No Madonna

October 15, 2025August 27, 2025 ~ Marge Simon ~ 4 Comments

At sunset she serves herself with a candle on an oaken tray, a glass of wine, a plate of fruit. As she eats, she flips through an album. It contains her trials, loves and tribulations in photographs. There is the damask tablecloth from Surrey, embroidered towels, silver spoons; that certain green silk dress, a size too small she wore for King Henry ll’s ball … Melmac dishes from the sixties, the kind a gypsy could afford, they never broke when thrown … the dark-haired boy with smoky eyes, (she made him happy for a time, until her needs got in the way) … a shredded ticket to Belize with Sven, who never understood a word but never did that matter, at the time. One last sleigh ride in snowy Switzerland. Green yarn from a knitted hat. That sad faced man with the cowboy hat, and the older gentleman, the one she wed, both cattlemen and rich, back in the day. A columbine, pressed in wax paper. The lady smiles, having rekindled memories of her many passions. She blots her lips, wipes her fangs with a clean blue napkin.

∼ Marge Simon

Fire Down Under

July 30, 2025July 13, 2025 ~ Marge Simon ~ 3 Comments

He pulls the curtains open, can’t see the sky for the dry weeds. He’s been thinking of his wife.

Cancer took her before the drought. He’d grumbled about their cat, but his wife knew his heart.

When a starving dingo killed it, he’d cried like a little kid. He leaves the fridge open for the cool, but today it chugs to a final stop. He lays out three lines of what his buddy C.J. calls Indigo Moon, but it’s all the same to him.
When darkness falls, he checks the cabinet. There it is, the bottle of Bundy Rum with all the little marks on it he’s made on it, an inch or so at a time, to make it last. Screw this, he fills a glass to the brim, lights a cig, opens the window to let in some cooler air. Horizon’s lit up like Christmas, the smell of smoke, a rising wind.

∼ Marge Simon

Fair Game

May 14, 2025May 16, 2025 ~ Marge Simon ~ 4 Comments

“Absolutely not, Herbert! I won’t have our house sullied with the heads of those poor beasts!”

After twelve years of (not much) connubial bliss, his bride put her foot down when he brought his latest trophy home. This one had been less expensive to hunt down, mainly because it was a young Koala bear. (His first shot missed the feral pig he’d aimed at.) Sheila all but fainted upon seeing the adorable animal – albeit only the stuffed head. “That sweet little face! How could you?” she wailed. From then on, he was incessantly nagged about “that horrid hobby” and orders to remove the trophy heads of moose, elk, zebra, and the tiger skin that adorned the living room, “or else!”. Herb knew she couldn’t complain about the cost, thanks to his generous inheritance. Still, when ultimatums didn’t work, she moved her bed into another room, ending all connubial visits. The situation displeased him, but the idea of changing his interests to save their marriage was out of the question.

He was considering an affair with a baron’s (rather homely) wife when he heard of the Reserve. It was located on a small island with a backward culture. The prize was not another trophy for his walls. On the contrary, it would be a young native virgin. All was totally legal according to the brochure. Of course, Sheila didn’t know that part. He had a hazy idea of keeping the wild bitch in his bedroom, tied or in a cage, depending on which worked best. After all, he planned to bring her back alive. Whether Sheila liked it or not, a man has needs. Bottom line, yessir.

When a friend mentioned the area he would be hunting in was rather weak on details, he’d laughed. “But why are there no reports or mention of this place by any hunters you know?” Herb was quick to explain that such brochures probably were only sent to the most reputable hunters, like himself.

***

She must be nineteen by now, all ripe for the taking. The brochure claimed that many a rich hunter had tried to capture her and failed. He’d paid well for the hunt in this Reserve. It was huge, only parts were open for free range hunting. From what the brochure said, it was a big game hunter’s paradise. There was something in the description of the Reserve about birds of carrion to watch out for, but his guide, Yobi, assured him they wouldn’t a problem.

As promised, the blind was well stocked with cold ale and sandwiches, essential to a pleasurable hunt. He smiled and nodded a thank-you, making a mental note to give Yobi a generous tip. Three hours later, he’d eaten all the sandwiches and drained his last bottle of ale. The afternoon dragged on. Insects swarmed around him, some leaving nasty welts, despite Yobi’s repellent. His mood soured and he began to question why he was here – was it going to be worth it? He hadn’t really thought seriously about how Sheila would take this. She might even divorce – his thoughts were interrupted by a glimpse of tawny skin weaving through the leaves. Time for the pursuit!

Herb licked his lips, catching a flash of supple legs and bouncing breasts disappearing and reappearing. The air was still except for an occasional flapping of wings. He barely noticed the strange birds with hooked beaks alighting in nearby trees. And then, there she was, just ahead in the glade! Bushes rustled, parted. She crossed before him in bright sunlight, dark curls cascading past her shoulders. Suddenly, she stopped to look his way, her insolent brown eyes staring straight at him – the perfect moment! Anticipating his next move, Yobi handed him the stun gun. He fired, congratulating himself when she dropped out of sight.

“Now! The net!” he yelled, but Yobi wasn’t where he was supposed to be. The net suddenly dropped over Herbert and tightened.

The girl rose unscathed from the foliage to join her father. Together, they dragged him to the center of the glade. Yobi watched with pride as his daughter deftly slit Herbert’s throat. He helped her remove the head. After it was treated, they would hang it in their trophy room. They left the American’s remains in the glen. Their feathered sentinels would do the rest.

∼ Marge Simon

A Willing Heart

February 26, 2025February 19, 2025 ~ Marge Simon ~ 4 Comments

Born poor, I had no choice. My father sent me to be a homesteader’s wife. Each night, I was duty bound to lie with him, a business I truly loathed. He beat me after, as if I somehow failed him in the act. Six years, I survived in this miserable place. I bore his children, two girls of one torso, linked by bone and hip with arms apiece. When he saw them, he cursed and spat upon their little faces, forcing me to hide them from his sight.

They proved quick learners as they grew, I taught them how to hunt and how to kill, survival in this land of discontent. They shared two legs, yet possessed a willing heart.

Another night he dragged me to his bed, but I wailed and called out to my babes. Up did Mary rise to poke him in the eye, then smoothly did her sister Susie slit his bearded throat.

∼ Marge Simon

A Holiday Gathering

December 4, 2024November 8, 2024 ~ Marge Simon ~ 5 Comments

Long silent, the grandfather clock awakes to strike a full twelve bells at midnight. On a glass topped table, five candles light without the need for human hands, chairs of flawless red and green await the guests.

Dr. Mengele passes through the door with a box of spectral chocolates, the same he gave to Jewish twins when their train arrived in Auschwitz, prized subjects for his surgeries.

Ilse Koch, Red Witch of Buchenwald, appears in fashion, with fancy gifts, made from Jewish prisoners’ tattooed skins. Himmler brings his book on the occult and racist jokes to share, but is ignored.

Adolph and Eva are fashionably late, she with her two terriers, he with his German Shepherd, Blondi, all wagging tails and licking hands, just like things used to be,

before the last few days, when Blondi took the cyanide to assure her master that it worked, and Eva’s terriers were shot, along with Blondi’s newborn pups.

On Christmas eve they celebrate with fictive wine and phantom tea, a toast of Yuletide spirits, and reminisce the joys of bygone times, until at dawn, the clock ticks cease.

∼ Marge Simon

Girl, Waiting

September 4, 2024July 13, 2024 ~ Marge Simon ~ 7 Comments

The bench is cold, the station deserted. She has no idea when the next train will arrive, or even if there are any trains left, still running. She knows she must get away from here, but she doesn’t remember why.

The floor is littered with refuse –used condoms, cigarette butts. All around her is a dark fantasy out of Dahlgren, a depraved city of fallen angels, where the roads that lead here have no exit. She begins to count the tiles on the floor. She feels inexplicably dirty, defiled.

Distant and low, then louder –the wail of a train horn. The floor quakes with the rumble of wheels on steel. She jumps up, rushes to the rattling doors in time to see it thundering by. Then silence.

She returns to the bench. She has no idea when the next train will arrive. With a sigh, she resumes counting the tiles on the floor. The bench is cold. Her skin itches. She begins to scratch her arms. Over and over, until the skin gives way and blood oozes to the surface. Another train and yet another rumble past, but none will be stopping here. She is too weak to stand, but she remembers now. They never do.

∼ Marge Simon

The Ocean Beach Motel

June 5, 2024May 7, 2024 ~ Marge Simon ~ 4 Comments

I am the spirit of the Ocean Beach Motel off Route 66. My office is run by a witchy clairvoyant name of Madeline Williams. In exchange for her labor, I allow her unlimited use of several rooms for her personal business, no questions asked. We have an excellent working relationship. Between the two of us, we know the score on what goes on inside my rooms.

Room #5: Winning the Lottery had brought her more grief than joy by far. Dorothy Ann Thomas wasn’t expecting company. She rented this room for a month, told no one, not even her sister and certainly not her son, David. He was a liar and a thief and had disgraced himself beyond forgiveness in her eyes. She’d given most of the money to the local animal shelter. Somehow, David found out she’d won, and showed up at her door. She let him in, explaining how she didn’t have the money anymore. He snarled and shoved her. She fell, cracking her head against the corner of a dresser. He saw something was wrong with her neck. He didn’t stay.

Room #11: Rodrick Pierce set the bottle of Jim Beam on the bedside table with a glass from the kitchen. “Nice little kitchen, I could stay here until I rot,” he laughed. “Nobody would notice.” His wife had left him on his birthday last year. That was bad, but not as bad as being fired that morning, two months short of retirement. He cleared out his office, got in his car and drove until nearly dark. Stopped at a liquor store, and then found my place. He’s lucky my rooms provide stout rods on the bathtubs, strong enough to hold a man dangling by his neck. Rodrick will use his belt if he can’t find any rope around here. Probably won’t even finish that bottle before he decides to get the job done.

Room #19: She’d been a little drunk when Robert checked them in. She wasn’t “that kind of girl”, she’d told him that repeatedly, plus he had to promise over and over how it wasn’t going to be a one-night stand. “No, Sherry, I promise. Being with you is all I want. You want me too, right?” And so on, but he had to get another drink down her before she’d let him unhook her bra. After it was over, she fell asleep, or so he thought. He was sneaking out the door at the crack of dawn when he heard “Robert Botts, that better not be you going out that door!” He turned, surprised, to see his silly little Sherry holding a Glock. Where it came from, he couldn’t imagine. “One night stand,” that’s what this was all along!” she cried. Robert didn’t have a chance.

Indeed, there are more like this on any given day. As motels go, I do a pretty interesting business. Another example, if you like naughty, the extraordinary things that go on in my hot tub never disappoint either. Stop in, sometime!

∼ Marge Simon

The Most Lovable Man

February 14, 2024January 4, 2024 ~ Marge Simon ~ 3 Comments

Once upon a time, a lovable baby boy was born. As the baby grew, he became even more lovable, until he reached manhood, and by then he was impossibly, unbearably loveable. He couldn’t allow anyone to be a friend because they might be killed out of jealousy. He couldn’t go to a rock concert because someone would see him and shriek, drawing the attention of many others. There would be violence and all would end in deaths from trampling or the like.

In time, he became rather proud of his effect on other people. Even the rich and famous wanted to hug and cuddle him, call him baby names. He never met a single person who behaved otherwise, until one day he went for a walk in the country. He was thinking about what to have for lunch and wasn’t looking where he was going. All of a sudden, he bumped into a pretty young woman waiting for the bus. He panicked, searching right and left, but there was nowhere to hide. Suddenly, an amazing thing happened. Instead of jumping his bones, the girl moved away from him. He tried speaking to her and she made a face at him. “Leave me alone!” she said. When he persisted, she hit him with her umbrella. Of course, a man of his stature, with all the human race crazy about him, could not allow this anomaly. He took her umbrella away and beat her to death.

∼ Marge Simon

A Holiday Gathering

December 6, 2023December 2, 2023 ~ Marge Simon ~ 4 Comments

Long silent, the grandfather clock awakes to strike a full twelve bells at midnight. On a glass topped table, five candles light without the need for human hands. Chairs cushioned in flawless red and green await the guests.

Dr. Mengele passes through the door with a box of spectral chocolates. They are the same kind he gave to Jewish twins when their train arrived in Auschwitz, prized subjects for his surgeries.

Ilse Koch, Red Witch of Buchenwald, appears in fashion, with fancy gifts, made from Jewish prisoners’ tattooed skins. She places lampshades. handbags and wallets on the table, each with a discrete price tag. Himmler brings his book on the naughty sex and racist jokes he hopes to share when the opportunity arises, and he’s sure it will.

Adolph and Eva are fashionably late, she with her two terriers, he with his German Shepherd, Blondi, all wagging tails and licking hands. It’s just like things used to be, before the last few days, when Blondi took the cyanide to assure her master that it worked. Eva’s terriers were shot, along with Blondi’s newborn pups.

The comrades commence to toast the yuletide spirits, and reminisce the joys of bygone times. At dawn, the clock’s ticks cease.

∼ Marge Simon

The Other Shoe

September 20, 2023September 5, 2023 ~ Marge Simon ~ 5 Comments

He was a big man, tall enough, and his shoulders could stand two bushels of grain. By day he worked the docks of a mighty river. He lived alone in a tin-roofed shack near the pier, avoided rum, spoke only when he had to, but that was before the last war. Now the river folk were gone and the storehouses along the river were dark and empty.

He sat on the bank, chewing a sassafras root. Once a frothy blue highway for barges and fishing boats, it was sluggish and rust colored. In fact, a perfect match for the shoe, the only thing left to remind him of her. He’d found it by the campfire, brought it to the spot where the river turned southward to the Gulf. On a whim, he’d stuck a few pathetic purple flowers in it. A token of their love? Not exactly.

Her name was Violet and she was the last woman on earth. In fact, as far as they knew, they were the last two people. All the food was gone. No surviving animals, no fish or birds. Even the vegetation was dying or poisonous. They were starving. He was a big man, a strong man, and he was very hungry.

Idly, he wondered what happened to her other shoe.

∼ Marge Simon