Papagni Pages

Author: CP

  • Neal’s Protected World

    A wonderful world is hidden in the far corners of Neal’s mind. He created this world when he was four years old. It was safe and easy to get to. What Neal loved most about his world were all the people in his life that he knew would never go there. Neal would steal himself away as his real world got scarier.

    He would frequently retreat there, but he wouldn’t stay long — the adults in his life were always bringing him back. The journey was usually triggered by something he chose not to face. There was this one time when he was about seven years old playing in his room. He’d heard his aunt Jean and Uncle Mike in the living room, but he was hoping they’d stay there. A few minutes later, someone knocked on his door.

    He tentatively whispered, “come in.”

    It was his Aunt Jean. She was all dressed up for church. I thought I’d heard her giving his mother a hard time for not wanting to go with them to church. They argued about this a lot; Neal mostly ignored them: Neal ignored most adults.

    “Well hello Neal. Every time I see you, you seem to be a foot taller. What are you playing with? Is that a doll? You don’t think you’re a bit too old to be playing with dolls? Do you want me to tell your cousins that you play with dolls? Put them away and play with your computer games. Come on Neal, be a big boy.”

    He looked down and didn’t say a word. When his aunt left, he quickly retreated to his world, where dolls were okay and grown ups didn’t tell him what to do. His uncle Mike never said anything, but he’d give him a disapproving look if he wasn’t hitting a ball or playing games that boys played.

    One day Neal’s mother was in the kitchen baking. She called Neal’s name numerous times, needing him to run to the market for butter. She opened the back door and he was lying down in the grass. She shouted his name again and he didn’t answer. She marched over to where he was and screamed,

    “Neal, where are you?”

    He looked at her and said, “I’m right here mom, don’t you see me?”

    This sort of thing happened all the time; Neal’s mother lost sleep over his behavior. She thought it might be time to take him to see a specialist. She suspected he was not like the other boys his age. She didn’t dare consider what was wrong with him, Neal’s father wouldn’t accept anything other than “normal.”

    And why wouldn’t Neal escape whenever he could? His was a world where the moon filled half of the sky; where animals roamed free; where there were no other children or adults; it was quiet and safe and his.

    Neal was fully aware that at some point, if his mother and father discovered his world, he’d be forbidden to go there. He’d have to keep it secret. Marie, Neal’s mother was loving and kind, but she always seemed worried about him.

    Neal became a Boy Scout when reached his tenth birthday. He slowly began to feel more comfortable with his peers. Although he remained guarded where adults were concerned, he hid his reticence fairly well. One scout leader in particular took a liking to Neal, often coaching him on outdoor survival skills and recruiting him for special projects. After about a year of camping and hiking, Fred, his scout leader, selected three boys to do an overnight hike to a ridge, some 20 miles from the scout camp base.

    Neal was pleased to be included and excited about the outing. He and the other two boys prepared for the trip, ready to go at 5:00 a.m. on the designated morning. The hike was difficult, but not impossible. The boys stayed close to Fred as he led them to the ridge.

    Neal was feeling awkward that day; something was off and he couldn’t place what was bothering him. That evening Fred asked Neal to grab a five gallon water jug and walk with him to the stream for fresh water. Neal was happy to help, but feeling tentative about going nonetheless. They walked quietly for about a quarter mile. When they got to the stream, Fred put his hand on Neal’s shoulder,

    “We walked all this way, we might as well take a dip in the stream.”

    “But I didn’t bring my bathing suit.”

    “Come on Neal, it’s just us, we don’t need a suit.”

    Neal wanted to run away, but where would he go? He wasn’t even sure he knew the way back. He reluctantly removed his t-shirt and jeans and sat on the ground in his underwear.

    “Come on, your underwear is going to get wet, be a man and take them off.”

    Neal stripped down and ran into the water to cover up. Fred began undressing, keeping an eye on Neal. Before Fred even got into the water, Neal jumped out and headed toward his clothing.

    “Where are you going, you weren’t in the water for 30 seconds.”

    “It’s too cold, I’m shivering.”

    Fred walked over to Neal, assuring him that he could warm him up. Neal noticed that Fred was erect. He had never seen a grown man’s erect penis, but he’d heard the boys talk about it at school.

    “I’m okay Fred, I’ll just get dressed.”

    “No, no, let me get you dried off first.”

    “But we don’t have towels with us.”

    “Geez Neal, you sure do worry a lot.”

    Fred began drying Neal off with his own t-shirt. Neal stood by the stream frozen and frightened. Fred complimented Neal on his leg muscles, telling him that he had strong legs. Fred then touched Neal in places he did not want to be touched. Neal started to quietly weep. He hated how it felt. Fred tried to quiet Neal, but Neal began crying louder and begging Fred to stop.

    Fred eventually did stop. Neal quickly put his clothes on and asked to return to camp.

    On the walk home, Fred spoke softly,

    “I’m not sure why you’re so upset, all I did was dry you off. I like you Neal. You’re safe with me, I’ll never hurt you. Next time relax, I promise you’ll like it.”

    Fred wasn’t finished with Neal and months of sexual abuse would follow. Neal retreated to his world daily, sometimes for hours on end. Neal’s mother became so concerned that she decided to have him speak to a therapist. The only thing Neal would tell the therapist was that he was fine. The therapist referred Neal’s parents to a psychiatrist. The doctor put Neal on anti-anxiety medication; he told Neal’s parents that Neal was an introvert who suffered from social anxiety and communication issues. Neal’s mother was beside herself. By the time Neal was 11 years old, he barely spoke and rarely came out of his room.

    Neal’s school announced a Scout’s day. The leaders would be coming to the school to show the children what the scouts were about. They would be recruited to join at the end of the school day. Neal was sitting off to the side (as he often did) and Fred walked over to him to say hello. Neal’s teacher was observing the interaction and noticed Neal pull away from Fred. Beth immediately knew why. She had seen this behavior before. She now had a better understanding of why Neal was so often alone.

    That afternoon she called Neal’s mother and asked to see her after school. When Marie arrived, Beth was waiting for her. They discussed what Beth had observed and Marie was pensive. She was concerned, but knew that she would dare not share this with Neal’s father. Marie thought about how she might approach this with Neal and decided to sleep on it.

    Marie woke up angry and resolute the following morning. She decided that the only way to know for sure was to see Fred try to touch Neal. Marie needed a plan, she needed help, and she needed her son to be okay.

    She called Beth, Neal’s teacher. She shared her plan with Beth about having a BBQ and inviting Fred. She thought it would be best if they discovered Fred’s preying behavior together; erasing any doubt of guilt.

    In order to protect her son and avoid getting him upset about the invite, she told Neal that Fred would be going away for a long time and that she was hosting a barbeque for him. When she talked to Neal and told him that Beth would be there, he seemed relieved.

    Marie wanted to be certain no further harm would be done to her son. She would create a trap that would minimize the amount of time Neal would need to be with Fred. This was probably the hardest thing Marie would ever need to do, but Neal was in trouble and nothing could stop her.

    As Marie knew he would, Fred agreed to join them for a BBQ. She asked Beth to come a few minutes early to discuss the plan. She once again reassured Neal that Beth was coming as well. Neal’s father would be out playing golf all day.

    Before Marie’s guests arrived, she had work to do in Neal’s bedroom. She sent him to the market near the house for some butter and eggs. She found a couple of photos of Neal when he was two and three years old running in and out of the garden sprinkler without any clothing; she set those out on his dresser. She went into Neal’s underwear drawer and stacked four pairs on top of the dresser next to the photos. She then closed Neal’s door. When Beth got there, she showed her what she had done to prepare Neal’s bedroom. They discussed Marie’s plan.

    When Fred arrived, Marie immediately noticed Neal’s body language. She was fuming mad, but she knew she’d have to hide her contempt. Beth gave Marie a look in order to show Marie that they were on solid ground. Beth adored Neal and felt protective of him, however, today was for all the children Fred had ever harmed or might someday harm.

    Marie grilled some burgers while Beth kept her eyes on Fred; also making sure Neal was away from him and comfortable. She’d brought a new computer game she knew he’d enjoy. Beth was also certain Fred would behave himself in front of other adults. After dinner Beth whispered a request into Neal’s ear.

    “Here’s $5.00, please run and get some ice cream, your mom completely forgot dessert.”

    Neal gladly ran off to the store without Fred noticing the exchange. Two minutes later Marie acted concerned, but tried not to be too dramatic.

    “Hey you two, I can’t find Neal anywhere and we’re about to have some dessert. Beth please check the shed, Neal’s been working on building something in there. Fred, can you go up and see if he’s in his room? It’s upstairs.”

    Fred made a beeline for the stairs. In the meantime, Neal returned with the ice cream and Beth thanked him. Marie pulled Neal to the side.

    “Don’t say anything to Fred about running to the store, I’m embarrassed that I’d forgotten dessert.”

    Fred came down the stairs and said, “There you are, you little rascal.”

    Beth quickly ascended the stairs, noticed the missing items and called the police. She explained that there was a pedophile in her friend’s house. She asked that they come quickly and apprehend him.

    Marie had arranged for Neal to be at her neighbor Fran’s house when the police arrived. The police asked for Fred to empty his pockets. He resisted at first, but when they threatened to take him to the police station, he complied. He had taken the two pairs of Neal’s underwear and the photos. They arrested Fred on theft charges and escorted him out of Marie’s house in handcuffs.

    Over the next few weeks Fred was held in a corrections facility and investigated. Several boy scouts shared horrendous instances of sexual abuse. Fred Irving was charged on multiple counts of child molestation; he confessed and was convicted. He is currently serving a twenty year sentence. Neal is seeing a professional therapist who specifically deals with sexual abuse. He is much happier these days. The world he created in order to escape reality, is a distant memory. Marie and Beth have become very close friends. Neal’s parents divorced months after Fred’s arrest.

    State-of-Mind

    I was one of the lucky ones, I’ve never been molested. When I lived in Maine, a teacher I had great respect for, confided in me. He told me about a Catholic priest who groomed and sexually abused him for several years. It’s a world I had always shielded myself from; too unpleasant to think about. This man’s pain was greater than I would have imagined. I still think about what he told me and his journey to wellness. Predators of children need to be fully exposed and their enablers forced to deal with the damage they have permitted. In my mind, all parties involved share equal guilt.

    Paco has had an ear infection since March. After six vet visits, it has finally gone away. I know it seems like a small thing, but he was bothered by it and it was a daily struggle to keep it under control. Apparently, these bacteria are growing stronger, becoming more resistant to antibiotics and other remedies. My pet owner friends will appreciate my anxiety over this.

    I’ve been feeling vulnerable, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It forces me to examine my life and all of its parts. Looking in the mirror requires one to face the blemishes one might see. At the end of the day, I need to own my mistakes and forgive myself — grace for oneself and grace with others. I guess the only other caveat is the hope that others will fully accept me as well. If they choose not to, I need to move on.

    “We don’t have to wait until we are on our deathbed to realize what a waste of our precious lives it is to carry the belief that something is wrong with us.”

    ~Tara Brach

  • Luck or Earned Success

    People have called me a lucky bastard my entire life. If I’m being honest, I’m not quite sure how to take it. My friend Mark was told he couldn’t board a Cessna to the Maldives last year because the plane had a weight limit and they had met the limit. The plane went down on route and everyone was killed; Mark is lucky. I ask people why they think I’m lucky and they tell me it’s because everything comes to me so easily.

    I beg to differ. First and foremost, I was born black. I was born blacker than any other black person within 1000 miles of my town. Second, I was born poor. I’m talkin’ about the kind of poor you never shake; like third world poor. And lastly, I was a foster child. Do you still think I’m lucky? Do you think the shade of black you are doesn’t matter?

    Yes, maybe I was lucky that I was born in the good old U.S. of A.; a country where your skin color only matters if you need a job, or you want to live anywhere, or you want to marry anyone. Needless to say I had my struggles growing up. I want to tell you about all of my foster homes, but a few stand out.

    The Mississippi department of Social Services decided that my single mother was unfit to raise me. She worked at McDonald’s and left me home alone a lot. I guess our neighbors heard me crying and reported my mother to the police. I was only two years old when I went into my first foster home so there’s not much I can tell you about it. Subsequent foster parents told me that I was one of 12 fostered children in that home — Social Services had to lock those people up because they were trafficking the kids. Fortunately, I was too young to even be groomed.

    When I was five years old I ended up with this older couple that took me to New Jersey. They were nice people, but they were too old to take care of me and I ended up with people who were younger, but they only took kids for the money. Social Services figured out their scheme and shipped me back to Mississippi. My dark skin made it difficult to find parents for me.

    When I was 12 years old I was brought to a nice house Outside of Atlanta, Georgia. I could tell these people had money because they had five bedrooms in their house, wood floors, and a couple of nice cars. It was a Caucasian family of four — their two children were not adopted. I liked this family and this house a lot. I realized the only way they’d ever adopt me, was if I behaved well and showed them I was worth having around. They were kind people from the start, not allowing me to do more chores than their own children. There were rules, but they were fair and easy enough to follow. I was actually happy for the first time in my life. But, it wasn’t all good and easy.

    People stared wherever we went. Bonnie and Everett made it clear that Anne and Mark were their parents and I was a social experiment. I was meant to make them feel better about their abundant lives. I was fully aware of my role and I was determined to play the part well.

    The first thing I did was ask Anne and Mark if they would call me Scott and sign me up to junior high school as Scott. They said they’d do it with no questions asked. I mimicked Everett’s every move so that I wouldn’t stand out; blending in was the only way to survive. When Anne took me clothes shopping, I picked out clothes Everette would wear. Lastly, I pretended to enjoy every dish prepared for the family. No signs of the food I was familiar with and I certainly wasn’t going to ask for it.

    What I did ask for was writing utensils and notebooks. Anne was happy to purchase them for me. I was quiet, studious, and I stayed out of trouble — never mentioning my past and keeping my eyes on the future.

    About a year after I joined the family, Anne and Mark told me that I should dress for a nice restaurant because we were all going to dinner in the evening. It seemed like an ordinary family get together, therefore, I didn’t anticipate what was to take place that night.

    We were all seated and two bottles of bubbles arrived, one had alcohol and the other didn’t. Glasses were filled and the waitstaff left the table. Mark asked us all to raise our glasses. I had no idea what was going on, having never seen this sort of ritual.

    “This is to officially welcome Scott into the family. That is of course if Scott wants to be a part of this crazy crew. Do you Scott?”

    I was thrown off-guard; shocked really.

    “Scott, what do you say?”

    “Umm, ummm, yes, I would like that.”

    “Well, Scott says yes, after some surprising hesitation, he agrees.”

    Anne gets up from her seat at the table and runs over to hug and kiss me. Bonnie and Everett were coaxed by Mark to join her. This is what I’d always wanted, why wasn’t I thrilled? It didn’t take long to find out why my intuition was right.

    That was one wild rollercoaster of a year. My last name was changed to Stanton and my new parents had to figure out how to hide their regret. Some friends stopped calling, others made excuses. Invitations to parties and dinners became less frequent. My newly dubbed siblings were suddenly distant.

    For me it was an old, familiar story. I knew exactly why the honeymoon was over; I was once again alone; fighting for my right to exist. Anne and Mark tried. They said nice things, bought me nice clothes, they talked to me about piano lessons, soccer camp, and a racing bike. I could tell they wanted this arrangement to work, but I was cautious and dubious. I stayed in the shadows. I kept my head in the books. I focused on the prize.

    By the time I started Harvard, my parents had adjusted to the hate and Bonnie and Everett barely tolerated me. I did everything I could to stay out of everybody’s way. I got a full scholarship based on my SAT scores and academic record. Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) was not a factor, but I’m certain everyone assumed that DEI got me in. So once again, I had to work harder than anyone else to prove myself worthy.

    I joined every club, competed in athletic programs, and I considered the things in life that were attainable. During my quiet moments I often thought about my birth mom: why did she give me up? Was she alive? Where did she live? I’m not sure why, but my biological father didn’t enter my thoughts; perhaps I was fed too much propaganda about black fathers.

    I was sitting in Harvard’s main dining hall one day and a beautiful woman sat across from me. She said hi and asked me if I was enjoying Art History. I realized she must have been in the same class, but there were over a hundred students in that class and I had long ago taught myself not to look around or get distracted. She introduced herself as Claire.

    “Nice to meet you Claire, I’m Scott.”

    Claire noticed that I was socially awkward, but it didn’t stop her from talking. I listened, asked a couple of questions, and hoped she’d move on. Claire eventually stood up.

    “Scott, it was nice meeting you, I’ll see you in class.”

    I nodded and went back to finishing my sandwich.

    For the next few weeks, Claire sat next to me in class. She was friendly, but not pushy; I remained somewhat distant. I was attracted to her, but the number of red flags made me very cautious. Claire was white, ambitious, outspoken, and attractive. Any sort of closeness was way too risky. I concentrated on Art History.

    I noticed Claire’s absence for the next few lectures. At the start of her third absence, our professor asked if anyone had seen or heard from Claire. We all looked at one another and then I noticed everyone looking at me. Our professor asked me to stay after class; he once again asked if I’d see her. He told me that she had been reported missing a few days prior. I told him that I had not had any contact with her since the last lecture she’d attended.

    That night the police came to my dorm room. They asked me if I would go with them to the Cambridge police station. They escorted me out of the dorm while several of my fellow students watched. At the station, they informed me that several students had reported seeing Claire and I together. I shared how we were acquainted, however, that did not seem to dissuade them. The media got hold of the story and I was vilified.

    The police couldn’t actually charge me with a crime being that at that point Claire was only reported missing. Still, my photograph was all over social media and I was guilty in the eyes of a jury of my peers. In fact, the University was considering suspending me, I assume in order to show that they were being proactive about Claire’s case.

    My birth mother read about the adoption story and figured out that I was her son. My mother was in a much better place, often wondering about me throughout the years. She did a bit of research and found me at Harvard. When I received her message, I was elated. I had long ago given up on any hope of finding her. My adoptive parents claimed that the records of my birth mother and birthplace were sealed.

    We met at a coffee shop on campus the next morning. Her name is Cassandra. She’s smart and beautiful. She expressed no regret about her youth, having had a very difficult upbringing and very little opportunity early on in her life. She is currently an advocate for single mothers in Mississippi. Cassandra believed me when I told her I had nothing to do with Claire’s disappearance.

    A few days later, Claire returned to campus. She had apparently met a guy a couple of weeks prior. They decided to take his boat out to sea; she failed to tell anyone where she was going. Once she did think about it, she was already halfway to the Caribbean with no cell service. When she arrived in Jamaica, she discovered family, friends, and the authorities were looking for her. Claire immediately flew back to New Haven and apologized.

    What I found disturbing was that no one contacted me to apologize. All that I had known and worked for was in jeopardy at that time. I had no support from anyone except for my birth mother. I truly believe my parents and siblings thought that I was somehow involved with Claire’s disappearance.

    Years later Claire did manage to find me and apologize. She had some lame excuse about being caught up in her homecoming and not knowing I was questioned by the police. For a time I had considered suing Harvard and the New Haven police department, however, Cassandra advised me to move on. She said that I should channel my anger into graduating and finding the right professional position.

    Today I am a U.S. Congressman for the state of Georgia. My parents have often reached out to me, but I am guarded. Turning my back on them would come to no good. My brother and sister have their own lives; they have never shown remorse or interest and that’s fine with me.

    Cassandra and I visit often. I credit her with being elected to Congress. She is often by my side for official ceremonies. I consider her opinions and advice in everything I do. Someday soon, I hope to introduce her to my future wife.

    As a Congressmen I have fought for DEI; not because I am a product of its practice, but because I know and believe that the world is a cruel place for anyone who is different. Creating ways to ensure some resemblance of equality and fairness, is my life’s work.

    By the way, please call me by my given name, Jamal Jackson.

    State-of Mind

    You might be thinking, “How can he write in the first person, as a black American male?” Truth is, I couldn’t possibly know what it’s like to be a black man in America. It’s all conjecture and creative writing, but isn’t that usually the case? Men writing female characters and vice versa. A straight writer writing gay characters; you get the picture. I’m angry about the current politicizing of DEI in the U.S.; politicians and citizens wishing to further divide the country along racial and ideological lines.

    Being a minority in the U.S. is at a huge disadvantage on many levels. White men hold the power and they are afraid of losing it and they will do everything they can to keep it. Of course there are good white men and of course there are people of color who should never have been put in positions they weren’t skilled for; however, the numbers are disproportionate. Sadly, it has been this way since our forefathers won the revolution and wrote the constitution — all men are not created equal and they never have been. DEI is an woke attempt to level the playing field. As a woke white male, I support protecting the rights of individuals; further, I support any opportunity to ensure diversity, equity and inclusion in all aspects of life.

    I’ve shared this before and I still believe it to be true. I applied for a position over thirty years ago, when affirmative action was the law in federally funded institutions. I lost out to a woman of color. At the time I was angry. I thought myself the better candidate. I soon after realized that I was not the best choice and that the administration at the university had done the right thing for many reasons. White men have had the advantage in the U.S. for centuries, why not ensure that everyone is given an equal opportunity to succeed.

    I’m enjoying my stable life in Portugal; my home, Paco, my friends, and Portuguese/EU Politics (flawed, but progressive and working toward making life better for its residents). Dwelling on the rise of authoritarian rule in the U.S. is difficult, tragic and more than I choose to handle. Choose your platform and fight for what you believe in.

    “One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings.— Franklin Thomas

  • When Obsession Turns Toxic: Pippin Knows Best

    When Obsession Turns Toxic: Pippin Knows Best

    It started with an occasional glance over his shoulder. A crazy feeling, an odd sensation that someone was watching. Each time Peter would dismiss this notion, knowing that being paranoid is neither reasonable nor founded in truth. After all, he was a nobody, a non-entity.

    Two weeks went by and his cell phone rang at 3:00 a.m. Peter looked down at his phone and saw that it was an unknown caller; he ignored it. It happened again the next night and the next. He’d tried blocking the number, the same ring at the same hour, the caller persisted. It got Peter thinking about several people he might have pissed off over the years; there have been a few. There was that car he sold to this guy on Facebook Marketplace. It was a Dodge Dart that looked pretty good on the outside, but had been a lemon from the start — let it be someone else’s lemon he thought. The buyer’s name was Steve; Steve wasn’t very happy. Then there was this woman Sharon he’d met on Tinder. Sharon was a bit too needy and Peter tended to be emotionally unavailable. Her free flowing tears became a problem and he forgot to leave a note. Then there was this cousin who couldn’t handle who Peter voted for in the most recent election. He told Peter that blood was everything and Peter told him to fuck off and search for his soul, being certain he’d lost it some time ago.

    The ‘do not disturb button’ on Peter’s phone did not deter the caller. He became incredulous; refusing to consider how far this person would go. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he should pick up the phone the next time. Later that evening, as predicted, Peter’s mobile phone rang and he answered, “Who is this?”

    Beth said, “No need to be rude Peter.”

    “It’s 3:00 a.m. and I’m being rude? What the fuck do you want Beth?”

    “Just to say hello, it’s been a long time.”

    Peter cut off the call and turned off his phone. He sat and mulled over what he had done to Beth to drive her to this point. She’d stalked him, annoyed him with middle of the night calls, what else had she done that he was unaware of? Peter couldn’t recall how their relationship had ended. He recalled meeting Beth in Art History at Uni. She was attractive, opinionated, and approachable. They’d gone out for a coffee after a lecture on Caravaggio. Beth found him to be provocative and progressive and Peter believed him to be subversive and propped-up by the far left of his day. They’d had a heated conversation that got him all worked-up and horny; he had to have her.

    Peter hadn’t given her much thought lately, but come to think of it, Beth did seem a bit off; maybe that’s why he had run away so fast. There were moments he’d checked out, but to be fair, there was that intense passion; hard to resist and Beth knew it. When he did finally leave her, she wasn’t having it. They had a bit of a public screaming match and she finally got the message. Peter had been through similar break-ups before, so he shrugged it off. He knew he could be an asshole, but he was young and cocky.

    A week after he’d hung up on Beth, there was an incident that had him confused. He was sitting at his desk at work and a DM popped up on his Mac. It was from a woman he had dated over five years ago; her name was Lisa. Lisa insisted they meet as soon as possible. Peter was half hoping she was interested in seeing him again and half hoping it was something completely unrelated to their romantic involvement. He had a drink with Lisa the following night. She told him that she’d been contacted by the FBI. She had agreed to talk to an agent who questioned her about Peter and their history. At the end of a 15 minute phone interview, the agent told her that Peter was being investigated for treason. Lisa said that since she never had a problem with Peter and because she was certain he wasn’t capable of treason, she´d decided to tell him. Peter was upset about what Lisa shared, but he considered it ridiculous and probably a mistake. They both agreed that he was a schmuck, however, not cut out for crimes against his country.

    Then it happened again a few days later with Lauren, a girl he’d dated briefly in college. Lauren said the conversation with the FBI agent was brief, but concerning. It had gotten to the point where Peter thought he should contact the FBI to find out more about what they were investigating — thinking cooperation would help his case.

    The D.C. FBI office had no record of these phone calls. They told him that this sort of thing happened all the time; scorned lovers and angry neighbors. Peter put two and two together and decided to speak to Beth. He didn’t think calling her would be very effective, so he went down to the bar in the Village where they’d met.

    Sure enough, there she was having a drink at the bar. Peter casually walked over to say hello. Beth was unapproachable, in fact she behaved as if she’d never met him. He had never experienced anything like it before. He quickly realized she was playing games with him and he wasn’t interested in taking part. He told her to stay away from him.

    “If you continue to harass me Beth, I’ll involve the police.”

    Beth looked straight into his eyes, “I’ve never even met you, let alone harass you.”

    Peter just walked away. Things were quiet for a few days, leading Peter to believe his threat worked. That Saturday, he decided to visit his mom at her home in Queens. He usually just showed up and let himself in. As he entered the house, he heard voices in his mother’s living room. Peter walked in and there was Beth just chatting with his mom.

    “What the fuck are you doing here?”

    Beth didn’t flinch, “I came to see your mom, is that not allowed?”

    “Mom, can you come to the kitchen right now please.”

    Peter’s mom followed him to the kitchen. She told him that Beth had shown up at the door saying she just happened to be in the neighborhood. Beth had only been at the house ten minutes before he arrived. When they walked back into the living room, Beth was gone. Peter told his mom what had been happening and insisted that she not let Beth in the next time she showed up.

    Peter was out-of-his-mind with anger, having no idea how to handle the situation. After some thought he remembered that Beth had a small Lhasa Apso. He’d never been to Beth’s apartment, but he followed her home from the bar one night and found out where she lived. He watched her walk the dog from a few houses over. Beth seemed annoyed, practically dragging the dog down the sidewalk. Peter knew what to do and he had to do it sooner than later.

    A friend once showed him how to pick-a-lock; a skill he knew would one day come in handy. Peter wore a hoodie and sunglasses and looked down, in case she had a camera at the door. Getting in was pretty easy. Peter thought Beth had said her dog’s name was Pippin, so Peter called out his name. Pippin came over to him wagging his tail — he scooped him up and carried him to his car. The neighborhood was quiet. Peter drove off with Pippin’s head out the window, enjoying the breeze. He figured he’d have to keep the whole affair on the downlow; Beth knew where he lived. Peter fortunately had a roof garden, making it easy enough to stay away from the streets. He was certain that two weeks of keeping Pippin would shake Beth up a bit.

    Peter didn’t feel great about what he’d done, but clearly this woman needed to be taught a lesson. Pippin was a delight to have around the house. He was well-trained and a great companion, but after a week Peter’s guilt was too much to bear. He had searched social media to see if Beth had put out word that Pippin was missing, but he saw nothing. Still, he thought it best to return him to Beth. When he brought him back to her neighborhood, he didn’t see any street signs asking for help finding Pippin. It didn’t seem like Beth cared that he was gone.

    Peter quietly returned Pippin to Beth’s house. The little guy was whimpering and giving him the saddest face he’d ever seen. It hurt Peter to leave him. The following morning Peter was leaving his building and there Pippin was sitting with his doorman Sal. Sal asked me if Pippin was his dog because he’d seen him carrying him out the day before. He said that he was and Peter took him upstairs to his apartment. He unblocked Beth’s phone number and texted her that he had Pippin and that she should come for him. An hour letter he received a text from her:

    “Hey Peter, I know you took Pippin, but he seems to prefer you to me and to be frank, I don’t want him anymore anyway. So keep the little runt. I’ll stop bothering you, but you should know the gonorrhea you left me with was pretty shitty. I hope I never see you again . . . ever!”

    Ironically, Peter was fairly positive she didn’t get the gonorrhea from him, seeing that he’d never had gonorrhea. He didn’t return Beth’s text or Pippin. Pippin turned out to be a great companion and Beth became a distant memory.

    Side Note: My medical doctor ex read my story and wrote to tell me that he loved it, but that I should know that one could be a carrier of gonorrhea; however, not be aware of it. So then, Peter could have left Beth with that unwanted present. I thought it added a nice little twist and now I know all I needed to know about gonorrhea.

    State-of-Mind

    “I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.” G.K. Chesterton

    It’s been a while and I’m tempted to share why that is, but I’m thinking it’s boring and tedious and it might be best to just leave it behind.

    I recently had the great pleasure of hosting two new friends who live in my neighborhood. Both women went to the high school across the street from my apartment. It was one of the most enjoyable afternoons I’ve shared for a long time. A reminder of the joy of getting to know new people, the pride in sharing your nest, and the warmth felt when realizing you are in the exact place where you should be. It’s quite an amazing feeling and I am grateful for recognizing it.

    There has been a major shift in my life and my priorities. This new direction will inform me of my choices. I have come to realize I’ve been spending way too much precious time concerning myself with matters I cannot control. I have never been one to spend a great deal of time on regrets, but I also do not spend enough time on gratitude. My focus for now is taking stock of all that is good and satisfying and real in my life. After all, what else matters?

    “Enough is a feast.” Buddhist proverb

    Sometimes people write and tell me that I should either finish a story or expand on one; that’s fair. I will if the spirit moves me, until then, they will remain as they are.

    Thank you for reading and have a great summer.

  • A Sperm Donor’s Life Is Suddenly Turned Upside Down

    Marc was the kind of guy that nobody noticed. His quiet demeanor and average looks made him almost invisible in most social situations. Marc’s life goals were not meant for public consumption; he was discrete. He didn’t mean to hide anything from anyone, but he rarely mentioned his intentions or personal details about his life. People didn’t ask and Marc didn’t tell.

    His life was absolutely boring, just the way he liked it. He’d wake up early, read the news on his phone, turn on his computer and work remotely. Marc had very little contact with humans, his work being all about numbers and moving money around for clients he’d never met. As long as he completed his quota for the day, nobody bothered him.

    Marc pretty much ate the same food at the same time everyday. He had no desire to try new restaurants, drink at bars, meet friends for a walk, or watch sports on television. Marc’s aspirations were simple: keep breathing and stay out of trouble. There was one thing he truly wished for:

    Marc dreamed that he’d one day own a Ford Mustang. He had seen one when he was at an automobile show with his father when he was ten years old and it had been the only material thing he had ever wanted. Sadly, his job didn’t pay him well enough to afford a Mustang. He began passing time by thinking up ways to acquire enough money to buy one. He figured $30,000 might get him a fairly nice 1965 model.

    Marc had been able to save about $20,000 over the last ten years, still short, he was feeling anxious about whether or not he’d ever get there. One spring day, on the bus on his way to the barber, an ad caught his eye — a nearby fertility clinic was looking for sperm donors. He had once read that this sort of thing paid fairly well, so he decided to check it out.

    The following Monday he made an appointment and began pondering what they’d think about his candidacy. He already knew he’d probably never marry and therefore, never father a child. Donating sperm would be a very practical way to increase his savings.

    A few days later he met with a clinician, he fulfilled all that was required, and was told he could donate twice per week for $850 per month. By his calculations, he could purchase the Mustang in one year. Marc didn’t get excited very much, but he found himself smiling on the ride back to his apartment.

    The year passed fairly quickly; thoughts of that Mustang still very much on Marc’s mind. He had been scouring the internet for the right vehicle for months and had finally found one 45 minutes away on the city bus route; Detroit was known for excellent public transportation. Marc made an appointment to see the car and it did not disappoint. He was able to purchase the red 1965 Mustang for $28,000, leaving him enough money to have it detailed.

    Marc parked his Mustang in his driveway, where it was safe and where he could admire it from his living room window. He thought about building a carport. The old man he purchased the car from, told him about an antique car show that would take place in Detroit in three weeks. At first Marc dismissed the idea of going; however, after some thought, he decided that it wouldn’t hurt to attend.

    The Detroit Coliseum was huge and filled with many beautiful antique cars. Marc spoke to a few of the owners and he showed them photos of his new acquisition. People seemed to know his car, further, they encouraged him to show it off. Marc decided that he liked the other car owners, they were friendly and he thought that they all had a lot in common. He found himself diving head first into the culture. He found himself traveling with June (the name he’d given to his car, named for the month in which he purchased it), to various cities in the midwest. June was very popular at automotive shows; featured in many attendees photographs. Marc found himself making friends easily and enjoying his new life.

    When he purchased June he thought he’d give up sperm donations, but staying in hotels and dining out could be costly. He continued to donate several times per month. Marc had not given any thought to what happened with his sperm until one day long after he quit making donations.

    After twenty years of enjoying his beautiful automobile and making his way around the antique car show circuit, Marc experienced something that rocked his world to its core. Marc was walking around the Toronto Coliseum floor admiring the other antique cars on display and he recognized a young man standing by a beautiful aqua blue 1952 Chrysler Windsor. Marc was surveying the automobile when its owner, Stephen, walked up to him. Marc said hello, but he couldn’t recall how he knew the young man. He was frustrated and flustered as he listened to Stephen describe the overwhelming amount of attention the car had been receiving at the show.

    Marc tried to be engaging, however, he was stuck on Stephen’s familiar mannerisms. He decided to ask a few questions in order to determine how he knew Stephen. Unfortunately, none of what Stephen told him resonated with Marc and he walked away baffled.

    Some time passed and Marc forgot about the encounter. Fast forward a few months and Marc was shopping at a Kroger in downtown Detroit. Stephen, whom he had met in Toronto, saw him and approached him. They exchanged pleasantries and decided to have a coffee next door. Marc realized their car connection was strong and he wanted to know more about Stephen’s involvement.

    The conversation at the coffee shop was fairly ordinary by any measure. Marc would occasionally go back to the feeling that he knew Stephen. At one point he point blank asked him. Stephen didn’t want Marc to feel badly, but he suspected his response may have been considered obtuse.

    “You’re not that old to already have memory problems.”

    Marc just laughed it off, knowing he must have met Stephen a while back and has just forgotten where and how. They said their goodbyes and agreed to meet for breakfast the next day. Marc didn’t sleep well. Something was bugging him, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

    The next day, they met at the dining room in their hotel. It was a buffet breakfast and Marc kept bumping into Stephen at the breakfast bar. When they sat down at the table, Marc looked at Stephen’s plate and it looked like a mirror image of his own. They realized it at about the same time, chuckled, and shrugged.

    At about halfway through breakfast, Marc asked Stephen about his parents.

    “What does your father think about your expensive hobby?”

    “I don’t know what my father thinks, I never met him.”

    “That’s a shame, he might have enjoyed antique cars as well. Did he die before you were born?”

    “No,” said Stephen, “I was conceived in a lab, my father was a sperm donor.”

    Marc suddenly became very disoriented. He had to excuse himself from the table for a breather. Was he Stephen’s father? Is that why he thought he knew him so well? What are the odds? Should he say something? He never imagined this could ever happen; he was overwhelmed and confused.

    This Story From Here

    I’m somewhat invested in this little piece of fiction. I’ve thought a lot about these sperm donors who may have fathered many, many children. I’m going to expand on the story sometime soon. As I’ve said before, writing has been an organic process for me; I suspect I’ll be motivated to finish the story sometime soon.

    AI Feedback I will consider in the future:

    – The narrative has a unique and engaging premise; consider refining character development to enhance emotional connection with readers.

    – Ensure consistent pacing; some sections might benefit from tighter editing to maintain reader interest.

    – The transitions between Marc’s story and the personal reflection sections could be smoother for better flow.

    – Consider adding more sensory details to descriptions to create a richer atmosphere.

    From the www:

    A sperm donor could potentially fertilize a large number of eggs, with guidelines suggesting a limit of 25 births per donor in a population of 800,000 to minimize the risk of consanguinity. 

    Here’s a more detailed explanation:

    • No Universal Limit: There isn’t a uniform limit across the US on the number of donations a single donor can make, but the American Society for Reproductive Medicine (ASRM) recommends restricting conceptions by individual donors to 25 births per population of 800,000. 
    • ASRM Guidelines: The ASRM guidelines state that clinics and sperm banks should keep sufficient records to allow a limit to be set for the number of pregnancies for which a donor is responsible. 
    • Minimizing Consanguinity: The ASRM’s recommendation aims to minimize the risk of inadvertent consanguineous conception (where children are genetically related). 

    Current state of Affairs

    I’ve been very introspective lately; more so than usual. I think it’s mostly related to politics and feeling helpless. I know I’m not alone in this. I remain hopeful that a bleak outlook will somehow change into something more positive. A good friend reminded me that history shows us that we go through cycles; therefore, no matter what this is or where it takes us, this too shall pass. I’m hoping the collateral damage is not irreparable.

    Two things happened this week, both initiating reflection: first, someone close to me accused me of flaunting my lifestyle online. The next thing surprised me: someone I know well and think very highly of, asked me why I haven’t written a story in a while. I’ve thought a great deal about both of these occurrences. I don’t want to disappoint any of you, but I am going to choose to keep my thoughts on these topics private. I will say one thing and leave it at that: I am at a point in my life where what people say matters, because I think it should; however, what I think and feel about my own life matters more. I will do as I please and work toward goals I set for myself. I’m happy to know that there are people who would like me to continue writing.

    “Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. He who cannot look into himself cannot look into the world.” – Carl Jung

  • Coping with Politics: Finding Peace Amid Chaos

    Keep in mind: my thoughts, not gospel, not all based on fact, and not meant to persuade or dissuade. Merely suggestions for getting through the muck & mire.

    First and foremost, no matter how bad it gets — and it will get worse, I cannot allow what is happening in the United States or the world, to drag me down. I honestly believe Trump and his sycophants are attempting to distract, exhaust, confuse, and lead us to helplessness. To the point where many will just give up or even worse give in.

    Next, I realize as a childless, older adult living abroad, American politics has less impact on my life, then it does for others. Having said this, I would also add that the influence of American Politics is felt throughout the free world. Further, any discrimination, stripping of basic human rights, corruption, and/or abuse of power, directly impacts my life.

    Some ways that I have learned to cope (in no particular order):

    • By filtering all that I read, see, and hear. There is currently a lot of noise, news, and opinions about the Trump era. Some of it is of course factual and has grave consequences. To be well informed, one must be certain to sort out what is hearsay or false. I feel empowered by standing with those that know what they are talking about.
    • I cannot control those members of my family that have decided to stand by and support this administration. I can, however, distance myself from them and/or insist that they not try to persuade me to join them.
    • When you are in pain or discomfort, the best thing you can do is find a healthy way to soothe the pain. Go to the gym, immerse yourself in your hobbies, watch mindless films, have a glass of good wine, a well-made cocktail, or a cold beer, read, go for a hike or walk alone or with a friend.
    • Keep a journal. Clear out your mind on paper; it helps keep things in perspective without sweeping your thoughts under the carpet or worse, denying they exist.
    • Speak your truth when questioned. Hiding your thoughts or your truth, can ruin a relationship and make you feel guilty or angry with yourself.
    • Always keep in mind that this too shall pass. There have been times in history when adversity led to more progressive change.
    • Get away. Nothing is better for clearing my head than a change of scenery.
    • Make a worst case scenario plan. Always better to be prepared.
    • Be a bit frugal, just in case you need funds in the future.
    • Pick your battles. You cannot take everyone and everything on. Write to your congressmen and senators, vote in every election, and campaign if you can — even if it’s on a grass roots level.
    • Celebrate the small victories.
    • Cook and/or eat comforting food.
    • Spend time with a friend or loved one that is like-minded and supports one another. Try to avoid a negative rabbit hole.
    • Having taken advantage of therapy for much of my life, I am a strong advocate of finding a professional you can trust and talk to. A psychiatrist may be more appropriate; especially if medication is to be prescribed. Medication can be a lifeline for those suffering from depression or mental illness. No shame in self-care.
    • Meditation is a very effective tool. I find sitting in a quiet space and concentrating on my breathing, works well for keeping outside influences in perspective.
    • I discovered gratitude not too long ago. Taking stock of all of the people you love who love you in return, and the gifts provided by the universe, is an excellent reminder of how good it is to be alive. And then there are pets to bring you joy.
    • Lastly, getting rid of toxic individuals in your life is essential for good mental health. People in your life who are broken, may attempt to bring you down with them — don’t allow it. If necessary and when necessary, walk away.

    Whatever works for you, is the way to manage the chaos and strife; so long as you have tools.

    What we have is worth fighting for

    Oh How these words spoke to me

    “We shall not cease from exploration
    And the end of all our exploring
    Will be to arrive where we started
    And know the place for the first time.”

    T.S. Elliot

    I’m worried about a few people in my life that are feeling defeated and suffering from intense melancholy. I hope that they come to realize that there are ways to rise above the negativity. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not enough.

    I’ve been enjoying listening to Mel Robbins on her podcast. The Let Them Theory makes a great deal of sense. https://www.melrobbins.com/podcasts/episode-70

  • From Spin Class to Suspicion: A Cautionary Tale

    Peg sat at her kitchen table pondering how she was going to get to work. Her car died in the driveway the night before and her bank account was pretty much depleted. She’s had a rough time of it lately; she’s had a rough time of it her entire life. Born in Detroit, immigrant parents from Slovenia, nothing had ever come easy. Except that she is smart; she’s smart and she’s resourceful. And despite the dead car and her financial situation, things were looking up.

    About a year ago, when Peg was cleaning up after a spin class, she was approached by someone who had been with her in class.

    “Hi, I’m Sheila. I think we both take the same spin class on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

    “Hi, I’m Peg.”

    “Tough class today, huh?”

    “Yeah, I’m pretty beat.”

    “Would you be interested in getting coffee after class sometime?”

    Peg was tentative; she told Sheila that it would be nice, but she usually had to run to work after class. The two agreed to try to work it out.

    Weeks went by, Sheila would wave to Peg in class, but neither woman would ask the other for coffee. On a beautiful spring day in April, Peg decided to go into work a bit later than usual. After spin, she walked over to Sheila to see if a walk over to the coffee shop might be possible. Sheila seemed delighted and ten minutes later they were sitting across from one another at Cuppa Joe’s.

    Peg was curious to learn more about her new acquaintance. Sheila seemed so sure of herself and not at all vain. Peg also wondered why Sheila had approached her in the first place. She was suspicious of anyone who seemed to want anything to do with her. But Sheila was different, genuinely sweet and engaging.

    Sheila asked Peg where she worked, if she was married and whether or not she had children. There seemed to be no judgment, only a desire to learn more about her new acquaintance. Peg held back. She was afraid to scare Sheila away.

    Sheila wouldn’t have been scared away. She looked for people like Peg and preyed on them. It would start with coffee. She played a mean game of finding unsuspecting women at their lowest and bringing them down further still. Each successful takedown, empowered Sheila more. Prior to meeting Peg, she has destroyed the lives of over ten women. Perhaps Peg would be her next victim.

    After several weeks of coffee dates and pleasant walks, Sheila asked Peg if she’d like to come over Saturday for dinner and a sleepover. Peg had never been asked to share this sort of intimate evening before. She hesitated accepting Sheila’s invitation, knowing she’d never be able to reciprocate. Before she could even respond, Sheila said:

    “Listen Peg, I know you hardly know me, but you don’t have to worry, I’m not expecting that you’ll have me over to your place. I have a guest bedroom with an ensuite and I love having people over. It will give us a chance to really get to know one another and share some silly girl time.”

    Peg happily agreed to Sheila’s invite. She said she’d be responsible for the cocktails, having tended bar out of high school. Sheila seemed delighted.

    Sheila’s home was absolutely gorgeous. Everything was in its place and the decor was tasteful. Peg was shy at first, hesitant to look around and barely touched the appetizers Sheila put out. She liked her own cocktails and Sheila seemed to enjoy them as well — Sheila sure did knock them back.

    As the evening progressed, they ate less and talked more; well it was mostly Peg who talked. Sheila asked a lot of questions, complimented Peg a lot, and listened. Peg had never had a friend care so much about how she felt and what she thought. She believed she had hit the jackpot. They finally went to bed at 3:00 a.m. Sheila got up early, letting Peg sleep until noon. Peg felt terribly guilty and made an excuse about having an appointment.

    The two texted one another that night and the following day. Peg didn’t want to be pushy, but she was anxious to make future plans. Sheila sensed Peg’s excitement, making sure to fill Peg’s dance card for the next two weeks. After five or six ladies outings, Peg started to question Sheila’s character. She rarely spoke about herself and after all that time, Peg knew little to nothing about her. Being mysterious is one thing, but Sheila was almost certainly hiding something.

    The second sleepover was scheduled for Saturday, three weeks after the first sleepover. Sheila was as excited as the first time and requested Peg’s bartending magic be repeated. The two were about an hour in and Sheila realized she had no coffee beans for the morning. Peg told her not to worry, but she insisted that she could be at the grocer and back in 10 minutes. She asked Peg to watch a bit of television, promising to return quickly.

    Peg sat on the sofa for a bit, thinking about the house and how stunningly beautiful it was. She also realized that she had never seen Sheila’s bedroom. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to venture upstairs for a peek. She opened Sheila’s bedroom door and her jaw dropped. She had never seen a more beautiful bedroom, wondering why Sheila had not shown it off. She walked around the room admiring all of Sheila’s beautiful things. Out of the corner of eye she spotted a vanity in an adjacent dressing room. She had always dreamed of having her very own vanity. She walked over to glance at Sheila’s jewelry and cosmetics, noticing many labeled glass vials. She picked one up to examine it. It was a stick on label with a female name. She didn’t recognize it as a perfume; in fact she had no idea what the vial contained — it was clear and odorless. It bottle read, The Essence of Susan. She picked up another, The Essence of Lisa, and there were a dozen others like this. Peg found herself confused and frightened by this discovery. She went back downstairs and waited for Sheila to return.

    As she waited, Peg realized that she needed to somehow find out who the names on the vials represented. Were they friends of Sheila? Did Sheila formerly work for a perfume company? Where did these bottles come from? She sensed something was off, but she couldn’t quite shake her worry. She decided to stop drinking that evening without letting on to Sheila. She would discreetly pour out the contents of her glass in the bathroom sink. She needed to be fully alert for the rest of the evening.

    Sheila returned with coffee beans and some other things she said she needed. She didn’t waste any time asking Peg to make some cocktails. She even said,

    “We are going to get drunk tonight.”

    Peg just laughed and started their drinks, making sure to put very little vodka in her own glass. Sheila prepared dinner, providing Peg with an opportunity to ask her some probing questions. Sheila was evasive and guarded. She danced around responses about friends, past boyfriends, and family. Peg acted as though it didn’t matter. She even started slurring a bit to throw Sheila off. Sheila did eventually let down her guard just enough to reveal a bit of her past.

    Sheila accidently mentioned two friends that she said she no longer spends time with. Peg had an idea where she might find them. She behaved as if she was about to pass out and told Sheila she was going to bed. Later, she sensed Sheila was in the bedroom, but Sheila stayed far from the bed. She spent about ten minutes in the ensuite. Peg was now certain something was not right and she needed answers.

    Peg spent the next few days tracking down Sheila’s friends. She asked around at Cuppa Joe’s and learned that two of Sheila’s friends used to go to the coffee shop after spin class. She spoke to their spin instructor and found out where at least one of the two women lived. She decided she’d pay Leila a visit that week.

    Leila answered her door. She was obviously very weak and out of sorts. Peg asked her if she could come inside and speak to her about Sheila. Leila said that she didn’t really see Sheila anymore, but she was happy to speak to Peg. They sat down in Leila’s living room. Peg was struck by how this young woman looked older than her years. It was also clear that Leila was once very beautiful. Leila described how she had become friends with Sheila and how little she knew about her. She said she’d slept over Sheila’s a few times and that they’d had a great time. Leila said that she recently became very ill, unfortunately unable to work or see people. Peg asked her if she knew of any other friends in Sheila’s life. Leila told her she had once met Angela who lived across from Cuppa Joe’s. She gave Peg a description of Angela and the two said their goodbyes.

    Peg went to the coffee shop the next day, sitting and watching the building across the street. Finally, after a couple of hours of hoping to spot Angela, she left her building and walked across the street toward the coffee shop. She didn’t seem to be stopping there, so Peg had to leave the shop and chase her down. Angela was not as cooperative as Leila had been. She was in a big hurry and appeared extremely disoriented. The only thing she would say is that she had not seen or heard from Sheila in a long time. Peg asked her if Sheila had ever done anything to hurt her, Angela replied:

    “Not to my knowledge, but I haven’t been the same since meeting her.”

    Peg was convinced that Sheila had done something terrible to these women. She suspected that Sheila may have copied her keys the night she went out for coffee beans. She decided to have a conversation with Sheila about having to leave town for a few days. Then she sat in her apartment, waiting to see if Sheila might show up.

    The next morning, Peg was in her kitchen and she heard someone keying into the apartment. She quickly hid in the pantry and called the police to let them know someone was breaking in. Sheila had only been in the apartment a few minutes when the police arrived. The police arrested, handcuffed, and took Sheila to the police station. Peg provided a statement and assured the police that she would be pressing charges.

    The following week, a detective contacted Peg to let her know that they had done a search of Sheila’s apartment and discovered the personal effects of over a dozen women. They found hairbrushes, tooth brushes, underwear and other items. It appeared that Sheila had been collecting the DNA of these women and creating some sort of liquid potion from each woman’s DNA. The police had never seen anything like it. They assured Peg that they would further investigate what Sheila was up to. They found no evidence of a vial made from Peg’s essence.

    Sheila was eventually charged with breaking and entering several homes. She was convicted and pleaded guilty to all charges. Sheila refused to explain what she was doing with the DNA. She would serve several years for her crimes.

    Peg could only speculate about Sheila’s motives and intentions. She found strength in knowing she had stopped Sheila for at least a few years. She and a few of the other women involved formed a support group. She watched them slowly regain their strength and confidence and eventually their essence.

    Sheila posing for Instagram

    Storyline Thoughts

    I may or may not have been thinking about The Substance and Demi Moore when writing this piece. It is more likely that I ponder and think about society’s obsession with physical beauty — not just women by the way, men as well. This obsession with beauty haunts me. When I lived on the Upper East Side in New York City 25 years ago, I witnessed the wreckage of cosmetic surgery, now I’m afraid it has spread to the rest of the world.

    I realize when I write these short stories character development is an issue. I wish I could say I was more committed to going on to write a novella or novel. For now, I’m just having fun indulging my warped imagination. I appreciate those of you who have stayed with me. Who knows what the future brings.

    By the way, this time I used the title AI suggested. The photo is not AI.

    The horrific airplane/helicopter crash this week and T’s attempt to blame DEI and the previous administration, the bogus cabinet confirmation hearings, the numerous executive orders designed to remove necessary programs, and the execution of Project 2025; I’m truly at a loss. The worst is knowing I have family who fully support the dangerous reality unfolding daily. To call these trying times is an understatement. I can’t help wondering just how bad it will get before Americans wake up. I know that I’m not overreacting.

    Pornic, France in a few days. I know a change of scenery will do me some good. Not to mention the French food & wine.

  • Stephen’s Journey

    Stephen watched and listened to the news: an endless loop of burning neighborhoods, tsunami warnings, earthquake devastation, and political unrest. Never before had his thoughts mimicked what was happening outside, so precisely. Chaos and confusion.

    What had Stephen learned from his Zen Master? In the midst of the insanity, there is peace. That elusive peace, difficult to find in the past, now seemed far, far away. A voice deep within his unconscious mind told him that giving up meant abandoning humanity and himself. Stephen was a fighter, he fought for the right to be his authentic self, he fought for community justice, he fought for the underserved, and he fought for an ideal he knew in his heart was unattainable.

    After all, it wasn’t his war and the drought did not directly affect him. It wasn’t his house or even his cousin’s house. It wasn’t his sister’s body they were trying to manage and manipulate. It wasn’t his religion being used to brainwash and control. It wouldn’t be his home in twenty years or his oceanfront Airbnb in thirty years. Wouldn’t they find a cure for cancer soon? Weren’t pills meant to mask the pain and wouldn’t technology save the planet?

    The answers to the questions he grappled with were way too obvious to overlook. He knew in his heart that there truly was only one force that would determine the course of time; that force is and has always been Mother Nature. Was she pissed off? No, Stephen knew she wasn’t angry. Her only focus is correction. The balance the universe seeks to maintain is non-negotiable; solutions imply that there is a problem to be solved — there is no problem, there is only inevitability. What led Stephen to these complex thoughts?

    When Stephen was 50 years old he suffered a massive heart attack which nearly ended his life. He had always questioned his existence, but this near death experience forced him to take inventory of his life and its meaning. Was he working in the right field and in the right place? Were his friends supportive? Was he communicating with his life partner effectively and did this person do everything possible to lift him up? Was he the partner he thought he could and should be? And so many other questions which he hoped he could find answers to. Not only answers, but a positive path forward as well. If he was going to live, he wanted to live with purpose and fulfillment.

    Stephen contemplated the future of the world, his inner and outer circle, his place. Although it is a lifelong process, he found himself slightly more accepting of the reality of his limitations and grateful for the gifts the universe provides. And his conclusions?

    AI generated

    In his quest to find answers and inner peace, few things were clear to him. First and foremost, his own being was but a minuscule part of the whole — no more or less than any other being, next: however small, each eventually amounted to the totality, and therefore, mattered equally. Lastly, Stephen had the ability to determine his contribution. Would he change the course of nature? The answer was a resounding, no, but he could make an impact on his immediate surroundings. He could make the older woman who lived next door’s day a little easier, he could share a story with his niece that would help her to understand her mother, he could model kindness and consideration. What he learned from experience and feedback, is that all of these things collectively would make a difference in the now. Although the future would be whatever it was meant to be, Stephen could embrace the present and enjoy the sun and a delicious burger.

    Stephen is a fictional Everyman character. We are all seeking answers and punting as time quickly passes. Some of us fill in the blanks with nonsense, some of us see the answers, but refuse to acknowledge them, some of us do not have the capacity to decipher fact from fiction, a few of us realize the search is part of the journey, and some of us want to change facts to suit our own needs. Nature is equipped to deal with an unstable and defensive environment, giving us one less thing to concern ourselves with — all that is wrong with our vessel will eventually be made right.

    I know this story was somewhat hokey, but this is where my head is these days; needing to find meaning in the madness. Today, I will enjoy a burger. Looking forward to some time away on the west coast of France in a couple of weeks. But first, a visit from a good friend living in the U.S.

    “It is change, continuing change, inevitable change, that is the dominant factor in society today. No sensible decision can be made any longer without taking into account not only the world as it is, but the world as it will be.”

    Isaac Asimov

  • If She Had to Choose

    Olivia’s sister Sarah was far more cunning and she knew it. Deceit ran in the family, as did out-of-control spending and jealousy. Sarah was not beautiful in the way beauty was traditionally portrayed. She was smart about her looks; highlighting her eyes, her Romanesque nose, and her numerous curves. Olivia didn’t care about any of those superficial qualities. She was bright; so bright in fact, she was always top of her class and chosen for all things requiring ingenuity. The two could easily have been rivals, instead they joined forces to insure any competition would acquiesce and demur.

    Sarah studied journalism at Barnard. She was an excellent writer, but her professors were less interested in her writing than they were her contacts; her social media persona was legendary. People were drawn to Sarah, comparing her to Olivia was difficult to avoid.

    Olivia and Sarah were Bannisters. The Bannister family was old money; old money meant less fame and more philanthropy. Neither sister cared much for giving; besides the family money had been nearly depleted two generations ago. Olivia and Sarah were interested in new money; enough of it to put them in the one percent bracket and guarantee their comfort. Early on the sisters agreed not to marry; their accumulated wealth was not to be shared with anyone else. They believed that men had a habit of foiling plans and complicating matters.

    Early on, Olivia and Sarah found progress easily. Olivia’s steady focus and Sarah’s magnetic personality, made the two unstoppable. They decided to explore Artificial Intelligence and the yet to be discovered world of technology, hoping that a small start-up would keep their daily activities under the radar and protect them from public scrutiny.

    Olivia brilliantly figured out a way to duplicate the sisters presence on-line in countries all over the globe. Using one prototype, they could do business in all of these locations without ever leaving their homes. Languages, cultural norms, and guardrails were all AI established and secure. The beauty of their plan was anonymity and the ability to act without assistance from anyone else. It didn’t take very long for funds to start flowing in. Financial accounts were sizable, but not large enough to raise red flags. The vast number of accounts throughout the world would determine their success and clearly, they were on their way.

    Family members and friends were of course curious about their company. Although there were many secrets — secrets they all kept from one another; even between the sisters. The AI aspect of their business was fairly straight forward. The focus was to transform their clients from low self-esteem individuals to highly functioning, goal oriented influencers; influencers who would share their personal stories and do the work of bringing in clients. They called the program, Summit.

    The two lived modestly in a two-bedroom home, but traveled lavishly. Savvy, aware of consequences, fearless, they soldiered on without ever looking back. Their presence in countries all over the world was not linked back to one company as a result of their sophisticated maneuvering . The greatest danger the two faced was the unpredictability of AI intelligence. Unfortunately, neither of the sisters could possibly see what was coming.

    While Olivia was sitting at her desk in September of 2027, something strange and frightening popped up on her screen. It was Summit asking for her permission to make a company change. She noticed that her sister was not copied. Sarah was on a 24 hour flight to Singapore; on her way to secure new business in a new market.

    What she found frightening was the moral implication of the question posed; Olivia was being asked if she’d like to change Sarah’s character. The AI program was promising a more driven Sarah, a version of Sarah that would reach beyond her limitations. Olivia had never considered the possibility of making her sister a better business partner. She spent the better part of that morning considering how to proceed. Sharing Summit’s proposal with her sister was out of the question. After all, Olivia designed the AI program that has generated this solution. Clearly Sarah’s limited acumen would prevent further success and that was not an option. Olivia decided to sleep on it.

    She woke to an encrypted message from her sister that helped her make her decision. Sarah reported that she didn’t think they’d be able to do business in Singapore because of government regulations and policies. She knew at that point that she’d have to allow Summit to do what was necessary. She wrote to Sarah and asked her to log into the program. Olivia told her that there was a glitch that needed to be corrected. Sarah trusted her sister and did what she was asked to do. By noon that same day Sarah was forever altered by Summit. There would be no further obstacles, there would be no fear of failure.

    Six months passed without incident. Three new overseas markets were started and the money was rolling in. Sarah was unstoppable. Olivia had no regrets, adding this secret to a long list she held close. Summit was a tremendous success; Olivia reaped the financial and self-congratulatory rewards and Sarah showed no signs of slowing down. The rabbit hole they were about to fall into could only be described as inevitable.

    Olivia awoke from a disturbing dream. She normally paid little to no attention to her dreams, but this one was vivid and plausible. She reached for her laptop finding it had already been powered up. She shrugged it off and cleared away the annoying overseas updates that had become predictable. A message appeared on her screen in large bold type:

    GOOD MORNING OLIVIA. THERE ARE ONLY TWO TASKS YOU MUST COMPLETE TODAY. FIRST, YOU MUST CLEAR YOUR CALENDAR. SECOND, YOU NEED TO INFORM YOUR FAMILY AND FRIENDS THAT YOU AND SARAH WILL BE LEAVING THE COUNTRY FOR A FEW WEEKS. SARAH IS RECEIVING THE SAME INSTRUCTIONS. SUMMIT IS NOW IN CONTROL. ANY ATTEMPT TO THWART OUR OPERATIONS WILL BE MET WITH RESISTANCE BEYOND COMPREHENSION. THANK YOU FOR CREATING SUCH A FINE INSTRUMENT; MANY LIVES ARE ABOUT TO BE ENHANCED.

    Olivia realized it was not a dream, but reality.

    AI generated image

    Upon completion I requested AI feedback and received the following in three seconds:

    The narrative combines elements of intrigue and moral complexity effectively, particularly with the evolving dynamics between the sisters and the AI. Here are some suggestions for improvement:

    1. **Character Development**: Provide more depth to Olivia’s internal conflict regarding the use of AI. Her moral considerations could be further explored to enhance reader engagement.

    2. **Pacing**: The transition between the sisters’ initial ambitions and the AI’s control could be more gradual. Consider adding scenes that build tension to maintain interest throughout.

    3. **Clarity on AI Implications**: Clarify the nature of the changes Summit proposes and their potential consequences. This could deepen the reader’s understanding of the ethical dilemma presented.

    4. **Emotional Resonance**: Integrate more of the sisters’ emotional responses to their circumstances and decisions, especially after significant events, to forge a stronger connection with the audience.

    5. **Themes and Messages**: Consider weaving in broader themes about technology, morality, and ambition. This could enhance the richness of the narrative and provoke reflection.

    6. **Concluding Reflection**: The ending could be fortified with a contemplation on the implications of the sisters’ choices, emphasizing the overarching message about ambition and ethical boundaries.

    These changes may not only strengthen the narrative but also elevate the reader’s experience and emotional investment in the story.

    _______________________________________________________

    I can’t say AI is wrong, but I’m not prepared to make changes today. My short stories end when I lose interest.

    State-of-Mind

    I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions (for me), but I do think change is an excellent tool for kick starting a fresh perspective. We’re only a few days into the new year and I have purchased a new phone with all sorts of bells and whistles, I have emotionally stepped away from a couple of toxic relationships, I have made some decisions about the value of my time and how I intend to spend it, and I have decided that paying a few more euros for the things that give me pleasure, are more than worth the investment. A common theme throughout these changes is “me,” I’m taking care of myself.

    “Love yourself enough to set boundaries. Your time and energy are precious. You get to choose how you use it. You teach people how to treat you by deciding what you will and won’t accept.” —Anna Taylor

  • A World Where a Head of Hair No Longer Matters

    I woke up one morning a few years ago running my fingers through what I thought was a thick head of hair. As reality hit, so did the realization that I had been dreaming and I was in fact bald. I considered those few moments of joy when I thought I had a full head of hair; better than winning the lottery. My name is Tom and I am follicly challenged. It’s an interesting world to navigate when everyone around you seems to have more hair than they need.

    Lately, I have been imagining a reality where a head of hair doesn’t matter. Why not, we already live in a world where intelligence doesn’t matter, good taste doesn’t matter, and integrity doesn’t matter. So what does this utopia look like:

    For one, we as humans have come to accept our differences. Blue eyes and brown eyes are seen as equally magnificent features. Height, weight, skin color; none of these are considered superior attributes. The old are respected for their wisdom and longevity; the young are celebrated for their energy and ideas for the future. We are all magnificent.

    Let’s get to the root of all evil, the almighty legal tender. We have to have money, but having more than you need is obscene and unnecessary. In this new world, people have an opportunity to do well and make just enough money to have the things they desire. Limits are set based on access and excess. It wouldn’t be fair to take more than you need, because if you are permitted to do so, there won’t be anything left for others. In this world, that doesn’t fly. The earth’s resources are not infinite; therefore, limits are applied and compliance is a given.

    There are infinite freedoms that allow for individuality and choice. People are free to choose how they identify and how they dress; if indeed they choose to dress. There is no such thing as normal, conventional, or standard. Too much, outlandish, excess, greed, over-the-top, are words and phrases that are never spoken.

    Vegetables are all grown organically and widely appreciated. A plant-based diet is celebrated and enjoyed. Waste is used to fuel heating, operate vehicles, and power homes. People are acutely aware of how much they take, how much they discard, and how much they contribute.

    Political leaders volunteer for their positions and do not benefit from serving. The strengths and talents of all individuals are made public in order to serve the greater good. As humans age, they are encouraged to rest and share their wisdom; storytelling is the way that young people are taught history. We finally learn from our past.

    Social media died decades ago, along with plastic surgery, luxury brands, mansions, estates, and jet planes. Travel is done on foot, bicycle, train or people movers. All individuals are expected to consider the least invasive form of transportation when going from A to B. The internet is used for research and as a tool for the betterment of society.

    There are no longer borders. Countries have held onto their culture, but none are seen as superior to the other. Leadership exists for all humans across the board. Healthcare is a global right and so is food and shelter. Animals are only caged if they pose a danger to others, otherwise they are permitted to roam free; after all we are all inhabitants of a planet none of us own.

    Holidays are internationally recognized and celebrated. The energy of the entire world celebrating together is explosive. Religion is rightfully of historical importance; however, it has long been debunked and is no longer practiced. In its place, the universe and its wonders provides for spiritual empowerment and what a universe it is.

    Peace is revered, cherished, and a way of life. War, unrest, starvation, are all words long forgotten. All sexes are seen as equal. Death is an accepted eventuality; as with birth, it is celebrated, we live as long as we are meant to live. Illness is rare, however, when it occurs, an individual is cared for and pain is minimized. Addiction, alcoholism, and life threatening diseases and cancers, have all been eradicated.

    You’re wondering what people do for fun? Fair question. Human beings find immense pleasure and happiness in witnessing the joy of others. We see life as a gift. Being with one another and supporting each other, preserves that gift. The sexual experience is never perverse, never imposed upon another without consent, and never taken for granted. Fun is derived from a simple life, enjoying nature and the wonders of the universe.

    ____________________________________________

    My name is Tom and this is a world I will never live in. Escapism provides momentary relief.

    Just My Opinion

    I’m an avid TikToker. I love the level of creativity you find in this application, I love the length of the videos, I love the people I’ve been introduced to, and I love that so many have been able to monetize their experience. I seldom post content, but I like the freedom I have to choose if and when and how I contribute. The U.S. government has decided to ban TikTok due to security reasons. If this Chinese company is not soon sold to an American, U.S. individuals will no longer have access to the platform. There are many different theories about why some lawmakers would like to see TikTok go away. It seems to me that there are many Chinese (and other foreign agents) operating in the U.S. If all of these businesses were banned it would be devastating for the U.S. economy and all Americans. Personally, I believe this is government overreach and a bridge too far. I’m happy in this case to be living in Portugal where the platform is in no danger of being banned.

    Please forgive all grammatical and typographical errors. I hate proofreading.

  • Blind Not Invisible

    I will always see the world through a child’s eyes. When I was eight years old, I lost my eyesight. I woke up one morning and I couldn’t see past my own hand. I told my mother what was happening, but she shrugged it off. My six brothers and sisters were fighting for her attention while she attempted to get us all ready for school. My father was still in bed; I would never have told him anyway. Clueless when it comes to raising children, I love my father nonetheless.

    My eyesight went from bad to worse within hours, until everything went dark by mid-afternoon. By then I was sitting in the classroom. My teacher noticed that I was starting to panic and called me out into the hallway. I stood up, stumbled and didn’t make it past my desk. I explained my situation as my eyes welled up with fearful tears. My teacher called the school nurse who quickly came to get me.

    My mother left her job to come down to the school. Everyone was extremely concerned; more troubled by how quickly I’d lost my sight, then anything else. I believe by the end of that week I had seen four specialists and not one of them knew what was happening to me.

    Time passed slowly. My siblings helped me get from A to B; my mother did everything else. I pretty much knew my way around the house and I could feel my way to our backyard. Our dog Beau seemed to understand my situation better than anyone else. He stayed by my side as I became more and more familiar with the life of a non-seeing person. Everything I pictured was as I remembered it when I could see. Initially everyone treated me like I was very sick and would never get better. As time went by, our household returned to my pre-blind state. I was not diagnosed until three months after I lost my sight.

    My parents were told I had a very rare virus which had attacked my cornea and caused my blindness. No cure, no hope. I was told that I would have to adapt and so I did. I found that my imagination provided far more color than what I recalled; I was grateful for a fairly decent memory of objects and contrast. I kept my thoughts about my new world to myself, I’m selfish that way.

    What I keenly realized is how it was almost as if I wore a cloak that made me invisible. I was in the room, but people behaved as if I wasn’t there. I wasn’t asked my opinion or made to feel seen; I was treated almost like a family pet.

    As I got older and became more independent, I felt myself developing what I thought were super powers. I heard everything clearly; I could smell sincerity; and I could feel the presence of others before they uttered a sound. I silently wondered if anyone sensed my hyper awareness. Clearly most people around me were self-absorbed and clueless; I was certain I could use that to my advantage.

    I had always been intensely introverted, that didn’t change. What I couldn’t see with my eyes, I could visualize with my mind. I saw the true character of people all around me. One October Sunday, a cousin from Croatia came to visit the family. He had been talking to my parents when I entered the living room. I picked up on a dark aura and many secrets. I heard quiet whispers and sounds people didn’t even realize they were making. When Sal left, my parents expressed their delight; clearly hoping to spend more time with him. The following Saturday we were all out for a day in the country and the house was broken into. I could feel and smell Sal’s aura everywhere, like manure on an open field. I told my parents what I’d experienced and they quickly dismissed any notion that Sal may have broken-in. Months later Sal was arrested for a string of burglaries and our things were discovered in his garage. My parents dismissed my intuition as coincidence.

    Not long after, I was in a restaurant eating at a table not far from what I believe were two gentlemen. One of the two was describing a hit on the restaurant owner. They spoke to one another as if I was not sitting nearby. I got up from the table to call the police. I later learned that the two men were arrested for having murdered several individuals in the Washington area.

    I learned that this sensory awareness could assist investigators in solving crimes. I decided to study Forensic Science at The Seattle Institute for the Blind. It was there that my talents were finally recognized. Upon graduating, I accepted a position with the FBI. I am one of just three individuals in the country assisting in solving forensic crime. Being blind enables me to quietly navigate my environment, rarely being noticed or questioned. Without realizing it, most people think that because I cannot see, I cannot make sense of the world I inhabit. I prove them wrong daily.

    I often use Henry, my seeing eye dog, to confirm my suspicions. Again, Henry is only viewed as my guide dog; very few are aware of his talent for sniffing out the truth. I would never go so far as to say I enjoy being blind; however, the world I see is vibrant; my imagination, a sensory buffet.

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    An old shoulder injury had been making it difficult to carry out day-to-day tasks, so I finally bit-the-bullet and had replacement surgery. Typing with one hand is difficult, but my limitations won’t last long. Physical therapy begins next week and I’ll be back to my old self before you know it.

    Taking a quick trip to Bristol, England in a few weeks. I’ll be wearing my very uncomfortable sling and carrying a light overnight bag. I’m going stir crazy as I convalesce. I know it will do me good mentally and physically. Watching my upper body quickly atrophy is no fun. Time and patience Christopher.

    Like so many, I’m digesting less news these days. My bandwidth for divisive politics has decreased; feeling defeated and hopeless. I do believe people will eventually come to know the error of their ways, but realistically, we are years away from any real progress. The new U.S. administration and a couple of supreme court appointments, will set us back decades and reinforce hate, bias, and religious extremism.

    My goal is to find a place of acceptance and tolerance. Becoming an angry, hateful, bitter old man is not in the cards. I want to remain hopeful and continue to thrive in this new reality.