TRUCE

 

TRUCE

by Ellen Pepper


"Senor Líder-Salvia, I come to broker peace with you and your clan. We've been feuding down three generations and we've both lost kith and kin to endless vengeful vendettas.

 It's advantageous for all of us to cancel these death-dealing sorties. Let us come together in peace and cease acting like modern day Cain and Abel, Jacob and Esau, Hatfields and McCoys and all the others. We all share the same lineage, the same great great grandparents.

 Let us come together and take up cudgels against the Northern Invaders. They are our true enemies. They desire to destroy us all. The courage and testicular fortitude of our peoples can swiftly eliminate this imminent alien threat. The scouts have seen them near the caves on the other side of this hill and their attack could come at any moment. We must decide with haste. Our lives depend on it.

Even if we truce only until our mother country has been made safe, it will be worthwhile to give our descendants a safe and secure homeland. What say ye, honourable relatives?"

Stepping forward, Líder-Salvia declares with a gravelly voice, "You speak good sense, Eric Armskeeper. I will confer with my people and give this some thought. We offer you and yours refuge and sustenance for the nonce and hope that you are in agreement that it would be wise to avoid intoxicants until we take our leave of each other. We'll meet to discuss this and give you our decision on the morrow. Meanwhile, sup and be at ease. There will be no hostilities on this night."

Both sides are vibrating with tension and uncertainty. They are all in agreement that this is the wisest course to take to ensure the continuance of their breed but to trust the others after generations of decimation seems to be a bridge too far - too risky. Can they be trusted or is this a vile trick?

While they wait, the supplicants are fed and then bed down peacefully. 

In the meantime, Senor Líder-Salvia is conveying to his people the wisdom of accepting this offer. Again, the only argument against it is the topic of trust. The wrong choice, if it's a trick, could destroy what's left of their own people.
An alternate incorrect decision, the one to resist the offer to fight together and defeat the enemy from the North, could also wipe them off the face of the earth. They're on the horns of a dilemma. What to do, what to do?

They call in Larissa, the Lady of the Book to cast the cards in the hope of finding the correct direction to take.

She settles herself on the bearskin rug, sets out her reading table, and begins to shuffle.
"The first card, the Dove shows that this offer has been made in good faith and in the hope of finding Peace. 

The second card is the Dog, known for Loyalty. A trustworthy creature.

The third card, the Elephant has a good hold on Memory. Your relatives will show care and compassion toward you and will never forget that you took up the fight to save your peoples together.

The Enemy Card is the Serpent - chaotic, fearsome and untrustworthy. They can be defeated by cutting off its head - kill their leader and they'll lose the ability to fight. Their blood will fertilize the fields it falls upon.

The Outcome is made up of the Lotus, the Peony, and the Olive Branch - Happiness, Fertility and Peace. The Northern Enemies who yet live after the battle, will intermarry with your peoples and, ultimately, their mating with your womenfolk will end the generational feud finally and forever.

 It's up to you - the best choice would be to merge with the tribe of your genesis. 

The most skillful time to strike the enemy is at midnight because, like serpents,  they are more likely to attack before dawn or just after dusk."

Senor Líder-Salvia looks at his warriors. As one, they nod their assent to the Lady's advice. He departs immediately to confer with Eric Armskeeper rather than waiting for morning.

In agreement, the Defenders gather their arms and silently move toward the Enemy. A scout leads a small team to where the leader sleeps on the ground within a cave and his head is instantly separated from his body and carried out by its hair to be shown to his army.

Initially, the Northerners begin to do battle, buckets of blood are shed - but in seeing the head mounted on a pole being carried forth, they fall to their knees, their strength ebbing from their bodies.

They raise the Flag of Defeat and remain bowed down in humility before the victors who have mercy upon them and bring them into the fold as foretold by the Lady of the Book, Larissa.

In the end, goodness and mercy will follow them all the days of their lives.

 

©Ellen Pepper 2025

Image credit: FAUNABELLE TAROT DECK

 

 

Without Trust

            or, the radioactive glow of secrets. 

 

The sad-eyed woman seated at a marble cafe table gently puts down her phone and, with tears wetting her cheeks, removes her wedding ring - placing it on a saucer.
Taking out a notebook, she begins to write: 

Too many secrets cracked the cosmic egg.
Too many secrets caused a lover to lag.
Too many secrets dimmed the sun.
Too many secrets caused love to run.

Then came the time of silence and dark.
Cause love was in choke.
Nothing was said. Nothing to hark.
As sadly, for some time, no words were spoke.

Along came regret. 
What did you expect?
Is it time to return.
Or will true love just burn?

If not for those secrets,
All would have been well.
But secrets are toxic
They ring like a bell.

What will we do now,
when trust is demolished?
What's  to be expected?
Will more lies be polished?

Don't come to her with flowers,
or more prevarication.
She's had enough of mendacity -
it's seen as aberration.

You really should hide, 
Trust has been ruined
Without trust, sail away on the tide.

Do what is destined. 

She stops and gathers her possessions. Leaving the cafe she enters a waiting car.

"Take me home, Jimmy. I have to pack."

"Taking a vacation, ma'am?"

"In a way. It's actually an abandonment. In the end, everything falls apart."

A thunderstorm breaks loose over the city.

-----------------------------------------

©Ellen Pepper 2025

“We all have secrets. Most are guilty, a few are wretched and some are too precious to share.”
~ C.L. Taylor

Making my exit.

 I'll be making my exit at this time.

Don't try to find me because I won't be in any of the old familiar places. I will be subtracting myself from social media after participating in it since 2003. Twenty-two years is long enough to take the measure of any venture.

I've met some mighty fine folks along the way, along with the usual trite and banal trolls who try to bend people's minds with their cruel falsity.

It has been a roller coaster ride and I don't care for fairground amusements. The excitement does not counteract the discomfort.

The recent Summer Solstice and Wednesday's New Moon have clarified many things for me. It's time to be moving on.

I may continue to publish my stories on Substack and on my blog, if any ideas present themselves. Right now I feel bereft of creativity.

There's been so much chaos and confusion and turmoil in this world with no clear resolution in sight and I'm tired.
I'm retreating back into my hermit cave to restore my peace and equilibrium.

Thank you to all who have shown kindness and consideration. Bless all of you who have done the opposite. The lessons were difficult but ultimately worth it.

Fare thee well, those who are brave and stoic enough to carry on.

To paraphrase Douglas Adams, "So long and thanks for all the quips."

Signing off for now, 

Ellen Pepper

 

Magistra Margarita

 

 

Once upon a time...

"Gravity seems to have stronger grip in this forest."
"Yes, Your Majesty - it is the Force of Evil Incarnate, the Beast of Highfell Manor."

He has the Silver Chalice.

Magistra of Dimity Deep wants it.
She's riding with her guardsmen to the Dank Moor where Hugo, the Man-Beast rules with an iron fist the lifeforms unfortunate enough to reside there.

He is not generally regarded to be a pleasant or erudite ruler. In fact, his reputation is that of a cruel tyrant. He wears a dead ferret on his head to hide his shiny pate.

Magistra Margarita wants the Silver Chalice to bring about peace in the war between the people of her domain and that of the Technicians. It has gone on throughout her life.

It started when the Technicians began to decline to provide instruction manuals for the devices they had created. Instead, they presented arcane hieroglyphics and obfuscating arrows - untranslatable and useless to the end users.

The folks of Magistra Margarita's Land known as Yiim Yéetel Kaab deeply resented the Engineers arrogant disdain and refusal to present clearer and easy to follow instructions. This caused them to come together to oust them from the country.

All out war followed, which was unfortunate for the common people because the Engineers had skillz of which those not of their status had no access.
The wealthy folk declined to send their children to fight in the army so those of the poor were disproportionally killed or wounded.

The Magistra Margarita knew that this war of attrition was of not benefit to her country or its people because there were fewer farmers and harvesters and fishermen and nursemaids and generally anyone who provided a service to keep the kingdom alive and thriving.
She knew she had to get the Silver Chalice in order to complete the magic spell given to her by the Seaside Witch. She also knew that time was of the essence.

It was disheartening to realize that the only way to gain possession of the magic cup was to deal with the brutal Beast of Highfell Manor. He wanted to be the King but the Wise Elders declined to give him any more power than he was already abusing.

She had brought some gifts to exchange for the Silver Chalice. She also had several courtiers known for their diplomacy skills. They rode along with the hooves of their steeds sounding like thunder.

At long last, they reined up at the grim and forbidding drawbridge of Highfell Manor. The Brute appeared at the gate immediately and the visitors drew back as one in horror at his grotesque features - like unto that of a rotting gargoyle.

"Whatever you desire will come at a high price," the monster shouted, "You'll regret even asking for it." And he laughed offensively, quite without humour.

Attempting to give him the option of pretending compassion for a fellow ruler, the Magistra spoke softly with a lilt in her voice, "Your help is needed to help put an end to the warfare that is decimating my country, sir. Can you see the tears in my eyes as I weep for my people?"

"Ah ha ha. No. I don't believe those tears are real. I don't care how your country fares. Say...what is it you want? My seers predicted your arrival but gave no details. Tell me what you want and what you're willing to pay to get it. I may or may not grant your wish."

"Oh, kind sir, your benevolence is unknown among the nations of this world but I suspect it lies awaiting its chance to show itself. What I need is the famed Silver Chalice which you keep buried in a barrel of straw under the stairs to your highest resting room. With this cup, I will be able to cast a spell that will end the horrific uncivil war amongst my people. To gain this boon, I offer you great treasure."
Her guardsmen put trunks of gems and gold before the Brute who stands stolidly, unmoved by the splendour.

"No, no. no, that's not going to do at all. I have plenty of that stuff already. It means nothing. Now, what might bring me around to acceding to your wishes is to have access to your fine body for a night. It's very appealing, in its own way." He stands there leering like a drunk espying another large tankard of grog.

Margarita bridles with disgust, "Forgive me for indulging in stating the obvious, but I am not a commodity to be haggled over in this matter. I am the ruler of a country and am of higher status than you, little man. Do not invite my wrath or you will regret it."

"Well, then, in that case, this conversation is finished. Be on your way. Take your useless baubles with you - they're pointless when a giant of a man like me has vast storehouses of goods."

"Without the Silver Chalice, I cannot work the spell that will save my country. I demand that you exchange it for some other object that you desire."

"All right. I'll tell you. Since you are able to cast spells, change my hideous repulsiveness into manly beauty so I might attract a wife who won't gag whenever she looks upon me. For that, I'll gladly hand the Chalice to you and I'll even gift wrap it with strands of emeralds to match your glorious eyes."

"Will you avow before all the creatures of this world that your promise will hold?"

"I am a man of my word. I may be ugly, but I do have integrity. Besides, if you can transform my appearance, I'll be in a very good mood."

"Very well, then," said the Magistra. She takes some fetishes from her travelling bag and proceeds to mumble some complex phrases, then pulls down a lightning bolt from a cloud and aims it at the Beast.

He falls to the ground in a seizure, groaning and gesticulating, flailing about, heaving and writhing.

Then, just as suddenly, he settles. Sits up. Wipes his face with a towel handed to him by a page. And sighs deeply.

"I don't know what you did," he smiles through perfect teeth, "But I feel great."

Margarita hands him a looking glass. "I believe that I've kept my side of the bargain."

The Brute gazes at himself in fascination. He makes some faces to ensure that he's really seeing himself.

With tears in his eyes, he turns to the Magistra and bows down before her.
"The Chalice is yours. I am a man of my word and you did as you promised. I thank you, most happily."

The Brute became known as The Benefactor.
Magistra Margarita saved her countryfolk from uncivil war.
They all lived happily ever after.

©Ellen Pepper 2025

Yucatec Maya - Yiim Yéetel Kaab = Milk and honey

Salvation

 

You don't have to suffer, you know.
You don't. 
You have it within you to move forward
out of the morass that holds you in its thrall.
You ask me how it can be done.
You ask me if it can be done.
You ask if freedom is even an option.
Ask me, and I'll tell you.
I can answer you with certainty
 that it is indeed possible 
and even necessary.

One day, you'll awaken with your senses intact and the weight of a thousand yesterdays will be removed from your soul.
You will experience joy after decades of anhedonia.
The colours of the world will seem brighter.
You'll see rainbows and unicorns.
Okay, maybe not unicorns because they aren't real except in a young girl's heart.

Now, how it can be achieved is within your being. The solution has  always been there.
Look into your soul without flinching.
You'll see that your demons can only possess you if you turn yourself away and attempt to flee them.
Consider this option instead: face those bastards... because they didn't originate in you. They were tainted gifts bestowed by evil elders in your youth who delighted in witnessing eternal suffering.

Turn to face those demons. Look them in their haunted eyes.
Tell them that you love and forgive them their fears and terrors but you no longer wish to share your life with them. Wish them well and a speedy departure.

Then sit very still and allow yourself to breathe freely for the first time that you can remember.

Now you'll have the opportunity to forgive yourself for all the damage you caused  others to suffer while you were held in the grip of the Mind Monsters. 

Be helpful and kind. Don't expect that those who have been damaged will immediately be healed, but you can give them every reason to believe that your days of cruelty are over. You've made it through the hellscape before death could rob you of the opportunity. 
You have triumphed. You have found salvation.

©Ellen Pepper 2025

 

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