Tag: writing

Number 7G.

A strange occurrence happened at the Cypress Row Condominiums many years ago.

One early morning, as Varina Pembroke-Sinclair stepped out of her condominium and into the hallway, an odd odor caught her nose.  She couldn’t quite identify it, for it was the most unusual and jarring odor she ever smelled in the hallway, and that was saying something at Cypress Row!  Sure, Miss Varina had a talent that proved she could pinpoint any of her neighbor’s aromas emanated from their condominiums, from the pot of oxtail soup simmering to the sharp tang of a newly opened crock pot filled to the brim with kimchee, and even the West Coast vineyard of a just-uncorked pinot noir.  But yet, this stench in the hallway was something else altogether.

Varina shrugged her shoulders, put the key in her lock, secured it, and headed down the hall to the elevator.

As she approached the elevator, the dank funk became a distinctive fusty skunk-like stench.  She turned her nose up into the air and gave a deep sniff.  It came from Number 7G, the closest condominium around the corner from the elevator.  The pungent odor clung to the air like an unwelcomed visitor.  Varina wrinkled her nose as she pressed the elevator button.  The pungent smell clung to the air like an unwelcome guest.  She again glanced at the door to Number 7G, its chipped paint and crooked lettering giving it an air of neglect.  The family inside had always been a mystery to her; shadowy figures who rarely ventured out, their muffled laughter and occasional arguments seeping through the walls.

The elevator bell chimed twice and the doors slid open.

Varina entered the elevator car.  She thought about 7G.  Not many people really knew the people who lived in 7G, and no one seemed to care enough to try, including Varina.  She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the family than their infamous habits.  Rumors had swirled among the neighbors—whispers of strange visitors at odd hours, packages left at the door that were never retrieved, and the eerie glow of a flickering light that seemed to pulse through the windows late at night.  .  She shrugged her shoulders, took a deep breath, and rode the elevator down in silence.

As she exited the elevator on the ground floor, Varina welcomed the fresh, cool air with no smells, other than the Lysol used by the cleaning lady the evening before.

As Varina walked the five blocks to work, she resolved to uncover the truth.  She wasn’t one for gossip, but something about 7G gnawed at her curiosity.  What secrets were hidden behind that door?  And why did the smell seem to grow stronger over time?

Over the next few weeks, the smell from 7G only grew worse.  It wasn’t just the musty, skunk-like odor anymore.  It now had an acrid edge, as if something was rotting.  Varina couldn’t stand it, yet no one else on the floor seemed to smell it.  Her curiosity turned into unease, then fear, as the stench began to invade her own condominium.

One night, unable to sleep, Varina decided to talk face-to-face with the family in 7G.  She steeled herself, grabbed her keys, and knocked on their door.  The sound echoed through the silent hallway, but there was no answer.  She knocked again, harder this time, the smell making her gag.

The door creaked open.

The apartment was dark.  A dim light bulb on a table flickered in the corner, casting weird shadows on the walls.  Varina stepped inside, calling out tentatively.  The air was oppressive, heavy with the sickly odor, and the silence was deafening.

As she moved further into the apartment, her foot caught on something.  She looked down and gasped.  Strewn across the floor were piles of ashes, remnants of burned paper, clothes, and belongings.  The flickering light came from a makeshift altar, surrounded by melted candles and strange symbols etched into the walls.

And then she saw them.

The family sat on chairs in a circle, motionless.  Their eyes were wide open, staring at nothing, their bodies slumped as if drained of life.  Varina’s scream stuck in her throat as she realized they weren’t breathing.  Whatever had happened in 7G was far beyond anything she could comprehend.

She stumbled backward, fleeing the apartment, and called the police.  When they arrived, the family was gone along with every trace of the altar.  The room was empty, except for a lingering smell and the faint hum of an unseen presence.  Varina thought she lost her mind.  So did the police, and they left, laughing.

For weeks afterward, Varina couldn’t sleep.  The police dismissed her story as nonsense, chalking it up to old-fashioned hysteria.  But she knew better.  Something unnatural had taken root in 7G, and she feared it hadn’t left.

In the months that followed, Varina Pembroke-Sinclair carried the memory of 7G like a stone in her pocket; heavy, cold, impossible to ignore.  In time, the building returned to its routines, and the neighbors forgot the brief commotion around 7G.  Yet Varina knew the quiet was only a disguise.  Some nights, long after midnight, a thin ribbon of that same fetid odor would snake beneath her door, as if reminding her that what she witnessed had not ended; only shifted.  The door to 7G remained shut, its crooked numbers unchanged, yet she sometimes heard a soft rustling inside, like chairs being moved or someone rising slowly from a long, unnatural sleep.  And though she told no one, Varina felt certain the family had never truly left.  Something had been awakened in that condominium, something patient, something watchful, and it was only a matter of time before it sought her out and her sanity again at Cypress Row Condominiums.

 

 

 

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Leaving the Secular Carousel.

A Reflection on the Gradual Reordering of My Life

Over these many, many years as I have been becoming more and more serious about my Catholic faith, I have noticed a remarkable change in myself—one that has unfolded slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, but unmistakably over the last fifteen years or so.  In this article, I write about how the secular world has been shrinking in my life, not out of disdain for the people in it, but because its offerings no longer nourish me.  I have been moving away from many secular things, both by deliberate choice and by the quiet providence of circumstance.  What once occupied my time, my attention, even my imagination, now feels strangely distant, as though it belonged to someone else’s life.

In my youth, I wasn’t a fan of modern music, particularly rock and roll.  But in my sophomore year, one morning while getting ready for school, I tuned into the local rock radio station to find out what the current music fad was all about.  My friends were into that music, and I didn’t want to be left out of conversations.  It felt harmless enough—just a way to fit in, to understand what everyone else seemed to enjoy.

Over the years, my taste in music expanded to that genre, though it never went into grunge or the harsher styles that followed.  But now, even that earlier music has become distasteful to me. The beat and melody might still be attractive, but the lyrics—so often vulgar, suggestive, or simply empty—are sickening.  That’s what gets people hooked: catchy rhythms and memorable musical notes.  The lyrics are an afterthought, or worse, a poison pill wrapped in sugar. I find myself wondering why I ever tolerated it, let alone enjoyed it.

The same goes for television programs.  I didn’t grow up in a house where the television was constantly on.  Until age sixteen or so, television was rare—a special thing to watch, almost an event.  But then something shifted, and before long meaningless programs like Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, Three’s Company, WKRP, and various variety shows were playing regularly in our home.  Looking back, I am appalled that I allowed myself to waste time on such trivia: scantily clad people, taking God’s name in vain, sexual innuendo, name-calling, yelling, and cheap, vulgar laughs.  I don’t even find those programs funny or edifying now.  The detective and cop shows might have been tolerable—good guys catching bad guys—but even those were repetitive, predictable, and shallow.  And for what?  To kill time in the evening?  Why did I watch that garbage when I could have been reading good books, learning something worthwhile, or helping around the house?

Unfortunately, I was in a marriage once many moons ago where the television dominated the household the moment he walked through the door.  It stayed on until bedtime, a constant drone that filled every corner of the evening.  And even then, the bedroom television (yes, the senseless bedroom television) often blared until 11:30 PM.  That kind of environment was never for me.  I complained, he questioned why I wouldn’t watch because I’d have to have something to talk about at work in the morning with my co-workers.  I replied that I talked to my co-workers about work, not some stupid television program; that’s what I was paid for— work!  I tried to carve out pockets of quiet, busying myself with anything that felt less corrosive, but the noise was relentless, and the contrast between what I longed for and what surrounded me grew sharper with time.

Now that I have been away from television entirely for a good eighteen years, I don’t miss any part of it.  I couldn’t tell you what the latest shows are, or even if there are any worthwhile.  Yes, I still own a television, and I’ve used it to stream old movies from time to time, but even that has gone by the wayside for Lent this year, and I may not return to it afterward.  I don’t miss it.  I don’t crave it.  Its absence feels like fresh air.

And then there is social media—another thorn I am trying to remove.  It is astonishing how easily it lures, distracts, and scatters the mind. Even when I think I am using it “responsibly,” it has a way of pulling me into trivialities, arguments, or endless scrolling.  It promises connection but often delivers agitation.  It promises information but often makes noise.  It promises community but often fosters comparison and restlessness. I am working slowly but steadily, to loosen its grip.

Over time, these renunciations—vapid music, insipid television, thieving social media—have revealed something deeper than mere preference.  They dull the mind, yes, but more importantly, they crowd the soul.  By tossing them aside, I have begun to see the shape of my interior life gradually reclaimed.  What once felt “normal” now feels foreign, and what once seemed harmless now appears hollow.  I find that the less I cling to the secular world, the more interior freedom I gain.  This is not withdrawal but refinement: a quiet choosing of what leads me toward God and a holy life and away from the emptiness and noise that once filled my days.  In that choice, I am discovering a steadier, simpler, more meaningful, and far happier way to live. I write more, I pray more, I read more, I use my life better.

 

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Losing It with Quiet Discipline.

I have long known that the most reliable way to lose weight is also the least glamorous: change the way I eat, and do it without powders, liquids, pills, or any of the other gimmicks that promise transformation without effort.  They don’t work.  Real change comes from willpower, ordinary food, and an honest attitude.  These matter more than any trend.

This year, my efforts began even before Lent arrived.  A goal of losing eight pounds is losing eight pounds for more energy and just feeling better overall.  As January unfolded, I found myself preparing not only my interior life but also my habits.  I started cutting down on unnecessary snacking that crept in after supper.  Sure, I still indulged in a snack here and there, but it wasn’t gorging myself.  I continued my quiet campaign against corn syrup and the sugary additives that hide in so many foods.  And I returned to simpler cooking—meals that didn’t need to resemble anything from a fancy restaurant menu.  I proved to myself that I can cook anything well, so why do it every day?  That should be saved for special occasions.  Then I returned to meals that I grew up on that nourished rather than entertained.  There was a certain relief in that simplicity.

By the time Ash Wednesday arrived in mid‑February, I wasn’t scrambling to begin anything new.  I was simply continuing what had already taken root and ramping it up a bit.  The weight began to come off, slowly and steadily, and it still does.  But more importantly, the discipline of eating differently began to shape the discipline of living differently.

Attitude is half the work.  I stopped letting the noise of the secular world dictate my mood or my focus.  I ignored the foolishness that swirl around in headlines and conversations.  Instead, I turned my attention toward things that actually strengthen the soul: spiritual reading that lifts and edifies the mind and praying the Rosary with attentive meditation rather than mindless haste.  These practices didn’t just support my physical goals—they steadied my interior life.

There is a quiet joy in sacrifice when it is chosen freely and offered with purpose.  Lent simply gave me the structure to continue what had already begun: a return to simplicity, a clearer mind, and a heart more anchored in God than in the world’s distractions.

In the end, this has reminded me that caring for the body and caring for the soul are not competing tasks but parallel ones.  The more I simplified my meals, the more I found myself craving a simpler interior life as well — one less cluttered by noise, distraction, and the endless commentary of the world.  Lent simply gave shape to what I already sensed: that discipline is not a burden but a quiet form of freedom, and that small, steady acts of intention at the table and in prayer can reshape a life from the inside out.

 

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The Decline of Language Originality.

Have you noticed that our language has gone stale?  Once vibrant words and phrases have been replaced by a handful of recycled expressions that people toss around as if cheap confetti.  We’ve become a culture of verbal shortcuts—catchphrases, memes, and pre-chewed reactions—leaving very little room for originality, nuance, or even basic thought.

So perhaps it’s time to retire a few of these linguistic relics and replace them with something more intelligent, more intentional, and frankly, more dignified.

Take cringe, for example.  This single word now is deployed as a universal dismissal, a way to avoid forming an actual opinion.  Instead of describing what makes us uncomfortable or why, we simply slap the “cringe” label on it and move on.  It’s the conversational equivalent of shrugging.

Then there’s the ever popular “What! What?”  That’s a phrase that pretends to express astonishment but usually signals nothing more than performative confusion.  It’s noise masquerading as reaction.

And of course, the internet’s favorite template:  Tell me you’re ____ without telling me you’re ____.  Perhaps it was a clever structure the first time it appeared, perhaps even the second time.  But now it’s a tired formula, a linguistic Mad Libs game that saves us from the burden of crafting an original thought.

“How cool is that?” has also run its course.  It’s a placeholder, a filler, a way to feign enthusiasm without committing to any real sentiment.  It’s a way for the older generation to be hip with the kids.  It’s the verbal equivalent of nodding politely while thinking about something else.

“The fourth be with you”—a absurd pun that has lived far, far beyond its natural lifespan and continues to resurface every May, as if repetition alone could make it clever again.

And finally, there’s IYKYK (“if you know, you know”).  Here’s a phrase that pretends to signal insider knowledge but usually functions as a way to avoid explaining anything.  It’s exclusivity without substance.

Here’s a list of my suggestions of clichés and phrases we need to retire post haste:

Glow Up

Gaslight

Today years old.

Narcissist / Narcissism

Tell me you’re ____ without telling me you’re ____.

Chilling (as in, “chilling details,” “chilling video,” et cetera)

W’s (or anything using “W” for the word “win.”)

May the fourth be with you.

Awesome / Amazing

Asking for a friend.

You (We) got this!

How cool is that?

Game changer

Wait!  What?

IYKYK

Literally

Cringe

Iconic

The “F” word

These expressions are simply worn out, dehydrated by overuse, leaving behind only the dry husk of what once felt fresh.  Language deserves better, and so do we.  Thoughtful speech invites thoughtful living.  When we choose words with care, we sharpen our minds, deepen our conversations, and reclaim a bit of originality in a world that keeps trying to flatten everything into sameness.

If we want richer conversations, we must start by choosing richer language.  Retiring these worn-out phrases isn’t about being pretentious; it’s about making room for clarity and genuine expression.  In a culture that thrives on shortcuts, choosing real words might just be the most radical act of all.

 

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A Quiet, Reflective Corner.

Welcome to my website and thank you for stopping by.  This spot is a refuge from an often overwhelming and vastly chaotic world, and I’m grateful to share the pacific serenity that exists with you.  My blog opens a window into my personal life, where every topic — whether lighthearted or deeply reflective — is written with honesty and positive intention.

Think of this as a peaceful corner filled with stories, gentle opinions, encouragement, inspiration, emotions, and humor.  I’ll explore the beauty of living simply, cultivating calm within our homes, and clearing away the toxic clutter — both physical and emotional — that weighs us all down at one point or another.

I invite you to join me as I write, reflect, and share pieces of my life.  My aspiration is to post a couple of times each week, offering moments of my life, the stillness of peace, my observations, and the connection we need – plus some humor, too!

Peace on Earth,

Susan Marie Molloy

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