Tag Archives: Stories

Letter to Veronica No.1

Dear Veronica Lake,

The truth of us.

Something you believe only the two of you share; yet something we’ve all been forced to wonder about. We too had a truth in an airport, he and I; just as he had truths made up of lies with a plethora of intelligent, creative, beautiful, loving, soulful women; all of which were spoon-fed the exact same line, differing only slightly, as the situation, circumstance and female heart warranted.

At this point, you refuse to believe that which your mind has forced you to wonder of; as your heart precariously dangles by a soul string. Wanting so much to believe that he is who he says, that YOU are the twin of his flame, the mate of his soul and yours is the only connection that is real and matters. Refusing to believe that what you shared during your time together meant nothing, when it meant and still means, absolutely everything to you.

Finally realizing, for the first time in your life, since your karmic connection, that YASS, this is the way it was intended. Finally another soul on earth, who understands you like none other. No judgments; just complete, unconditional acceptance and love. Exactly what you always knew, in the depths of your soul, love was supposed to be. Every wasted moment and past mistake leading to this crossroad that brought the two of you together….

Ignoring the red flags, due to his lifetime membership within the upper echelons of intelligencia. Stories of his dysfunctional and abusive childhood, which as a mother you can surely sympathize. His self-destructive pain and angst, leading him to long for death; his only comfort found within darkness’ welcome embrace; singing always that sweet song of stygian.

Believing in your heart that your love for him can and will make a difference; that happiness can be found and shared, if only he would allow himself to trust, believe and take your hand. At this point, your perception of your own reality so skewed that you know for certain the only way to survive this life is with him by your side.

Wake up, love. This isn’t a classic movie you’re starring in; this is your life you’re allowing him to fuck with. There’s an antidote for those of us who have been infected with this disease; the first step is realizing you want and need to be cured.

The sooner you realize that there is no truth where the Hyena is concerned and the only reason he will ever come back is if there is something he needs from you, which he cannot provide for himself; the better off you and yours will be.

The only way to get back to living is by killing the Hyena. He must become dead to you in order to see and accept the truth; the only truth there is of him. The one too many of us have come to know…


Lost in the façade

I told him once he was a praise whore, and thought he was going to cry. The look of hurt shown in his eyes nearly broke my heart.

But still, what I said was truth.

I tried to reach that part of him; beyond the shallows, into the depths, and for a moment successfully glimpsed. But it didn’t last long; nothing discussed apparently took. For he’s still just as shallow, if not more so; worrying what the rest of the world thinks; determining his human worth by the number of possessions he can acquire, the number of heads he can turn, and how many times he stands at center of attention.

Trying so very hard to impress; bragging as a child might, as if to say, “Look what I have and you don’t,” when of all the people in the whole of the world, he knows I’m the queen of modest living and that material possessions of any kind, simply do not impress.

I wouldn’t be on the receiving end of his karma for all the money in the world! And what strikes me as odd, is that after all this time and distance, why he goes out of his way, to make certain that I see?

He should ask himself that at night, when he lays his head on his designer pillow, next to his lunatic wife, convincing himself that he’s finally made it, and happiness he has found.


Strange peace


The house was almost 200 years old when I lived there as a child; one of the oldest in the village. There were trees around it then; one in the corner where the small pine is now and one in the front, across from the porch. This one had a large bolder beside it that I used to climb and play on. We also had permanent awnings over all the windows if I recall. What I do recall, with perfect clarity, are the spirits with whom I dwelled.

The incidents varied, but occurred regularly. I spent most of my time living in a constant state of fear and terror. Though I never said anything to my mother until years after; when she verified that it wasn’t simply my overactive imagination, by sharing her own experiences with me.

It didn’t matter whether inside or out; they found me wherever I was. Although, if sent outside, I spent most of my time visiting with the old ladies that lived on the block; and while they {the spirits}, made their presence known to me, they never followed me out of the yard.

It was strange, my relationship with the ladies. There were three of them in all; Agnes, who lived two houses down, Mrs. McAdams who lived across the street and the lady behind us whose name I can’t remember, but can see clearly the two large ferns that sat atop brass stands in her sitting area, and her two Pomeranians that looked like little foxes.

And while the candy in the porcelain dishes was usually stale, and lunch consisted of green onion and mayonnaise sandwiches, our conversations, on those occasions when we chose to talk, was typically a Q & A session about their lives. Normally this was prompted by a piece of jewelry or dress that I came out wearing; asking of the origin and when and where they had worn them.

They never minded that I rummaged and ransacked their closets, drawers and jewelry boxes, because I took them back; took them to a place that might not have been forgotten, but was rarely, if ever, spoken of. They told their stories, with far away looks in their eyes and I listened intently; while sipping bitter tea from china cups and eating my onion-mayo finger sandwiches with the crust neatly trimmed off.

These were peaceful times for me, when the majority of my world consisted of things that were beyond my comprehension; beyond this world entirely. But there were a few times when I was sent to my room {far right window – second floor}, for whatever reason, and it was everything I could do to hold my eyes open. I distinctly remember the cross breeze blowing in over me, as I lay on top of my bed; the sweet scent of lilacs wafting in with it, bringing a smile that filled me with happy, from the inside out; and a gentle caress along my head and back, which brought me strange peace and comfort incomparable to any I had ever known.

It was as if God Himself were lulling me to sleep; which was completely understandable in my mind, as He lived right across the street in the church that sat on the opposite corner. When I wasn’t with the ladies, I was playing on the front steps of the church; knowing full well that not only could they not get me there, but didn’t even dare show themselves!

Yesterday I was at a loss; unable to find the words to adequately describe the beauty of the day, which filled and overwhelmed me completely. Suddenly, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. All was quiet, but for the breeze rustling in the trees; the southern sun warming the earth around me. I had done everything that needed doing and found myself lying atop my bed; the gentle breeze blowing over me, as I lay gazing at the moss swaying in the treetops, and suddenly I was taken back; to a place that has never been forgotten, but is rarely, if ever, spoken of.

I could feel the shift the moment it happened; the temperature of the breeze changing dramatically, the heady scent of lilacs filling my senses, though there are none in this area; and a gentle, familiar caress along my head and back; filling me with that same strange peace that I hadn’t felt in some thirty odd years.

I was taken back to be reminded; but reminded of what?

That the demons I’ve wrestled of late are of my own creation and insignificant in comparison to those I faced in the past? That although we may dwell alongside demons, of human and spirit origin, He is right across the street and watching always?

I pondered the reasons, briefly; as I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep…


Gone missing


My muse has fled
In search of lost
Untold stories
Unexplored worlds

In anxious
I patiently
Return she will
In her own
Sweet time

Bringing gifts
Stimulating my
Enough to fill
This void


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