Et continuez à flâner. 

Insouciant.

 

 ©Ellen Pepper 2025

Tick Tick Tock

by Ellen Pepper

Tick tick tick...

A drunken worker laughingly claims that he's ok
as he drives his machine into a ditch.
Dismounts and topples over into the muck.
Nobody recorded it. It won't go viral.

Tick tock tick.

Leaves are unfurling all around.
Birds are nesting.
Animals breed.
The greening ground is slick with rain.

Tick tick tick

A women on a treadmill feels pain,
Chest, neck, jaw.
Wonders if the heart is attacking.
Decides it's too complicated
to ask for help.

Tick tick tock

An old man still abed at noon.
No movement or sound.
No snore or audible breath.
Suddenly, a foot shifts.
He's still alive.

Tick tick tock.

Time is not like a river.
Time is a collected series of events.
Vignettes.
What was once... and will never be again.


 ©Ellen Pepper 2025

Your Boots

Your Boots

by Ellen Pepper

Put your boots under my table.
Let us feast on groats and wine.
Some cherries and a roasted beast.
Hours of reminiscences and fables, secrets and lies.
The fireplace alive with crackling and flickering flames.
The old shaggy dog at your feet,
alert to your surreptitious shares.

And your songs. The soundtrack of our lives.
You play your guitar and we harmonize.
From the pining of adolescence to the pains of parenthood.
The mellowing of passing years and the ultimate decrepitude.

Now the young ones stoke the fire,
prepare and serve the feast.
They hear the epic tales,
They'll pass them on in turn.

We sit and nod in rocking chairs near the fire now.
The ancient dog beside your boots, basking in the warm.
These creaking bones call time on the night.
There's hope that when tomorrow comes
we'll still be here.
 Together.

©Ellen Pepper 2025

Avoiding Mirrors

 

 

 

 

 

 

Avoiding Mirrors

by Ellen Pepper

Forgive the human inside your bubble of self.
You had no way to see how powerful your death stare was,
Until, of course, it slayed its victims.
You didn't mean to cause harm.
It was merely collateral damage.

When looking into a mirror, you are endangered.
You can also destroy yourself with that harsh judging glance.
Nobody is immune.

You raconteur.
You charmer.
You magician.
You inventor, creator of worlds.

You bring in the adoring crowds.
They want to be close,
to absorb and reflect your charisma.
Your left-handed wit enthralls them.
It's a fine snack.

They'll never be invited to a feast, though.
Only crumbs from the bountiful table at which you dine alone,
Smug and self-satisfied.
You have what you need and can always get more.
There is a world of opportunity waiting for you.

Who wouldn't envy your grace and charm?
Who wouldn't yearn to be your Favoured One?
Who do you see when you look into that mirror?
An angel, a demon, or... a human?

There are some who walk alone because they must.
There are some who walk alone because they trust
that they're better off being a human alone
 inside their sphere of safety
than to suffer the sling and arrows of intolerable fortune.
It's easier to forgive yourself when nothing more can harm you.

You're safe now
And at peace.
Enjoy yourself
It's sooner than you think.

©Ellen Pepper 2025

On Being Ghosted

by Ellen Pepper

Ghosted means
that silence becomes incandescent.

Ghosted shows
 the hand print on the window
where you stood searching
for someone who isn't there anymore.

Ghosted sounds
like the phone that will never ring
that one distinctive tone
ever again.

Ghosted reminds of
an intricate web of memories
that won't increase.

Ghosted feels
like being shriven,
but never forgiven.

Ghosted means
judgment has been rendered -
 you're deemed to be
disposable.

Ghosted is
the echo of a door
being slammed shut
repeatedly.

Ghosted means
there'll be no grave to stand at
to meditate on the loss.

Ghosted means
that you never really mattered.
There's no discussion. No mercy.
No regret.

Ghosted means
that you never have to say goodbye.

Ghosted means
that you never have to say
I'm sorry.

©Ellen Pepper

CENTER OF ATTENTION

by Ellen Pepper

Fred was a well-known and lauded member of the acting profession. Fellow thespians were in awe of his ability to enthrall audiences by embodying each character he portrayed on stage to the point that his own persona disappeared.

Fred had an overwhelming secret, though. A secret shared with no one -  
incapacitating stage fright. He hid it well. No one could tell that he felt paralyzed inside, his mouth too dry to swallow. Frozen like a statue with fear. Not wanting to be looked at. Not wanting to be seen. Terror.

It wasn't until he heard his cue to go on that his body would relax back into a normal human form. His grace returned on stage. He enthralled the audience with no apparent effort. He was the center of attention.

Fred decided that he wanted to be rid of this disabling feeling. He wanted to approach each performance with the same cavalier insouciance that he'd seen others exhibit before a show.
Therefore, he took himself to a therapist.

While in the waiting room that was used by several therapists to hold their incoming clients, he saw that a man sitting across from him was not doing well. He was hyperventilating and red-faced and sweating and groaning.

Fred leaned forward and asked, "Do you need medical attention? You don't seem to be well."

The man didn't look in his direction, just continued to give the appearance of someone about to have a medical crisis.

None of the others in the room looked at either of them. Fred found this to be unsettling.

 Fred asked the man again, this time a bit louder.

Suddenly, a door across the hall was abruptly opened and a shrew-faced woman, a therapist,  entered the waiting room and shushed Fred. A loud and harsh shush, at that. A rather rude shush.

Fred said, "This man needs to be seen by a doctor, he's in distress."

The woman snapped out, "You will not speak to anyone other than your therapist while on these premises."

Fred: "On the contrary, I will speak when someone appears to be in need of medical attention."

Therapist: "Silence yourself."

Fred, becoming annoyed and somewhat frightened, stood up and said, "Ok, time for me to leave." He headed toward the exit.

Therapist: "You have a session scheduled. You will not leave."

Fred, with determination, replied: "I've changed my mind. Some who call themselves therapists are far too damaged to be of benefit to anyone in need. I'm already broken enough, lady."

As Fred walked up Madison Ave on his way to Broadway, in the sunlight that was blinding after the dimly lit waiting room, the disconcerting silence of the clients there, their seeming lack of empathy, caused a shifting in his subconscious.
A memory rose up. A most important memory.
----------------------------
Fred was 5 years old. He was larking about with several other military brats while their mothers sat outside with them, enjoying a coffee klatch. It was a blazingly sunny, sweltering August afternoon. Fred was giddy with delight. He was the life of the party. Fred was laughing boisterously and racing around.

Fred was attracting comments from the mothers. They were telling his mum that he was very charming. His mother was not pleased or amused. Fred was taking the attention away from her carefully manicured appearance. She was there to create envy and her son was interfering with that plan.

She called Fred over to her. He could tell by her tone of voice that she was not pleased with him. He was accustomed to this.

As soon as he was near enough, she grabbed him roughly and stripped off all of his clothes, leaving him standing naked in front of everyone he knew.
"How do you like being the center of attention now, Mr. Show Off?!," she spat out with undisguised venom.

Silence descended. Fred stood there alone, exposed, the sun beating down on his vulnerable flesh. He clenched his teeth and fists. He closed his eyes. He became immobile, as if in a tableau.

The other mothers weren't certain whether or not this was a disturbing attempt at a joke or a misguided disciplinary action... but the boy had done no wrong.
One mother gave a small chuckle. Another tried to giggle but it fell flat.

Then all the mothers stood one after another and, without a word, took their children by the hand to return to their own homes.

Still Fred stood there - a frozen-hearted 5 year old statue who was once a happy-go-lucky boy.
His mother had gone inside to smoke her cigarettes and drink her beer.
------------
In remembering that incident, he was freed. Knowing when and where and why the fear began was the key that opened the door to being his own true self. The blight was removed from his soul and he began to walk a new path.

Fred had found Enlightenment on the way to an afternoon matinee. 

Smiling, he whispered, "It's show time, folks."

©Ellen Pepper 2024

THE LAW OF UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES

 THE LAW of UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES

 by Ellen Pepper

 

The other night, I found myself dreaming that I was one amongst a numberless throng. 

All were zombie-walking, empty-eyed. 

 

I stopped a One who seemed less programmed and asked why so many walked the same path, as if carried along by inertia.

 

He replied that they didn't break formation because they feared invoking the Law of Unintended Consequences and thereby setting the world up for chaos and mayhem, somewhat like the fabled wings of a butterfly flapping over the Pacific and causing a hurricane to result in the Atlantic.

 

We sat ourselves down on a convenient bench while I digested this information.

"Listen, One," I said, "Why has no One considered the possibility that changing programs in the middle of a stream might, instead, have a beneficial effect on the world?"

 

One thought for a few cut-glass moments, and then replied, "We are not programmed to think that good outcomes could be possible. Therefore, we cling to the known, which is obedience and conformity as ascertained by the Masters of the Program. It's just safer for all of us and we want to be safe. We need to be safe. The only safety is in walking in the groove made for us by those who have trod it before us."

 

"I see," said I, sadly. A moment passed. 

Then I stood in front of One, and asked him to sing a song for me. He balked, saying that it was not on his List of Things To Do Today and might rend the very fabric of the Universe with a mighty roar, enveloping the Solar System in the Rubbish of a Thousand Magnitudes. 

 

I countered with, "Or, on the other hand, blessings may result, benefics are also the outcome of breaking the Law of Unintended Consequences. Just so you know."

One nodded, considering the possibilities. 

 

"What should I sing?" he rather faintly inquired.

 

"Get Happy," I suggested. "Judy Garland sang it in a film called "Summer Stock". The lyrics start like this:

Forget your troubles
Come on get happy
You better chase all your cares away
Shout hallelujah
Come on get happy
Get ready for the judgment day

 

One stood with trepidation. "Can you hum a few bars to start me?" he asked.

I did. He sang. 

A few of the many stopped striding forward and listened.  

Some of the many saw the few and halted to hear.  

Soon, a One here and a One there started humming. 

Then several also joined. 

And then, in One fell swoosh, a full-throated thousand joined in the singing. 

Some began to dance.

 Some dropped briefcases and smiled. 

They smiled. They hadn't smiled in a hundred thousand years, it seemed.

 

The sun came out from behind the clouds. The Many dashed away from the city and ran into the greenery of the forest that too few had taken the time to visit in the grey and dismal past.

There was a palpable joy.

 

I took the One by the hand and suggested that, in future, more songs should be sung and many more dances should be enjoyed because the Law of Unintended Consequences could free as well as enchain by fear.

©Ellen Pepper 2024

 Thom's Side of the Story

by Ellen Pepper

        

        None of it was my fault. I know what people say. Some tell me to my face. They don't get it. Nobody does. Nobody ever tried to understand me, especially my father Charles. We were expected to call him by his name rather than Dad, Papa, Father - any of the titles that would link him to us paternally. He thought it made him seem younger to not be a parent.

        Since I was the first-born son, I was groomed to join my father in the family business after finishing college - not that Charles respected education, because he didn't. He just thought it would look good to have a degree noted on the company letterhead. If he could have gotten away with pretending that I'd graduated, he would have saved all the money he spent on sending me to school.

        I married Rita right out of high school. She was always my favorite girlfriend - her family had money and property. We lived off-campus and started making babies.

        By the time I started working with Charles as his assistant, I was already a father of three very noisy kids. I never managed to get enough sleep at night - someone was always acting up. Sure, when they were a bit older, we'd go on family adventures to parks and what have you but that ended up getting too complicated after a while what with the kids coming down with allergies and arguing all the damn time.

        My job was okay, at first. It was great being the Boss' son, people would defer to me even though I had no interest in what I was doing and no clue as to how to do it anyway. I found it amusing to punk people just for fun. I fired the people who wouldn't play along. Especially the women who didn't know how to have fun, if you know what I mean.

        After a few years, the clients started being too demanding. Always wanting deadlines met and saying the accounting was wrong and blaming me. When Charles told me to start paying more attention to the job and to stop causing clients to  break contracts because of my so-called incompetence, I told him a few home truths about how it was his own fault for not paying enough attention to me when he was building up his ego all those years ago.

        That's when he demoted me to the loading dock. Sure, I'd be the boss there, but his new plan was to bring in one of my brothers to take my job as his assistant.

        I was so fed up by that point that after work on Friday I went down to the riverfront casino just for a change of scenery. A former client had taken me there once and I'd won a tidy bit of cash. I deserved some fun in my life, I decided.

        And that was the beginning of the end of my happy life. Such as it was. I lost everything because the games were rigged. I kept trying to get the luck to come back to me and I know it would have, if I hadn't run out of money. I'm sure of that.

        My marriage was ruined, my kids grew up without me, I spent time in prison for something stupid and now I live at the back end of the old Mercantile Bank that will soon be demolished. I saw one of my sons at the shelter one Christmas. We lost touch after that.

        I know people would say it's my own damn fault that I lost everything but what did I have, really? What did I have of my very own? Everyone else had something. I had nothing, not even myself.

©Ellen Pepper 2024

 Thom Romen

      by Ellen Pepper

        Thom was first seen standing beside a traffic light pole on a humid, cloudy summer day. He wore shabby clothes, a torn t-shirt and grubby shorts.
In one hand, he held a neon green high-vis vest,  and a plastic baseball bat was in the other. On his scrambled sun-bleached hair was a red cap with white lettering. His sandals were held together with duct tape. Thom's face was dirty and haggard, his cold blue eyes unforgiving and antagonistic.

        Thom had turned his life into a clichéd riches to rags story. When young, he'd had it all: a well-to-do family, the finest schooling, an attractive appearance, and great personal charm. He married Rita straight out of high school and, after college, went to work as his father's assistant in the family business. He took his wife and 3 children to Episcopal church every Sunday. He hosted dinner parties at his home. Thom was set for life.

And then...

        One day a client pressured Thom to accompany him to the local casino. Initially, Thom was reluctant to lay down a bet because he was unfamiliar with gambling. The client was very helpful - giving instructions that were easily understood. Lucky Thom spent $60 and won $2000. Was he immediately hooked? Not really. He thought it was fun but he could take it or leave it. 

His wife, when told of the win, felt nauseated and fearful. She was aware of gambling addictions. She knew that Thom had become bored with his life. He'd become lethargic in the evenings, not speaking much and losing patience easily with the children. He'd given up on his hobbies and slept through what had once been his favorite tv shows. He lacked enthusiasm for weekend family adventures. He was emotionally detached. Ripe for the plucking if any temptation presented itself.

A few weeks later...

        Thom's ennui and carelessness caused him to lose a client's business. And then another. Soon, he was no longer allowed to deal directly with clients because his attitude  had become toxic.  His father's angry threats about losing his job soured his stomach. Because his bitterness was causing pain, and he wanted desperately to feel better, he recalled how pleasant it had been when he won money so easily at the casino.

He visited the casino on a Friday night around 4:30PM.
He did not go home until Sunday morning. His wife and kids were bereft. The police manhunt had found him in the casino and escorted him home. He was drunk, disheveled and broke. He'd maxed out his credit cards and won only $200, which he had then lost.
He and his family did not attend church that Sunday.

        On Monday morning, instead of heading in to the office, he returned to the casino.

Soon...

        Tears, job loss,  separation - wife and children moved away, then divorce. Then loss of custody with only occasional visitation because Thom had become violent with his family.

On the day that Thom was seen with his red cap, high-vis vest and plastic bat, he was on his way to attend his eldest son's Little League game. He'd promised to wear the vest so his son could spot him in the crowd. He planned to wave the bat to get his attention.

By the time he arrived, the game had been over for 2 hours and his son was nowhere to be seen. They didn't see each for 10 years. Thom's son found him while volunteering at a homeless shelter. 

That's where Thom had lived since leaving prison.

©Ellen Pepper 2024

EVANESCENT

 

EVANESCENT

by Ellen Pepper

Have you ever tried to hold a soap bubble in your hand? It's impossible, isn't it? Shimmering iridescence cannot be held. It's a temporary beauty.

Tarquin as a boy was gentle, delicate, charming and blessed with a generosity of spirit that made him loved by many and bullied by an envious few. He was radiant with kindness. His eyes were hazel, his hair a glorious shade of gold, his skin was clear and glowing. He was the epitome of grace.

As he matured, he realized that his duty was to entertain and amuse others while helping them to come to terms with the fact that they were differently perceived by those who led more prosaic lives. He cultivated loving friendships in a small community in his medium-sized town and all was well in his world. Until...

A party was to be held to celebrate one of the group who had been honoured with a prestigious award in the Arts for his lifelong body of work. It would take place on a Friday in June. Pride Month.

 Tarquin would be the Master of Ceremonies, because of his wit and the fact that everyone loved to gaze upon his beauty, in both the physical form and that which radiated from within.

On the night, there was dancing and good food and bonhomie and announcements and a talent show and laughter and a general mood of loving kindness and festivity.

In this town lived also a group of European immigrants who were driven by machismo. They felt resentment toward Tarquin's group for living a different lifestyle than that to which they were compelled to conform from birth. Their religion taught them that it was an abomination for men to love other men. Driven by devotion to a false god of hate, ignorance, and destruction, these men were determined to wipe out the scourge of what they considered to be freaks of nature.

At midnight, the riled up gang of macho men arrived at the nightclub where Tarquin and his community were partying. As one, they bashed in the entrance door and forced their way in through the crowd. Shouting like mad warriors, they made their way onto the dance floor where the music was still playing and men were dancing together. This enraged the group. Shouting and punching ensued. Shock and horror.

The music stopped abruptly. A fracas erupted. Ruination was done to bodies. Knives came out.

A man ran to his car to retrieve his Glock.

Tarquin raced onstage to the microphone and blew a series of piercing whistles. The fighting paused.

“I don't know what we've done to you men to make you want to hurt us. We mean you no harm. Please stop this battle right now. Let's talk things through before anyone else gets hurt. Let's be reasonable and, if you can't be reasonable, then leave my friends alone and take out your hate on me.”

There was a rush to the stage and the madmen surrounded Tarquin and damaged him. They broke his limbs and smashed his face into a pulpy mass. His friends tried to save him. The man with the Glock shot at the ceiling. Police arrived, summoned by someone who had maintained their presence of mind when the attack had begun. First responders began collecting the injured.

Tarquin was taken to hospital. Still alive, but barely.

Now, Tarquin sits in his wheelchair watching birds in the oak tree and kittens on the lawn through the large window of the care home in which he is forced to live. His gracefulness destroyed, his spirit broken. His voice with its dulcet tones stifled by the damage to his throat. One eye blinded. Permanent dents in his skull. He mourns the friends who no longer exist.

His youth and beauty were as evanescent as a soap bubble. Impossible to hold in your hand.

 ©Ellen Pepper 2024

 

 Alice and Mr Mike

by Ellen Pepper

Once upon a time, somewhere long ago...

Mr Mike held up a $100 bill and said something that was hard for her to understand because of his thick accent.

Alice: "You want me to be your girlfriend for a hundred bucks? Is that what you said?"

He nodded.

"I'm only 11 years old."

He laughs, "That's no problem."

Alice disagreed, "It's against the law, for one thing. You'd be thrown in jail."

He: "You don't tell nobody, nobody goes to jail."  Laughs less heartedly.

Alice: "My mother is in the hospital right now having another one of your babies. What is wrong with you? Your own daughter is my age."

He: "Nobody needs to know. You get a hundred dollars. It's a good deal for you."

Alice: "How would I be able to respect myself if I betrayed my mother and sold my body for 100 dollars to a married man twice my age who has eight children with his wife and dozens more kids scattered around the city in all the rental properties he owns?

You have sex with almost all the women who rent from you because they're poor and you give them a break on their rent.
There's a word for men like you and it's not something to be proud of.

 Since you're the father of two - no - three of my siblings now, I won't tell my mother about your good deal.
Don't try this with any other little girls or I will report you to the police. When you get out of prison, you'll be sent back to your own country."

Mr Mike hands her the money: "Keep this."

Alice: "Have you not been paying attention to what I've said?"

Mr Mike: "You take it. You are not a little girl - you talk like a lawyer. You are trusty and strong. I think good of you now."

Alice: "I will save this money to go to university when the time comes."

Mr Mike: "You are smart girl. I still like you. Is it okay if I ask you when you get older?"

Alice: "Don't even think about it."
-----------------------------------------------------
©Ellen Pepper 2024

GOOD MORNING, MRS MOORE

by Ellen Pepper

A brightly sunlit room, early morning.
A woman sitting up in bed and leaning against pillows watches a nurse preparing to check her vital signs.

MRS MOORE: What am I?

NURSE: Oh, you're awake. You slept a long time. As far as can be readily determined, you are a human being on a planet called Earth.

Mrs M: Why am I here?

NURSE: Ah, now that's the question, isn't it? The deepest thinkers throughout history have asked that question but I doubt that the true answer has been found yet. In your particular case, however, you're here because you've been in a lengthy coma.

Mrs M: What are you?

Nurse: I'm a fellow human acting as your caregiver.

Mrs M: Why? Why can't I care for myself?

Nurse: As I said, you've been in a coma. That means that your every need had to be tended to by others.

Mrs M: Is this the real life? Is this a fantasy? The last thing I remember is saying, "Good night for now." How long was I in a coma?

Nurse: You went to sleep in the 1900s.

Mrs M: How old am I?

Nurse: 93 but you don't look a day over 72.

Mrs M: Why am I still alive?

Nurse: I guess this is another one of Life's Mysteries.

__________________________________________
...3 days later...

Nurse: A reporter from the media will visit you this afternoon to talk about your life. He has a lot of questions.

Mrs M: He'll be disappointed. I remember nothing.

Nurse: You may be surprised - he's bringing documents and images from your life that may jog your memory.

Mrs M: What's his name?

Nurse: David Mitchell.

Mrs M: How old was he when I fell into my deep sleep?

Nurse: (thinking) He wasn't born yet.

Mrs M: Oh dear.
___________________________________
...that afternoon...

David Mitchell: Good afternoon, Mrs Moore. I'm glad that you agreed to meet with me today.

Mrs M: I didn't have a choice. It's good of you to stop by but I'm afraid you're wasting your time. I have a void where my memories should be. The coma erased my past.

David: Ah, but I come bearing memory aids!

Mrs M: That's nice, dear. Tell me - do I have a husband?

David: You did, yes.

Mrs M: He died?

David: (nods) 20 years ago.

Mrs M: Did I like him?

David: Most people thought so.

Mrs M: Have I any children?

David: You did. There was a plague and many people were lost to it.

Mrs M: So I'm alone in the world?

David: You have thousands of fans who think of you often.

Mrs M: Probably just wondering if I've finally popped my clogs. Why are they fans? Was I a circus performer?

David: Not at all. You were a highly respected actor. You won multiple awards. Here, let me show you a photo montage on this view screen.
(He waves his hand and images of Mrs M onstage and in films over the years appear in the air.)

Mrs M: What is this wizardry? How is this possible?

David: What? Oh, right, you fell asleep just as technology started exploding. Must seem like wonders and miracles to you.

Mrs M: Is that me? All those pictures? Was I that woman?

David: Yes.

Mrs M: What do I look like now?

David clicks her image into the air.

Mrs M: I am not that same woman. I don't think that young one was me.
I have a feeling that the reason I remember nothing is that I'm someone else just visiting this body. But why? What would be the point of inhabiting an old, decrepit body for what may only be a few weeks or years? What would be the point?
And, what if I am that woman just waking from a coma? Why bother to come back, especially with no family or friends ...or even the ability to walk.

 This is insane. 

I don't want this. I don't want to be here.

__________________________________
The next day...
A brightly sunlit room, early morning.
A woman, with eyes closed, leaning against pillows doesn't watch a nurse preparing to check her vital signs.

Nurse: Good morning, Mrs Moore.
Oh, your vital signs are absent. Oh.
You didn't stay long this time Mrs M.
Good night for now.

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©Ellen Pepper 2024

LYDIA & BILLY'S NIGHT OUT

 

LYDIA & BILLY'S NIGHT OUT

by Ellen Pepper

"Where is he?” Sitting alone at the table in a Stygian and cacophonous nightclub, a woman with a haunted expression scans the room looking for the man who brought her here to hear his favorite band. The music had been sublime and the evening pleasant; her companion amiable.

 

Earlier...

 While they listened to the music, a woman in a tattered crimson gown approached them and told the man that he looked familiar. Lydia glanced at Billy and noticed for the first time that he had shaved his beard – looking twenty years younger. There were a few stray short hairs near his right ear that he'd missed. She told their visitor that with his fine bone structure, he looked just as handsome. The woman vanished into the crowd after nodding her agreement.

The band they'd come to see left the stage and was replaced by another, much less musically appealing. She noticed that Billy had gone over to the far wall and was conversing with a man completely clad in black. They were smoking and wore serious expressions. She glanced away, only for a minute, but when she looked back, he was no longer there. He wasn't visible in the crowd. He'd said nothing before he left the table.

Unconcerned, she expected him to return shortly.

He didn't.

After half an hour had passed, she became worried. She had never enjoyed the frantic ambience of nightclubs or crowds, and the band was making a raucous noise. Lydia wanted to leave but she waited for Billy's return.

He didn't.

When she looked down at the table, she saw that he'd left two drawings done in black felt pen – one a self-portrait at his desk and the other a garish cartoon character with a malevolent expression. Disturbed, she put them in her purse.

She decided to check the men's room – perhaps he had been detained there with a problem. She knocked at the door but there was no answer. She entered and saw that the urinals had been removed – possibly during the social-distancing pandemic. The restroom was deserted but then a man with long, shiny ebony hair and intense gray eyes entered and asked her business. She told him that she was looking for Billy who seemed to have vanished. The man gave her an unsettling knowing look, washed blood off his hands, and entered a stall.

Back in the club, Lydia wandered aimlessly around desperately hoping that Billy was somewhere, anywhere in there.

He wasn't.

The feeling of abandonment was piercing her. There was no way that this errant behaviour could be understood.

As she stepped outside, she saw an ambulance leaving, lights flashing, but the siren wasn't on. A crowd had gathered around a large pool of blood on the pavement. Lydia spotted one of Billy's boots lying beside it. So was his knife...the one she'd given him on his birthday the night before.

©Ellen Pepper 2023

LAURA

 LAURA

by Ellen Pepper

The last time I saw Laura, she was sitting upright in a hospital bed attached to tubes and appliances put in place "to make her comfortable". She was conscious and alert.

Two of our brothers were in that private room - Laura laughingly called it "The Infamous Dying Palace" because patients who were leaving the planet soon were given their own space for privacy - mostly to contain the weeping and wailing of loved ones saying their goodbyes. Nobody wanted the relatives of other cancer sufferers to be exposed to the grief. After all, some people survive the disease, right? 

Right?

Our youngest brother was on a garlic kick - he chewed clove after clove of the stuff, trying to avoid "catching the cancer germs". When he hugged Laura, she told him that the stench was sickening her. He moved to the far side of the room.

An attendant came in to adjust the pain meds that came out of the wall and went into her plastic face mask via tubes. Strong enough to knock out a horse, the guy said. Laura wasn't even stoned. Just pain-free.

She told us that the doctors were planning to try out a new type of treatment in September. However, this was near the end of June and she was already at the stage where her pain meds were 24/7, so...

Also, when I'd first arrived that day and broke the news that a mutual friend couldn't make the trip down from Toronto with me but was intending to come the following week, she sighed and said that it would be too late.

As the day went on, we spoke of funny things that had happened when we were children and laughed until we cried.

We turned our heads and looked over at the sun-filled window, when the medics came in to tend to her.

Eventually, the time came for me to rush to the  station to catch the last train to Toronto. I touched her hand rather than going in for a hug, fearing to dislodge the medical devices attached to her. She insisted that I hug her hard because, "You never know when you'll see someone again."

When my other brother and I went out to the parking lot, I was saying something banal but was suddenly caught off-guard and started bawling. Bro didn't know what to do, so he was silent until I calmed down. Then he said that miracles can happen and to hold onto that thought. Right.

The next day, another brother flew in from BC to visit Laura. After talking for a while, she asked to have her headrest lowered and said that she was waiting for our mum to arrive so she could leave. She started smiling and pointed at the corner of the room and said, "Look! There are angels in the garden! Its Springtime. So beautiful!"
Laura had never believed in life after death. Religion was not part of her belief system.
Spirituality was laughable and a waste of time to her. And yet, here she was seeing angels.

Mum was late, as usual. She arrived after the angels took Laura away but, even so, a single tear fell from Laura's eye as mum grabbed her and wept. 

And then Laura's aura faded and she was gone.

June 30 1999. Laura was 29 years old.

  ©Ellen Pepper 2023