Below are a list of poems, prose and stories written by Marie.

Ewetopia, A Land Far From Normal – Chapter 1

By Marie Ellen Pacha It was a land far from the realm of Normal, where most people did everything the same way, or a least tried to. The lamb was found wandering the streets of the hamlet one day, a hamlet so small it had no name. Obviously she was a well bred lamb for her manners were impeccable, and her fleece showed signs of a recent grooming though it was slightly unkempt at the present time. She stopped in at the local restaurant, and asked the Chef for directions to the Shepherd's house. "How do you do," she asked, "can you please direct me to the nearest Shepherd? I appear to have left the country behind in my meanderings, and I am quite turned about." The Chef, a man of Welsh heritage, had a fondness for lambs, (and not just on a platter for dinner) as he was used to seeing them frolic on the hillsides in Wales...though he was slightly startled to hear one speak English. He answered courteously; however, "Quite well thank you, and how does a lamb come to speak English? And how did you come to our hamlet on your own?" "My mother Ewegenia, said ...
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Ewetopia

By Marie Ellen Pacha Ahhh..Ewetopia, home of my dreams. Where all is illusion, and not what it seems. Pull us together, from what was apart. Bind us with laughter, hold us to heart. From the top of the belfry, to the depths of the moat. Keep all our spirits, firmly afloat. From the depths of the closet, where we face the unknown. To the streets in our hamlet, where friendships have grown. Here in this lost world, I still have a place... Without question of species, or religion, or race. And Elvis and Buddy, can live in my mind... 'Cause the shape of a memory, is ne'er left behind. So come to Ewetopia, we'll walk hand in hand. In a land born of laughter, our own never land ...
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The Man in the Pawnshop

By Marie Ellen Pacha The old man in the pawnshop looked rumpled and worn, His shirt was quite wrinkled, and his cuff a bit torn. His face was lined with the tracks of the years, and his eyes showed remnants of laughter and tears. His voice was a whisper as he spoke to me, "Look round my shop. Tell me what do you see? These aren't mere possessions that I've come to own, these are somebody's dreams that are just here on loan." Some of them never can be redeemed, so they sit here forever, as dusty old dreams. Some of the owners come back in time, and I give their dreams back, for they never were mine. Some of them pass on to somebody new, one of them might go to someone like you. My ledgers are messy, just here to remind, the names of the owners that left dreams behind. But as time passes I have been here too long, I can't throw away dreams, that would be all wrong. If you wish to take over, I will give them to you. You must keep the shop open, if it's all that you do." I nodded, understanding, all ...
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Redemption, Pawnshop Revisited

By Marie Ellen Pacha, 2006 The bell overhead rang, as I opened the door. My feet scuffed through the dust, as they moved 'cross the floor. The ticket stub was clasped tight in my hand. I presented it silently to the withered old man. A gilt mirror just behind, and to the side, on the shelf, reflected a blurred, younger view of myself. With eyes that saw clearly, and a face still unlined, I could see in those eyes, the dreams that were mine. I was lost for a moment, remembering those days; the laughter, the tears, and the childish ways. The eyes that I looked with had seen so much more, than that day long ago when I first walked through the door. A prism of light pulled me back from my thoughts. To the paper he held, and the thing that I sought. He smoothed out the wrinkles, and peered at my name, looked in his book, for the item I claimed. Stared over his glasses, and looked at my face, then to the counter, where a box filled the space. "I couldn't come sooner, my ticket was lost. I've come to redeem it. Please, what is the ...
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Pawnshop

By Marie Ellen Pacha The sign on the pawnshop read Keeper of Dreams. and all of the items are not what they seem. The man at the counter smiled softly at me. Said, "Look and hold gently, all that you see. All of these treasures hold memories galore. The people that owned them, loaned them to my store. Life as it moved on has sent some my way, some are here for a while, and some here will stay." A guitar in the corner at once caught my eye. My fingers strummed once, then away they did fly. They moved with a certainty into a tune, rang out a melody, of sorrow and ruin. Tears fell from my eyes, streaming like rain, as I lived someone's memories, and shared all their pain. Whispers of sound, echoed in the air, I could see someone's shadow, standing just there. A ring on the counter drew me near by its glow. I held it for a moment, and somehow seemed to know. The finger was worn on, was held true in love, The soul that once shared it, now dwelled far above. The owner was crying when he spoke to me. "It is ...
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