Jeanna Ellsworth, Author
I just want to write. And maybe along the way, give someone an extended moment of joy, or maybe inspire them. Bucket list: make a difference in someone's life. Check.
“IF HONOR WAS PROFITABLE, EVERYBODY WOULD BE HONORABLE” –– Thomas More
For those who are familiar with my work, my books are usually filled with metaphors and I attempt to offer many ways to find deeper meaning, if you so desire. I thought I’d share one metaphor with you today. This book is my attempt at a mystery romance, and so far, it is diverting in many ways to me, I hope it does to you too! Enjoy this snippet.
Kenneth’s walk to White’s was invigorating, and as always, enlightening.
Apparently, Miss Mary Jacobs really was cheating on her intended. And her “friend” she was walking out her side door, lied about not only his name, but he was not there as her solicitor.
The Johnson’s actually loath each other, but he didn’t need his talent to understand that. Their boisterous argument was––passionately honest. It would not surprise him if one of them killed the other.
Kenneth Silence thanked the Johnsons in his mind as their voices trailed off behind him. Their passionate quarrel had lightened his headache a bit.
His head basically always ached.
Why couldn’t people be honest, or at least speak freely to each other.
Sometimes he wanted to scream, “Take off the masks! Let people know you!”
Other times, he just wanted to beg people to “say what you mean and mean what you say.” Both offenses caused just as much ache.
He knew something that many people did not know about themselves. Most people actually wantto tell the truth. They need to––it is an extremely powerful human need––to be known. But they have been taught by society that no one wants to hear how bad their day really was, or how they might lose their family home.
It is also why thieves or murderers return to the scene of the crime. There is a part of them that wants to be found out. When someone returns to the scene, in that miniature moment, they do not have to pretend, or at least remember, what fiction they created to sustain for others.
Yes, people want to tell the truth.
But they don’t.
It scares them. They have thoughts like: “If the Johnson’s could kill each other, is it possible when my husband starts yelling, that he could too?”Or, “My wife tosses money out the window with a teaspoon, faster than I can bring it through the front door with a shovel. Could we lose our home too like them?”
They would rather talk about what they want their life to be like.
Which means, they lie, constantly. And it gives him a constant headache.
And he hates lies.
No, that wasn’t entirely correct. He hated the headaches. The lies didn’t bother him, because, with his gift, he would always still know the truth. He just wished he didn’t get the headache.
The best part about his path to White’s was the tavern at the intersection one block before it called, The Pub. The Pub had cheaper ale, more robust company, and the gossip wasn’t so dry. He ordered his usual spiced cider.
His mind returned to its earlier ruminations. The truth is, those who have few possessions or status, already acknowledge it, and don’t pretend to be more than they are. This is mostly because that is all they know, and that means it is usually enough. And when they do talk about being more than they are, they are simply sharing their dreams. Goodness, how refreshing the poor are.
He took this favorite metal garden-seat at the shop’s front entrance, right on the cobblestone street that had been closed at this time of night to accommodate the busy night foot traffic in this district.
He loved this intersection of town.
Silence was on the corner of Fame, Greed, Honor, and Filth.
Down one street was the theatre district.
Down another was Whites, and therefore the elitists; who must mention they attended the establishment, whom they broke bread with, and what bets had been placed, in all tomorrow’s social endeavors.
And he could not ignore the building behind him, closed for the day, but still majestically situated. It was intended to be a neutral meetinghouse for Solicitors and Attorneys, but ended up being used entirely by the House of Commons as an unspoken negotiation and “buying” market. It is where votes were bought and sold, or not. And he could always tell who had been bought and who had not. He didn’t need his gift for that. Any person could tell by the way they walked.
He heard a joke once. “How do you know it is cold in London?”
“Because you see attorneys with hands in their own pocket.”
But truthfully, that is how one tells. When you have money, a lot of money, you hold it until you are safely home.
Those who did not get bought, have hands free to help others, like the lady getting out of the carriage, or to tip the hat to those you respect.
The rest, well, they are bound by the money that bought them.
He continued his metaphorical examination of the intersection. He need not even turn to the right, for the odor drifted up from the street urchins, this time a bit musky, and he could see from the side that some poor lad was being forced by his father to eat “humble pie”, and as the wind drifted from their direction, he could tell the pie had far too much cloves.
If Kenneth could smell it from here, the boy either had a terrible toothache, or his father had rubbed his nose in the spice––and that burns––which could account for the boy’s tears. Luckily the usually pleasant aroma departed as fast as it came, and so did the Father’s loud lecture that should have been done in private.
He hoped his spiced cider would still be palatable after that overwhelming wave.
Yes, Silence was on the corner of Fame, Greed, Honor, and Filth . . . but he had discovered that it was where truth was found. The lies that brought everyone to this spot, and the simple alchemy of it all, eventually revealed those little white fibs like draining the dirty bathwater. Each of them exposed for their inner truth.
The irony of it was that for each person trapped by their lies, wither it was reaching for Fame, Greed, Honor, or Filth, must make their choice on which path to take to leave this intersecting medley of desires. Most choose to go the way they came. If they sought fame, they returned to seeking it, and therefore the lies.
He glanced back toward the quarreling poor father and son, and noticed an acute contradiction to his long developed theory.
The father had throw off the cloak. The son turned one direction, but the father turned towards Whites.
Things just got interesting.
Of course, he had to go to Whites too.
For me, it was bookshelves, and a continued effort to lose weight, as well as to begin the road of trusting in the goodness of society again. I just went through my second divorce and it would be so easy to take the bitter road out from this intersection, or to put neon hazard signs on the road to love or dating. But how can a romance author NOT believe in love? I chose the hard road; risking my heart, carefully trusting when it hasn’t been fully earned, and consciously slowing the clock to provide time to absorb the new people and the changes that come into my life.
But either way . . . I’m going to travel the road of honoring myself and the beauty I know exists in the world!
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