Message from a Stranger

 

Hi there... I'm John Williams and I live in Sudbry.
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!

_______________________

Hiya.  Still waiting for your reply. It's been a few days.
I'm pretty rich, ya 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 touched in 8 years.
I don't think she'd mind if I took my needs elsewhere.
Ok, I don't have a Subaru - I drive a Kia.
So, how about it? Want to meet up?

_________________________
Hiya, 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 honest 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 9 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 Tom-Tom Bledsoe Junior.

I used to be a welder.

It's lonely in here.

Please don't block me again.
Really! I'm a nice guy. Ask anyone.

©Ellen Pepper 2026

 

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

 

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 to welcome it.

 

A peculiar man with pecuniary slant

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 with the woman.

The man may not return this time.

 

Now, spying under the window

of his wealthy neighbour,

the man has a plan.

 

Seeing the family within bickering, 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 sits near the fire.

The master of the house waits patiently.

 

“I see there’s a point of contention tonight.

I can easily determine who is wrong

and who is right,

if you would only

Give me one thread to unravel this .”

 

The family confer.

One voice speaks, then another.

Then all speak at once. Cacophony results.

The mystical man begins to sing a lullaby.

 

As minutes pass, the shouting dissipates.

“The issue is resolved, to my delight.

It’s plain to see 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.”

 

The peculiar man takes his leave.

“Qui audet adipiscitur.”

 

©Ellen Pepper 2026

Je ne regrette pas

 

 Je ne regrette pas

by Ellen Pepper


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

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

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

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

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

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

Insouciant.

 

 ©Ellen Pepper 2025

Tick Tick Tock

by Ellen Pepper

Tick tick tick...

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

Tick tock tick.

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

Tick tick tick

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

Tick tick tock

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

Tick tick tock.

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


 ©Ellen Pepper 2025

Your Boots

Your Boots

by Ellen Pepper

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

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

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

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

©Ellen Pepper 2025

Avoiding Mirrors

 

 

 

 

 

 

Avoiding Mirrors

by Ellen Pepper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Ellen Pepper 2025

On Being Ghosted

by Ellen Pepper

Ghosted means
that silence becomes incandescent.

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

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

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

Ghosted feels
like being shriven,
but never forgiven.

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

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

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

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

Ghosted means
that you never have to say goodbye.

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

©Ellen Pepper

CENTER OF ATTENTION

by Ellen Pepper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Therapist: "Silence yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Ellen Pepper 2024

THE LAW OF UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES

 THE LAW of UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES

 by Ellen Pepper

 

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

All were zombie-walking, empty-eyed. 

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

One nodded, considering the possibilities. 

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

I did. He sang. 

A few of the many stopped striding forward and listened.  

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

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

Then several also joined. 

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

Some began to dance.

 Some dropped briefcases and smiled. 

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

 

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

There was a palpable joy.

 

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

©Ellen Pepper 2024

 Thom's Side of the Story

by Ellen Pepper

        

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Ellen Pepper 2024

 Thom Romen

      by Ellen Pepper

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

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

And then...

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

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

A few weeks later...

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

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

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

Soon...

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

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

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

That's where Thom had lived since leaving prison.

©Ellen Pepper 2024

EVANESCENT

 

EVANESCENT

by Ellen Pepper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A man ran to his car to retrieve his Glock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ©Ellen Pepper 2024

 

 Alice and Mr Mike

by Ellen Pepper

Once upon a time, somewhere long ago...

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

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

He nodded.

"I'm only 11 years old."

He laughs, "That's no problem."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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