Eel Soup

So, the time has come. He can’t stand watching her suffer any longer.

He prepares their last meal from scratch. He has procured the vegetables from the neighbor’s garden. The onions are still good, as well, the carrots and potatoes. A can of stewed tomatoes, peppercorns and salt, these are in the cabinet. The most important ingredient of all — the eels, he has obtained at the docks early this morning. He is careful to add them with their blood as the soup cools. They are finely chopped and raw, camouflaged with cabbage leaves. A modified and deadly vichyssoise served in her shining silver tureen.

He wheels her chair to the table. She’s so frail now, her skin almost transparent. The plague that sweeps the world hasn’t touched him as yet. Perhaps he is one of the few that are resistant. He frowns at the irony. His own life isn’t worth bothering with – but hers is another story. Such talents she has, so much to look forward to! Her paintings were selling well. She had begun composing music to accompany the presentations in galleries. She called it “bonding kinetic transitions.” But no more — this strain of the virus knows no prejudice.

He picks up a photograph of them when they were young, remembers the smell of her wool coat, the way her mouth chokes back a laugh in the photo. She’d loved his jokes – even the lame ones. Then came a time when laughter stopped. Like the sound of her voice, a bare whisper now.

Once she’d said his dreams were all smashed up inside. “Gray on gray. Form without substance,” she said. She was the artist. She had dreams for both of them. They are silent during dinner. He offers her another helping. To his surprise, she nods with a lopsided smile. She knows. He turns away to wipe his eyes. After dinner, he helps her out of the wheelchair, lays her gently on the bed. The muscle cramping will begin soon, ending the beating of her heart.

But instead of closing her eyes and lying back, she pushes herself up. “Hand me that novel you were reading to me last night, sweetheart. I am feeling so much better, I should like to find out how it ends myself.” He is stunned. This is the first time she’s said entire sentences in many days. And wanting to read?  How can this be — the eels have cured the virus? Her eyes are bright and her pulse steady. There’s a healthy flush to her cheeks that wasn’t there before dinner.

As he hands her the book, he feels a sharp pain in his stomach as the cramps begin. With a terrible chill, he remembers it was to be their last meal.

~ Marge Simon

© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.

Robert Browning and the Spider Poet

Poet Robert Browning was known to keep a pet spider in a skull on his desk. Perhaps it gave him inspiration, or perhaps he just liked the idea …

My mistress needs neither sun nor moon for her creative moments. Drawing shut the brocade curtains of her boudoir, she pens her poems by candlelight. Flickering shadows form a web around her lovely silhouette. Certainly Master Browning himself would enjoy her inspirations — but even more, the sight of her.

Her midnight curls are drawn to fine designs with clip and braid. With those bright black eyes and liquid voice, she was made to confound men, and I was one.

I procured the finest black net stockings from Hong Kong and watched closely as she drew them on her luscious legs. But one night, she removed those nylons, used them to bind my arms with complicated knots, humming “Love Me Tender”.  Thus mesmerized, I was all willing for her games,

Yes, I was so confident, so sure of my manhood. I imagined the smell of my sweat on her skin, the joy of our union. Our sighs of satiation, perhaps a smothered giggle. But that idea was scaled down some, since her perfect legs had multiplied, and mine had not.

And now she keeps me as a pet, inside a human skull upon her desk. It’s much like Robert Browning’s own. Sometimes she strokes my shiny head with long dark fingers, admiring my diminutive condition.

Her poems often mention spiders as did Browning’s years ago. Unobtrusive as the deadly recluse, lethal as a spider’s potent kiss.

∼ Marge Simon

Snuff Film Relic

“Sweetie, I’ve been into film production since I was a boy,” he said. Julian was his name and I was crazy about him. I couldn’t believe such a man of his looks and caliber would ever speak to me, much less invite me into his spacious home. But here I was, sitting in his living room.

He lit my cigarette and kissed my fingers. While I was taking it all in, he placed a snifter of brandy in my hand, his silky baritone like a lullaby. He showed me his father’s Kodak. “This model was made in 1965. Just look at this my dear!” Unrolling some film, he held it up to the light so I could see how each frame had clearly captured a part of the action. Then he loaded the projector and started it.

By that time, I was getting a weird buzz from the brandy. I say ‘weird’ because I was feeling very odd. It was like everything was slowing down. When I looked at the filmstrip, it seemed a great distance away. And I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

A lovely woman was sitting in the same chair as mine in the film. Julian held her in his arms. He began kissing her from her breasts down to her toes. A close-up of her eyelids fluttering. A line of drool escaped her lips. In the next set of frames, he was stabbing her with a screwdriver. He’d even added sound somehow — McCartney’s “Let It Be” full volume in the background.

Then he started in on me with a warm embrace, his lips on mine, sweet as that tainted brandy. Oh, yes, I was very much there, eyes wide open, unable to move, watching him remove the used film. He reloaded the Kodak, mounted it on a tripod, and aimed the lens straight at me.

∼ Marge Simon

© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.

Pathway to Glory

It is delicious here, watching the guests at this exclusive retreat. Within its walls, a haven is provided for the wealthy and ostensibly pious. The staff in pristine white uniforms is ever present. Their services are available for every possible request, from a bible or a copy of the Torah, to a prayer rug. Even needs of a sexual nature are provided, assuredly discrete.  Afternoon tea with delectable scones and clotted cream is served at four. After tea, there is a thick pine forest off the deck where patrons may stroll about the woods and enjoy the brisk air before dark. The mountain setting is always a refreshing change for them. Each and all feel assured that the myriad paths would always take them back to the resort.

But now, their vacation is ending. A few decide to take a last walk into the forest before time to return to their hectic lives in the real world, some in pairs, some alone. In a clearing, a brilliant light shines. It is just the sort of place one couple intends to kneel and give thanks to their Lord for this wonderful holiday. Naturally, they plan to engage in a bit of last minute adultery as well. Like a doorway to heaven, it draws them on.

Crouched in the thick undergrowth, the beautiful angel known as Glory awaits their arrival. Wings folded, she flexes her claws and licks her lips.

∼ Marge Simon

© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.

 

The Sinner

May the gods forgive me, for I must have sinned.

It began six months ago when I broke out in great welts all over my body. Every pore of my skin was on fire. This wretched condition finally subsided, but then the skin started peeling off my hands and the soles of my feet.

When I go to work in the fields it is like walking on shards of broken glass. I must not think of that. I have my duties. I am expected to finish all before I may rest. Last night, I stole a pair gloves to keep from shredding my own flesh.

The peeling continues all over my body where the rash was. The new layers on my hands and feet are bright and tender. But it is not a normal color – not the color of our people, and that bothers me. I wear the gloves all the time now.

Today a larger strip loosens from my right arm. I pick at it until it lets go. It’s most of the diameter of my arm. I fold it up and put it under my mattress. But first, I notice that the new skin is also dark and mottled like that on my palms and feet. It is as if I’m marked, like a child of an Evil God. Perhaps I am paying for the sins of some relative.

I have been over and over it in my head. What did I do? I just do what I’m told. Taking the prisoners out of their barracks at gunpoint and walking them to the fields where each is made to dig his own grave. When one is finished to my satisfaction, I put a bullet in his temple. I am not even in charge of the women and children, so it’s not that troublesome.

This day, the last of my old skin peeled off. I have stored it under my mattress as well. The only part that hasn’t yet peeled is my face. Still, it is obvious that I am soon to be wholly marked with the same color skin as our sinful enemy. The shame is too great to bear. Come night, I shall gather my old skin into a bundle, for it is indeed the one thing that I truly own and therefore I may dispose of it as I see fit. I shall take the shovel to dig my grave in the fields. I have the pistol. One bullet will suffice.

May the gods forgive me.

∼ Marge Simon

© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.

A Room of Frozen Dust

I meet you in Scarborough. The station is packed with passengers waiting for the next train south. Day by day, the ice is creeping over the earth, unimpeded by the swollen sea. It has obliterated whole cities. Across the channel, it encroaches on the highest peaks. Soon it will join glaciers.

I’ve booked the last room in the hotel still open to visitors. In the hallway two maids are finishing their work. One ducks her head as we pass. The other stares. “She’s rude,” I whisper, putting my arm around your shoulders.

Your eyes walk straight though me, avoiding the part that hurts. My hands tremble and the key is difficult. Someone has stripped the room. The telephone has been disconnected. At least the sheets are  clean. We cover the window with my leather coat. We do not talk about the advancing wall of ice.

There is a candle on the dresser. You light the long wick so the flame burns high. It’s hottest at the top you say and hold my  hand over it, laughing when I pull away.

You tell me how your dreams are mashed up inside. Fix me, say your fingers when they come to free my belt. Your hair is pale moonlight. I touch it with a whisper, “Nothing is irrevocable.”

When you feel my fingers on your thigh, you close your eyes.

I wake to a room of frozen dust, a blurred note by the telephone. It is a long way back to the station. I walk past the docks, where all is a shifting curtain of mist. The boats are ghosts on an anthracite sea. Ice spiders come with the fog. They spin pale webs over the street lamps, lambent rainbows on frosted glass.

I wonder if you fear the cold. If you feel it.

∼ Marge Simon

© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.

Bridge to St. Claire

Black clouds meeting twilight. A picturesque lake reflects the sky above the bridge to St. Claire. A vintage red Corvette speeds along the bridge.  Davis has a room for the night at the Harbor View hotel. He already has a girl waiting there for him. He dips a pinky in his little silver vial of coke.

During the night ahead, he has plans for this one. Something kinky, to be sure. He has a leather case with an impressive amount of sex tools, most of them involving bondage of one sort or another. Before dawn, he would know every inch of her body as he never would know that of his bride. Madeline is much too busy spending his money and divorce is out of the question. His girls are dispensable. Madeline is not.

Davis is a CEO, a businessman. The girl — the one waiting for him in the Harbor View hotel room — had met his requirements: looked twenty something, had no ties. A gal like her could always use three figures for one night, no matter the obligatory kinks. Of course, she doesn’t get to keep the money. After the games are played out, after he’s sated, he’d sneak a little chloral hydrate in her drink of choice. Then a fast ride over the bridge and leave her stoned on a park bench in the city.

Someone appears on the road ahead. He slows to a stop. She looks familiar, but it can’t be Darla — the airhead from last month who wouldn’t stop talking. She’d babbled all the way across this bridge to the same hotel. Talk about bad choices! He should have known she’d be trouble because later, she refused his special drink. He’d slapped her hard. “Game’s over, baby. Drink it!”  She fell back, hitting her head on the edge of a table. Didn’t blink, didn’t move. Struck dumb, Davis stood there a few minutes. Finally, he’d rolled her up in a sheet and took a ride to the bridge. Dumped her over, bye-bye birdbrain.

But WTF, there’s the little bitch Darla again, waving to him by the railing. He guns the engine, roaring straight at her. The Corvette sails through her and crashes, crushing his skull into the steering wheel. A tremendous splash, as the car and its driver hit the water. Then silence as the lake accepts another victim. It begins to rain.

∼ Marge Simon

© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.