A Most Amazing Man

by Ellen Pepper

This is a work of fiction. For those who identify as narcissists, do not take this personally. 

 

June 15
Greetings Edith!
        Yesterday, I met the most amazing man at the doctor's office! He gave me a nod, a smile and a wink, if you know what I mean.

He was sitting across from me in the waiting room and we started chatting. He laughed at all my jokes and told a few of his own. He mirrored me so well - he has the same interests and proclivities and he's a bit of a loner, too.
You'd never know it to look at him joshing about with all the staff. 

I can tell that he's a deeply sensitive man because he had tears in his eyes when he spoke of his dead dog. Really nice guy. There were sparks when he held my hand as we said goodbye.

We're going out on a date next Friday! He texted me as soon as he got back to work - he's a Planning Commissioner for the city. 

How's everything with you these days?
~Sarah
_______________________________

June 18
 Hey Edith!

It's good to hear that all your kids have graduated! Next comes college!

Well, we went on a date. Adam was very attentive and told me about his 3 failed marriages. It seems he always marries crazy women who take advantage of him. Poor guy!

The way he treated the wait staff was a bit disturbing. I'm sure he was just stressed out from work. He told one waitress that he'd hoped to have a prettier server to make him enjoy his meal more. I thought that was a bit much, but hey - we all have our ways, right?

He insisted that I pay for everything because he didn't want to be "that guy" who thinks he's in charge of everything. 

He invited me to his place because he thought we should have some private time to get to know each other. He hinted that we should also have sex to see if we're compatible. He didn't take my demurral well - his face got dark and stony. He cheered up in a few minutes but I felt a tad uncomfortable when he drove me home. He said he wouldn't kiss me because I was "playing mind games by pretending to be hard to get".

I'm getting a funny feeling but I'll give him the benefit of a doubt.
We have another date next week. I'll let you know how it goes.
~Sarah
___________________________________

O.M.G, Edith!
He took me out to Lover's Bluff and tried to kill me!
What a weirdo!

It started out nice - we looked out at the stars in the night sky over the lake. It was a bit windy, so he closed the windows and put the roof up. 

Then, I heard the doors being locked. Snick snick.
My gut seized up right away. My bowels got watery. Now I know what visceral fear feels like.

He lunged at me and tried to wrestle my top off but the seatbelt got in the way. I was punching his head to make him stop. I wasn't screaming, I don't know why but I felt very calm - as if I knew that the only way out of this was not likely to save me. The only way would be for him to be disabled and I had no way to do that. Or, so I thought.

Suddenly, I stopped struggling. I could see that confused him. He leaned back and smiled smugly, "I see you've come to your senses," he smirked.

I smiled - even though I was terrified - and said, "There's something I want you to do for me first, before we get to the main event." 

"Sure," he said, "but it better not take too long."

"Put your seatbelt back on. Let's take this car back a few hundred yards and then race it toward the edge of the bluff - stopping right before the edge! Won't that be fun?

He looked at me with suspicion but he put the car in reverse. While he was focusing on that, I reached down for the glass wine bottle resting near my left foot and gripped it hard. Then, after taking a deep breath, I hauled off and slammed that bottle right onto his head and knocked him out.
Then, I turned off the engine, took his keys, and ran like hell toward the road. I escaped. 

I escaped.

I don't know what happened to him after I left but he's never texted me again.

Sorry to drop all this on you, sis, but I couldn't keep it a secret. 
~Sarah
____________________________
©Ellen Pepper 2025

 

Felicity Valentina

by Ellen Pepper

She was just a run of the mill girl of normal appearance - nothing exotic or physically noteworthy about her in photographs.
However, when she walked...
Have you ever heard of, "She walks in beauty like the night..."*
When Felicity Valentina walked, people stopped what they were doing to watch her elegant stride. 
Shoulders back, head held high, a smiling glance at all who approached her - she was grace and poise personified. 

Her father, Guido, was in the family business - fishmongering. Selling fish that was caught daily right off the East Coast of America. Sure the cops thought he was a made man, but he denied it every time he was charged with murder. He'd come from southern Italy just after the war and was now a proud American citizen.
Felicity was the apple of his eye.

As she matured, her father decided to arrange her marriage to one the sons of another member of his social circle.
All of them had watched her growing up. She didn't become what is commonly considered to be beautiful but she sure looked good walking.

Several fathers vied to affiance their sons to her. She came with an excellent pedigree - her father was high-ranking in the group and he was also quite rich. 

A problem arose the day she was sent to the butcher shop to pick up her mother's weekly meat order. She met Sam. Sam McGillicuddy from... Ireland. His bright blue eyes pierced through to her core. She was besotted. He was smitten. Sam was neither Italian nor a member of her social circle. Their infatuation was doomed to be curtailed by his family or hers. It was just not meant to be.

Nevertheless, while her father was meeting with other fathers to discuss a dowry and special concessions - just like royalty in bygone eras arranged the marriages of their offspring, Felicity and Sam were planning their future together.
They weren't unaware of the barriers that would block their union. They just planned around them.

Meanwhile, Felicity's charms were growing. Men would moan and groan when she passed by, walking as gracefully as a swan on the water. Her hair was lush and fragrant. He eyes took on the shade of a golden sunset in autumn. For a girl with plain features, she became beautiful. Her bride price was increased. The young men of her acquaintance were drooling in anticipation of being the one chosen to take her in matrimony. 

One of them, Paolo Nuratini was smugly certain that he'd win her hand due to his extreme wealth, lofty position in the elite group of high-falutin fishmongers, his father's command of la famiglia, and his own predilection for escaping the consequences of being a complete and utter jackass. He thought for sure he had this in the bag so he didn't even attempt courtship, which was fine because Felicity cringed at the thought of being in the same room with him, let alone having to share a bed. 

Paolo had Felicity followed when he realized that she was not swooning in his general direction as all the other girls did. As a matter of fact, he was annoyed that she seemed uninterested in him. The private investigator showed him photographs of Felicity meeting Sam near the new opera house. It was obvious that they were in love. This knowledge infuriated him since he was accustomed to always getting what he wanted with no interference and he sensed that Sam would be a thorn in his side. He decided to warn him off. He sent a team to rough up Sam when he closed his shop at night.

What they didn't realize was that Sam had been specially trained in a secret combat unit. The men sent to beat some sense into him ended up in a hospital, quite broken in mind and body. This enraged Paolo even more and he vowed to have Sam exterminated with extreme prejudice.

What he didn't know was that Sam and Felicity had been warned by the seemingly random attack and had moved ahead with their plans to disappear from the city. Sam offered to de-bone Paolo before leaving but Felicity thought it would be wiser to just leave.

When next we see Felicity and Sam, they're aboard a ship headed for England. They decided not to settle in Ireland because her father's men would look for them there as it was Sam's homeland. 

In England, they bought a farm and raised vegetables that they sold in their little shop in the village. No children blessed their lives. Instead, they gave sanctuary to abused animals. 

The years passed, as they often do, and the day eventually arrived that age had robbed them of their vitality and health. Felicity no longer walked like a swan. Sam had lost his stamina and strength and his heart was weak. At that time, England had not yet made it legally possible for people to end their lives with medical assistance so Sam and Felicity devised another plan. 

They drove to the White Cliffs of Dover and, hand in hand, ended their lives there one sunny day.

__________________

©Ellen Pepper 2025

*She Walks in Beauty
By Lord Byron (George Gordon)

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
(etc)

 

 

Anthony Spring- A Good Man

by Ellen Pepper

 

What can one say about Anthony - one of the good guys that one only meets once in a blue moon in life. 

An honest man - he could always be trusted to tell the truth.

A compassionate man - he cared for the helpless, the innocent, the animals, the disenfranchised humans. He cared for those who needed caring. A fine man. A gentle man.

Anthony was a charismatic man - he held people enthralled with his words. People giddily queued for his attention. His very being was magnetic. He was known for his great good humour and quick wit.

A talented man who wrote with passion and élan about pivotal world events and historical fantasy and the human condition - always with thoughtful insights. He brought inspiration to those of the masses who hungered for a reason to go on while living in difficult times.

Anthony was a man who meant no harm to those with a pure heart. He was kindness personified if he sensed your purity of spirit, but woe upon the snakes in the grass who'd harm others. He went after them with the Knife of Doom. It was his mission to rid the world of their infernal presence.

Anthony was gentle with animals, children and geriatrics. For this, he was loved and trusted by all.

Anthony was a man of high empathy - it wounded him intrinsically to witness the pain of others.

In olden times, Anthony would have been the King of a settled and happy domain. As it was, he ruled the airwaves with justice and mercy by writing his missives of hope. 

 Despite all of this, Anthony frequently felt misunderstood. His way of seeing the world as it is often caused others to recoil because they preferred to have the world explained only with a generous dose of sugar coating. He couldn't ethically do that because, to him, that would be an evasion of reality. And Arthur preferred to inhabit reality. Even so, he wrote fantastical fiction that made it easy to rest oneself in another world for a brief hiatus from the cruel and fevered exigencies of daily life.

Anthony's generosity of spirit was well-known and applauded.  He mentored those who wanted superior instruction in writing, composition and communication skills. 

Anthony wrote songs that stirred the heart of the disheartened. 

Anthony Spring is not dead. We came here not to bury Anthony but to praise him. He should know now how others see him. He should know that he and his work are appreciated. Why wait until Death creates a ghost of him? Tell him now.

You're a good man, Anthony Spring - take that to heart.

  ©Ellen Pepper 2025

 

 

 Twyllo Snyder 

by Ellen Pepper

 

Twyllo Snyder had it all. Well, not really. He didn't have a whole lot of money. Nor did he have any property. Nor did he have a wife (anymore) or a child.

All Twyllo had was himself in a small apartment in a no name town and a predilection for writing stirring poetry exhorting the masses to stand tall and fight hard against the oppression of a dictator and his regime. He didn't even keep company with animals.

 Good old Twyllo was modest and humble, or so he'd like to believe. He grew up in a small town with several siblings, of whom he'd lost contact after they scattered when high school ended. They didn't really have anything in common, other than a indifferent mother and an absentee father. There were no happy childhood memories: no Christmas or birthday celebrations, no Thanksgiving, no nothing special. Just grinding poverty and second-hand clothes. 

Poor Twyllo had some brief encounters with girls and women as he grew older. He had several types of jobs - but no career, per se. He moved from town to town until he reached 36 years, and hen he settled in one place when he discovered the internet.

Oh, joy! Oh, happy days! Twyllo jumped into social media like it had been constructed just for him. He made "friends". He wrote and posted his songs and poetry in various publications.

One day, he made the acquaintance of another writer - Estelle. They hit it off and amused each other. For several years, they were in daily contact - chatting about the day's events and personal political opinions.  It was strictly a platonic friendship, Twyllo never let on by word or deed that he was interested in a romantic relationship with Estelle - as a matter of fact, he claimed to have no interest in any woman. He just treasured his work and wanted no emotional entanglements to interfere with the execution of what he saw as his duty to rouse the rabble against tyranny.

And then along came Rose. Well, now. Rose was sweet and endearing and always cheerful and kind. She liked the same music that Twyllo did and they hit it off by sharing their favorites with each other. Then they started speaking privately about their hopes and dreams and the facts of their lives. Twyllo was more the listener in this scenario - Rose more than made up the conversational gambits. Twyllo seemed tongue-tied when he wasn't writing. His thoughts came out on the page/monitor rather than from his mouth.

Estelle watched the relationship growing between Rose and Twyllo and asked him what it was all about. Had Rose taken her place in his life? Not that there was much to usurp - Twyllo was somewhat negligent in his conversations with both women. 

Rose and Estelle started conversing because Estelle knew some things that interested Rose. Now, Estelle had another acquaintance named Moira who saw a friendship developing between the two and felt left out. She did a few underhanded things to break up the incipient alliance - starting with privately communicating with Twyllo. Flirting with him. Teasing him. Showering him with feminine attention.

Twyllo, still somewhat naive, was flattered. He enjoyed having three women in his message box. They all felt they had a secret intimacy with him. He was very gratified, of course. Every morning, he made his rounds in messenger saying good morning to his women and after a day of chatting with them individually, one by one, he wished them a good night. Not bad for a guy who only ever left the house to get groceries.

Estelle started noticing that Twyllo was becoming less enthusiastic in replying to her messages. Then she saw the flirting that he and Rose were engaged in. Then she heard about his messages with Moira.

And then, Estelle wrote a story about all of this activity. Not as a soap opera but to process all that was happening and discover how much further she intended to travel down this road with two other women and a man who was merely tolerating the two who would drop everything to help him  with something - to promote his work, to cheer him on. To show him that he mattered.

Twyllo read that story. He told Estelle to "Never fear writing the truth." Then he blocked her. Never spoke to her again.

He then blocked Rose with no explanation. Broke her heart because she had thought that they were very good friends. She tried to ask him why he'd done this because, as far as she was concerned, everything had been going along as per their normal routine and then suddenly he was gone. No word of why. She was abandoned. She asked again and again but he never replied. His heart was a shard of ice. She didn't know what she had done.

The only person he didn't block was Moira. Nobody knows what happened to her, though. She went quiet, as well.

Twyllo continues to write his epic poetry and anthemic songs. 

Rose continues to wonder why. She had never been blocked by anyone else in her life and she was quite properly traumatized. It made no sense that he had shunned her. No sense at all. What she did know was that he wasn't moved enough by her pleas for clarification to even reply with a few words to ease her mind. A callous approach toward someone who had tried to help him. She has good days and bad days.

Estelle. Well, after initial shock and dismay over his poor behaviour - with him lacking the intestinal fortitude to explain what was bothering him and then running away without a word, Estelle went on with her life.  She continued to write her little nothings. She went out and about meeting new people and trying a novel approach to social interaction - meaning: meeting with actual living, breathing people and touching them. Estelle went back to walking in sunlight and avoiding the dark alleys of soc-med. Those haunted places populated by wee ghosties. Those deserted lands with tumbleweeds rolling in an arid breeze down lifeless streets. The buildings of shattered dreams where friendships used to live.

  ©Ellen Pepper 2025

 

 

 

A Man Called Patrick

by Ellen Pepper

 My mind was on a thousand thoughts cascading through my synapses as I passed a poorly lit alleyway in the city. A clump of white hair caught my attention. It was on the head of an elderly man lying on the pavement with a booze bottle loosely held in his hand. Something about him looked familiar and I fought with myself about going over to check him out. I knew that I should investigate whether he needed medical attention but with the thought that he was probably a homeless drunk who might want to remain undisturbed, I hesitated to approach him.

 Minutes went by as I considered the possible ramifications of interfering in this man's life. And then, he shifted and groaned - a groan that came from the depths of pain. I felt then that I had no choice but to intervene.

 "Hello." I said as I approached. "I'm not from the government and I'm here to help you."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Patrick PotatoMan.  Patrick...the guy who likes potatoes in a liquid form. Now get the fuck away from me - I don't need no do-gooders. I'm perfectly fine as I am. Be off with ya!"

"Ha ha - NO. I'm not leaving until I'm sure that you aren't in need of medical attention. Understood?"

And Patrick said, "Is this the part of the story when I break down and tell you the pitiful tale of my pathetic life and ultimate descent into mad, chaotic drunkenness to ease my existential pain? I'm not that ruined. Just go away. I'm not interested in chatting."

"Patrick? You remind me of a man."

"What man?"

"A man with the power."

"What power?"

"The power of hoodoo."

"Hoo doo?"

"You do. You remind me of a man."

Patrick laughingly said, "I remember that schtick. It's from the 1947 film The Bachelor and the Bobby Soxer with Cary Grant, Myrna Loy and Shirley Temple. Great flick. Saaaayyyy...you look far too young to be familiar with that. How old are you, anyway?

"Younger than springtime and older than the sea and that's all the info you'll get from me."  

Patrick sat up, leaned against a graffiti-strewn wall. "Well, since you don't appear to be vamoosing, tell me your name." 

"None of your business. I don't give my name out to just any Tom, Dick or Harry." 

Patrick chuckles, deep and low, " Tell me your name or I'll think this is a game and I'll disappear."

"My name is Sekrè."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sekrè. Do you want to hear the story of my miserable existence now? It'll cost you, though. I need more vodka."

"No, I'm not interested in your version of your life. I already know you from the theatre scene, Patrick Madison. I watched you have it all and then throw it all away when you got involved with a woman who devoured you from the inside out. I witnessed you gradually giving yourself over to her toxic machinations and losing your creative edge while she taunted and then shunned you. I saw her break your spirit - so, yeah, I'm quite familiar with your tale of woe. I'll get you more booze after we have some food and get you cleaned up. If you don't mind, of course. You don't seem to have lost your cognitive abilities along the way so you aren't exactly a lost cause. When was the last time you wrote anything?"

"Fuck if I know.  Or care. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Look, Patrick, if you were a feral cat I found injured on the road, I'd take you to a vet for a checkup. Since you appear to be human, I should take you to a medic. How do you feel about that?"

"I'd prefer to eat and then drink. Now, where's the grub?"

And thus began my friendship with the man I had admired for years - wishing and hoping to some day meet and charm him. I had hoped to become his collaborator in theatre works. I broke a little inside when I observed him being abused by a fata morgana - a femme fatale, such as she was...

After he was properly fed, and seen by medics and given drink, he was provided with a decent home in the subsidized residence for senior entertainers. That's when he began creating again.  When that happened, he no longer drank to excess. 

Last week, he asked me, "Are you my Guardian Angel, Sekrè?"

In reply I smirked and said, "My job here is done. Tonight I venture back to Alpha Centauri from whence I came."

Patrick chortled, " Say, that's a great idea for a play. Hand me my laptop and let's write it right now."

Patrick is back in the saddle. Halleluia.

 

 ©Ellen Pepper 2025

 

 

 

A Town Called Discord

 

A Town Called Discord

          or Matters of High Strangeness

by Ellen Pepper

A few years ago, in a town called Discord,
There was a merry group of chanticleers,
not roosters but their human equivalent,
larking about singing songs of dread combat in the outer world.
The flock angled hard for comforts and ease of cares.
Folk in the commune allowed them congress in the town square.
It was the good of times.

As time went by, the group began to shed members.
Some through ennui,
Some through mendacious harm,
Some to seek fame and fortune in the greater collectives to the south.

Bickering and shadow boxing dampened enthusiasm.
Couples became throuples and drama accelerated.
Accusations were flung and deflected.
 The bard defected.
Without his offerings, the songs grew stilted
and no one was able to compose the anthems of yore.

Remnants of the choir stayed true but merely whimpered without the stirring melodies for which they had gained renown.

Some stepped aside to sing lullabies to babies.
Some went silent, like unto ghosts.
Some were so busy that they noticed not the shift.
One took to recording the change for future reference.

Eventually, it all came to a halt and the remaining townspeople departed.
Some to join family in far-flung lands.
Some to their hermit caves.
Some just failed to continue living.
In time, the Town called Discord was abandoned.
Only sagebrush and tumbleweeds,
 sweet pea, and lilac
were found still inhabiting the empty roads
and hollowed out housing.
It was the bad of times.
 

The last hermit, in his cave,
 Inscribed on parchment:
"The human body is a cage.
Life & Death operate on a continuum.
While life is cruel and unusual punishment,
Lyrics need the music, even so.
Death is release from pain.
Sorrow ends in time.
The Town of Discord is no more."


©Ellen Pepper 2025

 

Ma Belle Dame sans Merci

by Ellen Pepper 

 

Tale of a Woman who felt Scorned

Gaze no more upon her formidable aspect.
She was a dreadful fiend with fearsome eyes.
She had power to enchant,
and to heal,
and to turn some to stone.
She lived in the distant west at night's border.

Percy was a charismatic man of elegant mien.
Did he set out to slay her tender heart? Of course not.
Fault him not, he bears no accountability.
He is an innocent man.

Our Belle Dame, Belle to friends,
saw him first on a Spring morning.
He was sat at a writing desk near a window
gazing out at the sea.
A quill in hand, he wrote of events of the time,
his opinions thereof,
and his plans to change the world.

They spoke. They laughed.
They found comfort with each other.
Belle saw him as the Ideal Man,
a paragon of masculinity.
With his words, he touched her heart.

Percy saw her as light and entertaining,
without being a distraction from his labour of love.
He had not an inkling of what lurked in the depths of her soul,
The darkness there, awaiting its awakening.
He was naive. Trusting. 

On the night that Belle professed her abiding love for him,
Percy drew away in distress.
He had no desire to wound her with the truth,
but he knew it was only right to say it.
His heart belonged to another - his dedication to his work.
No human could deflect him from his sacred task.

Poor Belle. At first, her heart felt battered and bruised.
After a while, the rage grew.
Rage against Fate, rage against Life and eventually rage against Percy who had sent her away with no further word.
And then, her Dark Side arose.

She vowed vengeance. Retribution.
She composed songs of rage and sorrow.
She wrote scathing missives and sent them via hellhounds.
Passing him at the agora, she uttered words of barbed impact,
delivered by tongue daggers.

Let it suffice to say that Percy no longer felt affection for her.
He felt dismay at first which then became disgust, despair, and finally contempt.
He abandoned his home and settled in a land far away.
He was more careful with women in later days.

Belle went on to marry a Professor of Humours in Athens.
He patiently tamed her violent ways with an ease
that belied his initial trepidation of her fiendish phase.
Her infernal rage dissipated and she was at peace.
When she died, a butterfly rose from her grave.

 ©Ellen Pepper 2025
image credit:  https://luisafumi-digitalart.com/product/medusa-the-gorgon/

Shapeshifter Street

 

Shapeshifter

by Ellen Pepper


Seen posted to a streetlamp in Manhattan: MEET ME ON SUNDAY

Clichéd rain-slicked street reflecting flashing  neon lights.
Man dressed all in black, hunting knife strapped to his upper thigh.
Walking at a deliberately formidable pace.
The sharp aroma of Cutty Sark enswathing him like saran wrap.
Tobacco juice dripping onto his black beard from the dip he chews.
Grimacing as he passes an alleyway reeking of freshly trickled urine.

It's Sunday now and he has a meeting to attend.
He saw a sign on a lamp post.

Sister Ruthless of the Blessed Black Whip, dressed in a habit of midnight blue, sits on a fold-up chair at their meeting place.
She's smirking because she knows that tonight is the night.
For a hefty fee, Sister Ruthless disciplines Saville Row-suited business men who feel that they weren't punished enough in parochial school. She charges by the amount of lashes she dispenses.

Since the man in black, aka Fred, was raised in an obscure cult - members numbering fewer then 300 - he has the belief that all formal religions are also cultish and finds them to be corrupt power plays. Therefore, he's amused by the BDSM outfit the faux nun wears.

"Hey, Sister Ruth! Tonight's the night!"
Both chuckle and they bump fists.
A man on a unicycle rides by shouting, "You can run but you can't hide, Fred! Tonight's the night!"
Fred laughingly says, "How's the poutine in Québec, Théo? Will you be joining us later?"

Théo points at his clown uniform, "Mais oui, Freddie, but first I must change to appropriate event attire."
Fred replies, "Don't go changin', tryin' to please me. Come as you are."
Théo pulls out an ebony silken cape from his magical clown bag and ties it around his neck, covering his clown suit. He takes up his position beside Fred.

 In the distance, there arises a tremendous clatter of hobnailed boots striking the cobblestones as what appears to be an army of very small men approaches.

 Théo swears under his breath, "Merde! Tabarnak! Are they hobbits??!!"
Fred gently corrects him, saying, "Hobbits don't wear boots."

As the army of little people draws nearer, the nun, the clown and the man in black notice that they are brandishing weapons - mysterious shining light-forming sickles.

Sister Ruthless, somewhat aghast wonders how they can possibly beat this team when they've never seen weapons of this kind before. Suddenly, the night takes on a threatening ambiance.

"Fear not," whispers Fred, "I have an idea."

As the diminutive troupe comes within a few strides of the three, Fred takes a menacing stance and without shouting, projects his voice to state simply: “I am obliged by law to warn you not to continue.”
Then, chameleon-like, he sheds his man in black human casing to reveal a nile-green reptilian form and the miniature army draws back in fear, raising their lit-up weapons.

Sister Ruthless snickers and says, "Fred has earned First Blood by causing fear. Will you concede victory and retreat now or would you like to experience the full panoply of what we have to offer?

The Leader of the opposers confers with his soldiers.
"We will fight to the death. We fear not the Shapeshifters. Our Land is sacred and we must defend it."

Sister Ruthless shimmers for a moment before she is revealed in her true aspect - an arachnid. A rather large terrestrial invertebrate...a scorpion.

Again, the small guys retreat a few feet. They mutter amongst themselves. The Leader steps forward, trembling a wee bit.
"You can only defeat us if we fear you. We do NOT fear you. There's nothing you can do to cause us to ..."
He gasps and pales as Théo unties his cape and slowly reveals his...
CLOWN SUIT!!!!

Shrieking in terror, some of the little guys drop dead in fear immediately. The invading army turns tail and tries to run away, falling all over themselves and each other, screaming, "IT'S A CLOWN!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!"

It seems that, of all the Shapeshifters on duty that night, the Clown was the most effective at routing the hostile enemy.

The dead tell no tales. What happens on the street stays in the street.  I know because I live on the street.  It can be dark and grim. Welcome to Planet Earth. (BJW)

©Ellen Pepper 2025

Overheard in a cafe

 

 

Overheard in a cafe

by Ellen Pepper

 

Harold: "Never take me for granite, Becca."

Becca: "It's 'granted'."

Harold: "No, I meant to say granite. I'm more like soapstone on the Mohs hardness scale."

Becca: "I don't get you, Harold. I just don't. It's like we speak different languages."

Harold: "Becca, I cherish you. I mean this sincerely. But we are unsuited to each other. You will never grok my allusions... and you lack a sense of hunour."

Becca: "Allusions or illusions? Words have meanings, you know."

Harold: (sighs) "I rest my case."
___________________________________

Alicia: "There is a truth that must be spoken. It's time."

Gwen: "Can we not discuss this in public, Ally?"

Alicia: "Oh, but we must deal with this in a public place because it makes it less likely that you'll have a hissy fit when I share some hard truths with you."

G: "There is nothing you can say that I'm not aware of."

A: "Oh...so you know that your selfishness knows no bounds? That you show a lack of concern for anyone other than yourself? That you are mendacious and manipulative? That you charm and then alienate everyone with whom you come in contact? You're aware of all of this and yet you have not resorted to therapy?

G: "Why don't you tell me how you really feel? Not that I care. You mean nothing to me now. I don't need people like you in my life. I'm leaving."

A: "Before you go, let me remind you of the time we were checking out apartments to share and in every unit you decided that you were entitled to the largest room because, as you said, you're a slob and need more room to spread out your stuff. Not for a moment did you consider a more equitable way to determine how each room was allocated."

"And how about every time a guy expressed interest in me, you'd sidle up and whisper in his ear that your mouth was available to give them an immediate "happy ending" and then you'd both head off to a private spot to complete the transaction. You actually did me a favour by revealing the losers for what they are. So, thank you for that."

G:  (gasps histrionically) "Is nothing private? Is nothing sacred?"

A: "Oh, please stop acting like a fragile flower of femininity. You know exactly what you're doing at all times. Don't roll your eyes at me. Let us never speak of this again. As a matter of fact, let us never speak with each other again. You no longer exist in my world."

G: "I will ruin you for this, mark my words! I'll tell everyone what you're really like."

A: "Yeah, right. Good luck with that. The people who know me already know all about me and have done for years. They know about you because you conned them all. You came out of nowhere and that's where you'll return. Karma always knows where you live. I'm done with you now. You may leave."

_________________________________________

Eric: "Hi, I'm Eric, Kristina's friend from the library? Are you Stacey?"

Stacey: "Hello Eric, please join me. Yes, I'm Stacey. Nice to meet you. Are you as nervous as I am?"

E: "Yes, for sure. I've never been on a blind date before. I'm not sure how to operate this sort of thing."

S: "Well, I guess we're supposed to just chat and get to know each other. It's not like we're getting married today or anything." (titters briefly - stops and blushes)

E: "I never plan to get married. Don't want kids, either."

S: (somewhat taken aback) "I see...So! What do you do for a living?" 

E: "I'd rather not say. You know what it's like when you sign an NDA, right?

S: "Actually, no, I don't. Have you ever been married? Is that why you avoid marriage now?"

E: "No, never. I just don't like living with other people. I spend a lot of time alone."

S: "Do you have pets?"

E: "YES! I have Arnold - he's a Ball Python. He's an Enchi Albino. Not dangerous and quite docile."

S: "You have a snake for a pet and you don't want to live with anyone else. Do I have that right?"

E: "Yes, that's just me. I'm a loner."

S: "So why, Eric, did you agree to come out on a blind date? What were you hoping to achieve?"

E: "I really don't know. Kristi said she'd make it worth my while if I met up with you so I said I would and here I am."

S: "Just how is Kristi going to make it up to you?"

E: "She said I could use her cottage to hunt deer during the season this year."

S: "Did she mention that I'm vegetarian and belong to an animal rescue group?"

E: "I detect some disapproval in your tone, Stace."

S: "Don't call me Stace - we don't even know each other. Look, thanks for stopping by, but I really don't think that you and I have anything in common. Let's just say goodbye and wish each other well, ok, Eric? So long."

E: "Goodbye then, I wish you well. Are you going to finish that pastry?"

S: "Eat it, Eric. Just eat it. Hasta nunca."

_______________________________________

 ©Ellen Pepper 2025

 

Sam's Son

by Ellen Pepper

Standing here at the edge of the precipice
contemplating the length of time it would take my body
to hit the river far, far below.
Such a blisteringly hot and sunny day.
I wonder what keeps me from jumping.

I have a new baby,
a son,
I am a Dad now.
He won't let us sleep
two months he's been crying,
protesting his birth.
I am tired unto death.
And I worry,
Telling me to stop worrying is like
 telling sand to become a tree.

Imagine, just imagine
if I accidentally fell over the edge.
Imagine.

I wake up gasping.
Was that a dream
or just the sound of thunder.

Again, I stare into the abyss,
Calculating how long it would take,
Falling into the void
Wind whistling in my ears,
Would time slow down
as it often does during consequential events?
What would kill me -
the fear stopping my heart
or the...

Would I drown first or
would the
splattering of my body into a billion pieces as
I smash into the savage rocks in the water end me?

Again, I wake gasping and sweaty.
The kid is squalling,
the mother goes to him.

Ah, here I stand again,
One stumble and I am free.
Let me just get closer.
Oh! The edge gave way.
I fall.
I fear.
The wind is cold.
I'm tumbling over in the air.
Such a long way down.
Time stretches out.
I cannot breathe.

The water reaches up to me,
coming closer,
This is the end of...



©Ellen Pepper 2025

Message from a Stranger

 

Message from a Stranger

by Ellen Pepper

Hi there! I'm John Williams and I live in Sudbury.
I've been reading your posts and I'd like to meet you.
You're so funny and smart and your avatar is hot!
I'm not married or anything. No kids.
How would you like to meet for coffee?
________________

Hi again! It's me, John.
You haven't replied. Have I said the wrong thing?
It would be great if you could send me some pix of yourself.
Just doing normal things like washing dishes or bathing.
Nudes would be really nice. I could send you some, too.
By the way, I drive a Subaru!

______________________________

Hi! Still waiting for your reply. It's been a few days.
I'm pretty rich, you know.
Everyone who knows me says that I'm a nice guy.
I could show you a really good time.
Let's start by meeting at a cafe?
_________________________________________

It's me, John again.
Okay, I wasn't completely honest when I said I'm single.
I've kinda been married for 17 years.
3 kids - all teenagers.
I have a dog. He only has 3 legs now due to the accident with the lawn mower. I thought it was turned off.

Look, my wife doesn't understand me.
And she's gotten fat and sloppy since we met.
We haven't had sex in 8 years.
I don't think she'd mind if I took my sex needs elsewhere.
Ok, I don't have a Subaru - I drive a Kia.
So, how about it? Want to meet up?
___________________________________
Hi, it's me, John.
Yes, you blocked my other account so I had to make this new one to ask you why you blocked me?
I've been open and aboveboard with you.
The least you could do is hear me out.

Ok, I'm not rich. I'm not married.
I'm in Kingston jail and will be for 12 more years.
They say I killed 8 women but that's a lie.
Those women died of natural causes.
I'm a nice guy, everyone knows that.

I'm allowed visitors. You could stop by some time.
Ok, my name is not John Williams.
It's Thomas Bledsloe.
I used to be a welder.
It's lonely in here.
Please don't block me again.
_____________________________________________

 ©Ellen Pepper 2025

 

Not Tied to the Whipping Post

by Ellen Pepper 

"Sorry, I've got no energy to tie you to the whipping post."
That's what I said after a hard day at the grocery stores.
"You'll have to punish yourself, no need to boast.
The clamps and zipties are in your set of drawers."

Just getting there had its lows,
with my Hollywood hairstyle all askew - 
 the wind gusting through the truck's open windows.
I entered a store looking like a shrew.

The produce at the first store was moldy and soggy.
The prices obscene; the staff were friendly.
The aisles were clean and some shelves were empty. 
The meat smelled of manure, the cheap steaks were $35.

The cheese was on sale, if you like the blue growth.
The yogurt, out of date a month ago, but
Tortillas were even older and quite tough to the touch.
The staff were friendly, though.

A short wait for a cashier 
who evidently was deafened since the last visit.
She was friendly enough, though.
Just emotionally distant.

The second store is for the well-to-do,
So prices are hilariously over the top.
A pint box of Mexican strawberries only $9.99
A sterling silver steak at $72.

All of the stores are humongously large.
So much walking is involved,
That I don't have to exercise at home.
And that's a saving grace.

At home, the putting away begins,
And ends about an hour later,
with chickens bagged and frozen.
And everything in its place.

"So no, honey, 
Not in the mood to rhyme this song.
I'm just too tired to kick you in the balls tonight. 
You go on and amuse yourself, oh, and
Sweetie? Can you peel me a grape?"



©Ellen Pepper 2025

Elegy for a Quiet Man

 

Elegy for a Quiet Man

Farewell, George NoMan.

by Ellen Pepper

He spake righteously,
if he spake at all.
How the plethora of charmed women
hung on his every word,
albeit few and far between they were.

His bristling black sideburns will no longer impress
the ladies who swooned.
His stately manner of dress decaying,
forgotten in his musty cupboard.

George NoMan is gone from this plane.
His like to be seen no more.
A quiet man, cards held close to vest.
Saying not an extraneous word.

No one can claim to have known old George.
He kept to himself. He liked it that way.
No ties that bound 'til life was snuffed.
No joys that taught of impending sorrow.

George had no animal companion.
He preferred to be alone.
No one to care for.
No one to care for him.

He spent his days creating,
A stockpile of witticisms
to share at arms length.
Not wishing for fame, not prideful.

So now we lay dear George to rest.
His mouth silent forever.
So many secrets kept within.
So many lies untold.

Our beloved George is NoMan,
   for the nonce - he is but a fucking ghost.

Requiescat in Pace

©Ellen Pepper 2025

 

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