Sins of the Father – con’t

The wad of money bulged in my pocket. It was a modest sum, but in this time, it was a fortune. I knew it wouldn’t last long, but at least it would help carry them through the years my father would be away at war. Between my contribution and my father’s regular installments from Europe’s front lines, my grandmother could breathe a bit easier, pay her rent, feed her children, and perhaps save some for the future, at least until my father returned home.

Rose Rizzo sat across the table from me now, my father by her side. It was just the three of us for the moment, so I took the opportunity to tend to the business of my visit. “I have something for you, an inheritance of sorts.” Their blank faces watched me with nothing more than cautious anticipation for whatever it was I would next say. I pulled the wad of $500 from my pocket. It wasn’t much to me, but to them, it was the equivalent of about $8500, a fortune to a poor Italian family struggling through The Depression. I figured it was as much as I could do without causing a ripple in reality. They must still struggle, there must still be strain, but I knew that this would give, at least, temporary relief; giving them hope for the future.

I put the sum on the table, all bills were printed in 1940 and purchased at auction. The look on their faces was pure shock. I knew further explanation would be requested, but it was my duty to avoid too many questions. I broke the silence with, “It’s what my father asked me to give to you. He was a fortunate man, and asked that his wealth be sent to his family. This is your portion.” Rose slowly reached to touch the stack of paper, as though she was checking to see if it was real. Her eyes met mine and tears tumbled down her plump cheeks. Her features were weathered for a woman in late forties, only a few years older than myself, a stark representation of what hard times can do to the body. She slid her hand to mine and touched my gently, words of thanks were on her lips, although they were unintelligible. I smiled, tears now running down my own face. My father, a man of little emotion, was smiling like I had never seen. “It’s a miracle,” he said, “a true miracle.”

I smiled and sniffled, “There are a few conditions, though.” Their look of shocked joy turned to concern and skepticism. I heard my father say what he always said, “There’s always a catch.”

“Nothing too restricting,” I assured him, “All my father asked was that you not tell your husband – your father,” I gestured to Sonny, “nor anyone else. This money is for you, Rose, to use as you need it. It would be in your best interest if you pretended like it didn’t exist and carry on as usual. It’s for your peace of mind. When your husband doesn’t bring home enough to pay the bills, you can rest assured that you can make up the difference. Save it, buy a house one day, and live life.”

I looked at my dad, whose smile had returned, “You are her angel. It’s life as usual for you. Pretend as though this doesn’t exist and continue to do what you are doing. You’ll know what to do with this in the years to come,” my words sounded almost cryptic, even to myself, but how else was I to say it? Nothing could change, he would still go to war, he would still return, he would tend to her, and she would still die long before my birth, but at least the years would be a bit easier and the abuse she endured from her husband would, perhaps, be a bit more tolerable knowing that she didn’t need him.

After a time, it seemed that Rose began to accept that this was, in fact, her money, and I would not reach to take it back. She put the money in the pocket of her housecoat and folded her hands in front of her. Her original polite countenance had returned and we picked up our idle conversation. She was exactly the woman my father had told me, kind, considerate, loving, and full of laughter. We talked for about an hour or so about life and I took the liberty of telling them a bit about myself, as an introduction of sorts. Impressed as they were with the education I was afforded and the experiences I had, they couldn’t remotely comprehend how different life was for me…in my time. To them, all the things I shared were a fairy tale, and honestly, looking around at the paltry apartment, it seemed as far-fetched to me as it was to them.

***

I made my way down the stoop, it was dark now, and the lighting was poor. The Brooklyn street was so old, but yet newer than I knew it to be. My heart was torn between breaking and overwhelming love and satisfaction. I knew that I had done the right thing and although leaving my father again tore me apart in a way worse than the day he died, I knew what was to come for him, and at least he could rest a little easier knowing that his family was safe.

I walked along the street, I had only a few blocks before I reached my destination, but before I made it too far, I heard someone yell, “Hey!” I stopped as I heard the approaching footsteps and turned to address them. My dad was running after me, a sight I had never seen, since he was already a severe asthmatic and 51 when I was born. Before I had a chance to say a word, he said, a little breathlessly, “I don’t know who you are, or how this all came to be, but I wanted to say ‘Thank you.'” I smiled at him and before I even knew what I was doing, I reached out and hugged him. “It’s the least I could do,” I said.

“You don’t know what you have done for us. You’ve changed our lives,” he said, catching his breath, and I think I detected a little flutter of emotion in his voice.

“Yes, I do,” I replied simply. “Don’t let this change you, Sonny. You still have work to do and a life to lead. You’re a strong, loyal, and good man. Continue to be those things. Just know that you have a guardian angel watching over you and you will live a long life, with children of your own. If you go forward as things are right now, although perhaps a little easier, you will become a wise man. Don’t change a thing.” He nodded as he absorbed my words. I smiled as I turned to continue my journey home, even though it ripped my heart away from him for a third time.

I turned to continue my journey, but then I paused. With one last glance over my shoulder I saw his handsome face and said, looking at the moon overhead, “Oh, and we will land on the moon one day, you’ll see.” I smiled at him, knowing that only a few short years ago, he told his friend during a street stick-ball game, that a moon landing would never happen.

Chapter 1 – Sins of the Father

It was a scene I had only imagined as a child. My grandmother’s house bustling with people, the smell of freshly percolated coffee piping from her stove-top, the aroma filling the tiny apartment. How this space held her, her husband, and their dozen children, I couldn’t comprehend. My childhood had been the complete opposite – I had my very own room, open spaces to run and play, and our cupboards were always full. Which is why I chose to come here, to create a sense of ease, although not to alter the past too drastically. If I had learned anything from my previous slips, it was that there truly was no way to change the past, but there were elements that could be improved. So, that’s what I was going to do, I would make some improvements.

I sat at my grandmother’s dining room table, covered with the cloth which would one day become my own, my father’s dying words ringing in my ears, “It was you who saved me, Ronnie. Do not hesitate, do not fear, now you’ll have me to watch over you, just as you watched over me.” He squeezed my hand with a strength you wouldn’t expect from a frail, 91 year old, dying man. I had no idea what he was talking about that October night one year ago, but I nodded my head, tears tapping his hospital gown, as I watched him fade away. Sitting here now, I couldn’t decide if I felt a sense of peace or sadness. In a few hours this would all be gone, and I would return to a time when none of these people exist, but right here, right now, they were real.

No matter how many times I imagined it, no matter how many times I rehearsed it, nothing could have prepared me for the moment my father, well, the 17 year old version of my father, came through the door. I heard his voice at first, “Ma! I’m home!” It was a ghost, but unmistakable. I fought hard not to cry as I felt the vacancy in my chest widen and practically consume me.

“In the kitchen, Sonny!” she summoned. He appeared almost as quickly as he died, skinnier than the grown man I knew, and devilishly handsome, his Italian features newer than I had ever seen. He greeted his mother with a kiss before he even noticed my presence at the table. He looked at me for a moment and smiled his welcome, “Who are you?” he then asked, his  New York approach not to be confused with rudeness, only direct and to the point.

I fought the urge to jump up and hug him, as well as the urge I had to never leave, I was about to reply when his mother answered as she bustled about her kitchen, pouring coffee, preparing dinner, and tending to the needs of her infinite number of children, “She’s the daughter of your great uncle, I think. She says she’s a Rizzo, a cousin, on your father’s side.” I smiled and nodded my head, averting my eyes as to avoid any sense of true recognition. As ridiculous as it sounds, I couldn’t help but feel exposed, the family resemblance was obvious, but my features were softer than theirs, the tiny bit of Irish I inherited from my mother was a blessing among the stereotypical Italian noses and dark hair. But my eyes, my eyes were his, and the most revealing.

Funny how the past looks identical to the future, I mused, in an attempt to redirect my thoughts. I suppose it’s rather silly, but before I met Jonah, I could only imagine that the past took place in black and white, like the pictures I had seen. The reality is that October 20, 1941 looked relatively the same as October 20, 2017, with one exception, my father was still alive and I had something to tell him. 

Suddenly, I felt the need to run. Run out the door and back to the rat-infested storage space in the basement of the apartment building a few blocks down. In moments I could be back at Jonah’s time anchor and back to all things familiar. 

Only hours ago, Jonah set the date anchor and opened the portal. Thousands of bursts of electricity were sent through my body through a series of leads, although I had no real idea of how all of this worked. He had explained it to me a thousand times, but I never understood. It was a design by Nikola Tesla, which Jonah improved with modern technology. It was quite simple when you removed all of the mind-bending mathematics. It had something to do with the combination of magnetic fields, psychic energy, and a tiny thing called “electrocution.” It actually isn’t as bad as it sounds, although painful at first, by my third time, I had learned how to focus on the result, rendering the means of my travel, insignificant. 

Tesla nearly died when testing it, but he lived to tell of seeing the past, present, and future, all at once. However this contraption worked, I knew that I trusted Jonah’s genius, even if I was the only one who did. I believed in him. A remarkable scientist, he was, and I knew he was waiting for me right now. No, I had to put all of that aside. I forced myself to regain my mental composure and focus on the task at hand.

Cage of Souls Revisited

Well, I’ve apparently run out of steam, after only a few days, mind you, on telling you my story. It’s not that I couldn’t face the facts of my reality, it’s just that amidst the rape and intrigue, I’ve realized that my life is just not that interesting to me. It’s just “life.” So, the writer’s block continued. But if I am to polish these writing skills, I knew I had to just sit down and write. Although I wasn’t sure what there was to say, until last night.

Last night, around 11pm, in the twilight of my sleep, a bit of a poetic thought occurred to me and I realized that there was a spark, an ember of thought.


In that moment, I decided to rework, with the goal of mastery, the novel I wrote many years ago called, “Cage of Souls.” To further my inspiration, I woke this morning not only to the sound of my roommate (who is also my soon to be ex-husband) showering and banging around on the floor above, the owl announced his seasonal arrival to my rooftop with her distinctive “who who,” which trickled down the chimney and whispered its echo into my room. I had given the owl meaning long ago, and I knew it was time, I had to write. So, I’m going to tear this book to pieces starting now. Here we go…

Cage of Souls

Preface

The fabric of time is as thin as an aged parchment, as fragile and delicate as the wings of a butterfly in its final hours. It melts away in the rushing waters, smolders with the rise and fall of the sun and turns to ash as the seasons stake their claim to each generation. But somewhere in the fibers of the fabric of time are the imprints of significance, no matter how big or small, that people, places and things leave behind. Stamped, embroidered and branded into history, each moment doomed to be repeated. The place where these moments repeat is sacred, it is the place where time remembers and the ghosts linger.

Sacred ground blankets this earth. It is hallowed ground, consecrated in the blood of thousands of souls. Among those are the souls left to wander, tortured by lives that were stolen too soon, or perhaps there are dues their soul has yet to pay. Unknowingly, they are now doomed to repeat their steps until the end of time, or until someone comes along to save them. The tragic truth is that no one is coming to save them; their souls are woven into time’s delicate, yet unravelable, fabric. Each step they repeat tangles them tighter and they become locked away for eternity. I suppose it is fortunate for them that they are none-the-wiser. But sometimes, for reasons I have yet to truly understand, a modern time will cross paths with these trapped souls and a unique individual will catch a glimpse of a world that no longer exists. When that happens, modern people wrack their brains for an explanation. They eventually try to dismiss their encounters as an overactive imagination or perhaps a random event that happens in the brain. As time marches on, only a handful of ghost stories are fortunate enough to be lumped in with stories told around a campfire.

I can understand the need to make sense of these events that lack any logical explanation or scientific validation, but sometimes there truly are no logical answers. Science has yet to explain everything, which is why science, like medicine, is a “practice.”

***

Among the places lost to time is a small desert town, its archaeology preserved by the arid climate and its sinful greed, lust, wrath, and pride preserved by the timeless pain of sudden, and swift, defeat. The tales of Wild West stories known the world over, and among the entertaining tales of ghostly happenings that occur on a regular basis in Tombstone, Arizona, there is a lesser known story that is worth telling. It is a ghost story that only the most avid ghost adventurers know, but truth be told, they only know a small fraction of it.

Throughout the years, it has been said that there is a woman in white who has been seen descending the basement staircase of the notorious Bird Cage Theater. Initially, I suspected that this lady fell victim to those Deadly Sins which had claimed so many. Whatever the reason, though, all we truly knew was that she has been repeating her steps, getting more tangled in the fabric of time, as she descended the backstage staircase of The Birdcage Theater every moment, day and night, presumably, since the doors closed in 1892.

The fragments of her story vanish along with her spirit, right before your very eyes. But her end is where my story begins. You see I know why she wanders and I know who she needed to set her free. It is her curse which runs in my veins. She has been waiting for me…and I, unknowingly, had been waiting for her.

Part 3 – The Hero’s Journey

In every great story, the hero or heroine, descends into the “underworld,” before emerging a changed person. Usually, the changes are assets. After all, how can you evolve if you haven’t learned new lessons, which make you a wiser person? Sure, it’s possible that the hero will be damaged, but I suppose it’s all about how he or she envisions their journey…it’s all about perspective.

In my journey, it seems that I have descended into the underworld a few times in my 40 years. First, it was the abuse I endured – which I emerged a bit damaged, but savvier. It set me on a path to discovering passion and education, not withstanding the tarnished eye I began to cast upon people. My trust level was diminished greatly, and my skepticism was sharp. Looking back, it did serve me well. I was wary of who I called “friend,” and even more so of intimacy. I like to think that it saved me a lot of wasted time getting to know people, only to be disappointed. I know, wrong attitude, but I only had the protection of myself, and that was the wall I felt I had to build. Today, I can honestly say, that there are times when I wonder where this “bad attitude” of mine comes from, but I’ve always known.

In a romantic way, I can look at the beginning of my relationship with my husband as the first step into a 20 year descent into the underworld. There were so many levels of this world that I experienced with him, but I’m not really sure if I’ve ever emerged into a new reality. Perhaps I’ve emerged and gone back down, I have changed, so this would be the logical conclusion.

In the very beginning of our relationship, my husband was the most amazing man – funny, considerate, and most of all, he loved to hang out and laugh. He was the life of everyone’s party and was never denied an invite. I felt safe with him. When he was around I felt as though I could enjoy my life without constantly wondering if my ex was waiting for me in the shadows. He was gentle with me, even though the abuse I endured was 2 years past, the results of my trauma were still very apparent.

For the first time in my life, I felt as though I was actually living. In a way, I think I was safely rebelling. My parents STILL wouldn’t let me spend the night at his place, as I mentioned, they were old fashioned Italian Catholics, but hanging out until the wee hours of the morning, and telling my parents that I was spending the night at my brother’s house worked for the time being. I would feel guilty about lying, so I would go to my brother’s place and shower, making my story partially true. It was my way of making it right. Then, one day, that all came crashing down.

 

You see, my brother and my ex were best friends. It was hard for my brother to understand and accept that my ex could do such a thing, and my ex was working hard to get back into my brother’s good graces. One morning I arrived at my brothers and, low and behold, my ex was there. I went to shower as my brother was leaving for work. I locked the door, even though I thought my ex was leaving with him. He didn’t. He proceeded to pick the lock and drag me to my brother’s bed and rape me. I remember those moments well, I didn’t fight, I took it for fear that this time he would, indeed, kill me. When it was all said and done, he offered me money that he owed me and said, “Now you can go to the police.” I left, knowing full well that a rape exam would yield two different types of DNA, my boyfriend’s and my ex’s. I would be ruled a whore and that would be that. I went home and told my parents of the event and stayed in bed the entire day. It was then and there that I took another level of control in my life. I would never lie to my parents again about where I was or what I was doing. Perhaps I would leave out some personal details, but I would never lie to them again. From that moment on, I was vocal about spending the night at my boyfriend’s, but I was respectful, as well.

After the day’s events, my boyfriend begged me to go to the police, even if it was just his roommate, who was, in fact, a police officer. I refused, explaining how things would go. From then on, I launched into a slew of Rape Crisis volunteer work, holding the hands of rape victims as doctor’s invaded their bodies and parents condemned their children for “loose behavior.” That is an absolute fact, by the way, parents condemned their own children. I watched as a young girl, who turned out to be my neighbor, received a rape exam as her mother said, “She parties a lot, I know she’s not a virgin.” The doctor looked up from his exam and said, “Yes, she was, her hymen is newly broken.” I was heartbroken for that girl, and I knew the humiliation she was experiencing. The look on her mother’s face changed from anger to embarrassment, and I was quietly happy to see it.

In the best way possible, my life was forever changed. My parents and I had graduated to a new level of respect, and I was finally being allowed to be an adult. Time marched on, I would go to class, complete my homework, and visit my boyfriend. He was changing, too. Although he was still funny, there was an air of seriousness about him, which I attributed to his job. Unfortunately, I had confused “seriousness” with “arrogance.” Surely our move to Colorado would solve all of this. We would both have careers and we would stand by one another. As I mentioned before, I was wrong.

Part 2 – The Government Agent’s Wife

As I think back on my life, I often wonder if things were different when I was a child, perhaps I would’ve turned out different – less hard, more gentle. I can say that I was a relatively happy child and my childhood was pretty normal. Although I knew my family loved me, it wasn’t an easy household. Honestly, I still laugh at just how stereotypical it was.

Myself and my family hail from Brooklyn, New York, but I was raised in the small, Southern Arizona town of Tucson. Both of my parents are Italian, my mother is also half Irish. My father was first generation American, a World War II veteran, and 17 years older than my mom, but they were each other’s first marriage. He was 51 when I was born, and although he was loyal and protective, I still attest that, by the time I reached my teens, he was just too old to raise a teenage girl. 

As far back as I can remember, there was the constant looming threat of his death. He was a severe asthmatic, and had a slew of life-threatening health issues from which he always recovered. Some of my earliest memories are of the fear I had of losing the man I adored. Thoughts of losing him were with me constantly. Fortunately, he had a strong constitution in all aspects of his life, coming from the Depression Era, I suppose that’s only natural, and he lived to be 91 years old. 

As I mentioned, my parents were strong people…and my mother certainly knew how to yell. Actually, she still does, but I don’t want to go any further without saying, I love my parents more than anything. They loved us and showed my brother, sister, and me their love through their actions. We had our issues, and perhaps our household lacked affection, but we always knew that they loved us. 

In my pre-teen years, I began to fall victim to anxiety. I don’t know why I started having panic attacks around 12 years old, but they never ceased. I missed school and am pretty sure I was suffering from depression due to my lack of understanding. My parents were older and in their time, people didn’t goto psychologists or seek mental help, which is why I suffered for so long. By the time I reached 8th grade, I had a handle on my anxiety and I began to flourish. 

I was becoming a young woman in the early 1990’s, a very different age from when my father grew up in the 1940’s, and I began to rebel. Although I never drank or did drugs, my sister, who was 7 years older than me and married to a dip-shit, know-it-all, told my mother I did. She suffered from “middle child syndrome,” and it was fierce. Anyway, like most people, I would later discover that my parents were right, about everything…but kids will be kids, and girls will be girls. At the age of 15, I found myself a boyfriend, and kept it a secret, for fear of being forbidden to see him…since I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16. During the year we spent together, I lost my virginity and had a pregnancy scare. My cousin, whom is more dear to me than my own sister, offered her help. She knew my parents, and she knew that something like this could drive a rift between them and their youngest. So, I was going to spend the summer with her and have an abortion. Fortunately, it never came to that. It was a false positive and I promptly got on the pill. Life was back on track. My boyfriend and I broke up, and like many “first-loves,” I look back and wonder what I ever saw in him. 

I graduated high school early, when I was only 16, and after only a 2 week break, went to college. In theory, I should’ve graduated by the time I was 20, but I had found a sense of freedom I so desperately needed. Just two short years after graduation is when it all went awry. 

In many ways, I was still a child, and my parents did the right thing by keeping me grounded, but it hindered me because I felt trapped. I felt as though I wasn’t allowed to spread my wings…which led me straight into the arms of a monster. 

Fortunately, I escaped with my life and although my dignity was in shreds, I had enough of it left to pull myself back together. Only a couple of months later, I met a man. I was still only 19, newly divorced, and only beginning to figure out who I truly was. He was 31 or so when we met and the physical attraction between us was palpable. 

He was the man at work that every woman admired, and many desired. He was olive skinned, quiet, handsome, and quick to laugh. He was olive skinned, quiet, handsome, and quick to laugh. The scar just beside his right eye, remanants of a bar fight from his younger years, only added to the character of the crushing gaze he would give me through the giant school bus driver’s mirror. Everything about him was exactly what I needed. And I can’t deny that holding the attention of the most eligible bachelor did wonders for my nearly non-existent self-esteem. 

He had a silent strength about him, he was safe. It was only weeks before we launched into a full love affair. We came together on Fridays, sometimes sneaking an interlude on the school bus he drove to the high school football game. It was risky, but the desert seemed to always border the school parking lot. He would park the bus near the dank green shrubby and cactus, and I would park my camaro in its shadow. It was sexy, he would unbotton my stylish flannel shirt and it would drape around my waist, which made us feel as though I was hidden, in case we got caught. Silly, I know, but he was considerate of me in every way. 

Most of the time it was someplace neutral and inconspicuous, since I lived with my parents, and he took care of his mother. Over the next two years we both dated other people, but when those brief moments ended, we always seemed to find our way back to one another. To this day, he still holds a very special place in my heart. In many ways, he brought me back to life – body and soul – and for that I am eternally grateful. 

I met the man I call “husband” shortly after I turned 21, and our love affair came to an abrupt end, although, I can’t deny, I thought of him often over the years. I set back off to college and amidst major anxiety, panic, and a terrible case of Post Traumatic Stress, I completed my Bachelor’s in Psychology when I was 23.

The horrors were a few short years behind me and soon to be a thousand miles, as well. Now, after two years of a long-distance relationship, my fiancée and I were finally going to be able to be together and start our lives in a new place – Colorado. His career was developing, he was a police officer turned Federal police officer and I was accepting an entry level administrative position. We were off and running. I thought it would be onward and upward forever. I was wrong. 

The Government Agent’s Wife

I’ve decided to share my story. It’s less about entertainment and more about therapy. Perhaps you can relate…although, in many cases, I hope you can’t. I’ll start at the beginning and end somewhere near the present. Not sure how many posts this will take, so keep an eye out. 

My Beginning

It was a warm, Arizona day, shortly after my 21st birthday. My parents and some friends had taken me and my friend to Vegas to celebrate our milestone birthdays. I was so young to have endured what I had already endured. You see, I was married at the tender age of 19. Not because I was in love, but because I wanted a way out of my parent’s house. 

My parents were good people, strong people, and very savvy, to boot. Every time I tried to move out on my own, they would point out how it just couldn’t be done alone. Well, along came a man who could change all of that. He had family money, a decent job, and he said he loved me. What more could a seriously insecure girl want? I promptly got engaged and the day after our wedding, the abuse began. It started with him berating me, then physically dominating me, squeezing me until I couldn’t breathe, and quickly moved to smothering me with pillows, and repeated rapes. He even went so far as to trick me into believing he wasn’t home and ambushing me. It ended with him raping me, a gun sat on the table that my head hit as he sodomized me.

Had it not been for my parents coming over for dinner that night, I’m not sure what would’ve happened to me. They put what they could of my things in trash bags and moved me back home. Over the coming months, my ex kept baiting me with items of necessity, like my car insurance cards. I went to pick them up from the front porch and he would grab me and sodomize me. I honestly don’t know why I went over there, why I trusted that things like that wouldn’t have happened, but they did…and I’m lucky to be here today to tell my story. 

In the end, he sold all of my childhood belongings, things I held so dear, and that was the end of the girl, I had become a damaged adult by the age of 20. 

I guess it all makes sense that my next relationship, which started when I was 21, would be with a handsome man with policeman aspirations. Of course, I didn’t know it when we first met, but within moments I knew that this man was someone I could trust, and that was a big deal. He achieved his goal of becoming a police officer three months after we started dating in March of 1998, and I thought that we were on our way to a good, long, happy life. 

He moved 100 miles away and we maintained a long distance relationship for two years. Even though he became engulfed in his job and added a level of arrogance to his personality, I still loved him and thought we could make it through anything. Looking back, I guess I loved him enough for the both of us, only to find that that could never last. 

The Adulteress


Continuing to write fiction…one day at a time. 

If I were a different type of person, I could likely find a reason for such treason. I could blame my parents for being too strict, perhaps, in some cosmic sense, I’m to pay for the sins of my father…and maybe even the sins of my mother. But really, the decision to become an adulteress is not a conscious one. It is a vulnerable one. Men and women alike, there are few, if any, who move through affairs with malicious intent. Unlike those devilish “one-night stands,” affairs are a balm to soothe an aching heart, they fill those tiny voids in your heart that you never realized existed. They are an awakening, a realization, in a way. They force you to see your reflection with foreign eyes, the face is familiar, but the thoughts are entirely new. Nothing is sacred anymore, your beliefs, your morals, not gone, only changed. You find yourself asking, “What do you truly hold dear?” Then, you struggle even more, trying to reconcile the person you’ve become…or perhaps always were. 

Then, of course, you get found out. Perhaps through admission, or, more often, you get caught. Either way, the villagers will happily light the pyre beneath your feet, burning you for not adhering to their moral code. Yet as your soul drifts to some new dimension, you discover that the morality preached is seldom righteous. The villagers have their own dirty little secrets, their lives are a lie, and you have become their sacrifice to absolve their own sins. 

It was never a life goal to view relationships as disposable. I soon found myself asking, “When did loyalty become possession?” I was not in love anymore, my marriage had become a contract, my life one of obligation and possession. My shoulders had become weak from carrying so many burdens, sustaining verbal abuse, and floundering through countless failures. It is probably a bit easier to understand that my dalliance was inevitable. A hand was extended, offering to lift my burdens, a heart was offered to fill those spaces that had been recklessly abandoned. I’m sure, as human as you are, you might possibly offer some understanding. 

New Fiction

I’ve decided to start writing again…I don’t really understand why I ever stop. I suppose it’s because it drains me to think about topics and, then weave words that desire to be read. But here I go…again. 

“I am an adulteress.” I repeated this to myself, as I searched the reflection in the mirror for any sign that the woman I once was still existed. In just two short years, the youfulness had dwindled from my eyes, and began to show as a new dullness in both my skin and eyes reflected back to me. Apparently, all of the trials and tribulations I had endured in my first forty years didn’t take nearly the toll that just two years spent in the beautiful turmoil of passion provided. 

I suppose there is still a level of naïveté that demonstrates itself, even at the age of thirty-eight. Looking back, I could equate myself to a child, desperately seeking the comfort, the safe  embrace, only a parent could provide. At the time, I was as lost as a piece of driftwood, carried across the miles of open ocean, with no particular destination. All I wanted was a safe place to rest my weary heart. It was quite pathetic, in retrospect. But somehow, I convinced myself that nothing mattered, no sin too great, for the warm sanctuary of an equally aching heart would heal all indiscretions. 

Well, I Just Figured Out the Meaning of Life…I Think

I had a thought…that makes sense one moment, and seems overstated at others…then I wonder what the hell I’m even talking about. That process should be pretty obvious as you read on. 

What if…

The secret to life – happiness, sadness, wealth, poverty, love, hate, etc., could be found in a simple pattern? 

And what if…

Each individual had their own pattern, yet there was another, larger pattern that each individual pattern fit into? Could we find a mathematical code in our brains that is our pattern…and then crack the code??

After all…

All patterns are geometry, and humans are geometric, as are all living things.

Therefore…

What if the secret to life is cracking your unique geometric code?

In these moments…

I regret not paying closer attention in Ms. Ponchetti’s Sophomore Geometry class. 

A Walk Through Nothing


As I walked through the blank spaces in my mind, this thought occurred to me, offering some semblance of relief. I can’t say that I was fretting about my blank mind, I suppose I was just searching for…well…something, anything, that made sense, or perhaps was an epiphany. It seemed that as I grasped for each thread of thought, it simply unraveled. That’s when I realized – there were thoughts, but nothing with a solid foundation. Yet this moment wasn’t meant for concrete. It was meant for calm. There was nothing to discover or solve, it was simply time to be…so that I may have the fortune to create a sturdy stitch with the next thread of thought that enters my mind.