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