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

DISCARDS

July 5, 2023March 23, 2023 ~ Marge Simon ~ 3 Comments

I. Composer

Wracked with problems of the bowels,

sick and damned with tinnitus,

Ludwig tore up his tenth symphony.

When Gerta came to clean his room,

finding shreds of notes beneath his bed,

she swept them up to fuel the kitchen fires.

II. Artist

Behind five months in rent payments,

an artist in Arles gave his landlord a painting.

In the long cold winter months that followed,

the landlord’s wife used it for kindling;

“Still another picture of sunflowers!” she said.

“Such a waste of his brother Theo’s money!”

III. Author

Hans Schmidt is a dour man, grown old before his time.

He fidgets behind his desk, uniformed and pretentious.

In the last two years, he’s lost most of his hair.

His wife wants out. Frowning, Schmidt dispatches a group

of Jews to the showers. Among them is a frail teenager

with huge eyes. Her name is Anne.

∼ Marge Simon

People in the Sun

April 12, 2023March 28, 2023 ~ Marge Simon ~ 6 Comments

People in the Sun by Edward Hopper as Explained by the Ghost of One of His Models

Here I am posed in the crowd. Do you see? We’re supposed to be tourists gathered to relax and stare at distant mountains. It’s as if the artist were replaying a silent film of a family vacation. Normally, visitors here get this explanation: ‘The canvas may reflect Hopper’s discomfort in the West, where he found himself unable to paint with his usual enthusiasm when confronted by the harsh light and monumental wonder of the landscape.

I’m that fellow reading in the back row. My wife Lucia is the woman in the floppy hat. Of course, that’s not a real mountain range on the right. It was actually just a pile of lights and equipment, so it wasn’t difficult to look bored or unimpressed – just what Hopper was after, as a fact. I think he was making a statement about how tourists often miss the awe of the place they are visiting. Whatever, the scene marks our fifth anniversary, the last day of our connubial bliss. We started arguing on the way home and she shot me with the pretty little handgun I’d given her as an anniversary gift. It was for her protection, what a laugh! To think, we’d planned a visit to the Tetons to celebrate. A shame, all that monumental wonder we missed.

∼ Marge Simon

His Darkness is My Light

January 25, 2023January 21, 2023 ~ Marge Simon ~ 3 Comments

Born out of wedlock, a child of the streets, the sisters took me in to nurture and bequeath their divine formula. I was a willing novice, grateful for their care. Oh, I believed in the Word, the Truth, committed my life to selflessness, counting my rosaries on stone floors, a paper doll in a cardboard room.

Why can’t I see the light in all this gloom? A key turns in the lock. I hear the creak of floorboards, — a shadow moves suddenly from the wall and joins my own. He materializes whispering my name. Ever so gently he folds me in his cloak as his lips find my neck.

I hear them talking on the street, “Look at her face, see how she changed? Yes! Her brown eyes, bright with innocence have turned dark as pitch. And see, where there once were tears are fresh tattoos — emblems of her Master, inked into her flesh. Scandalous, the way she flaunts her body!” Let them talk, let them wonder! I don’t care.

I know the truth now, the truth that the sisters would never condone –his darkness is my light; I fly close beside him. We search out the sidewalk junkies, the castaways, the homeless victims, too proud for Salvation. We offer them comfort, freedom from this mortal life of hunger and pain in exchange for their souls, an offer they seldom refuse.

∼ Marge Simon

Futurity’s Shoelaces

November 9, 2022October 20, 2022 ~ Marge Simon ~ 5 Comments

I stare out the window of my cottage, a refuge from a marriage lost. Even the trees are dying. I hear the click of my pen, knowing it must have its way.

“On a sand-scaped shore where life squirmed out from its beginnings, a mother is suspended just above her shadow which grows longer as the sun recedes. The children rise from her shadow …”

Yes, it is another story, I have it in my head. My novels sold well, once. Now, there is no market for novels, no words, no stories. Libraries are a thing of the past, but writing has become a habit.

Yesterday the internet began shutting down. Communications are failing around the globe. I never thought it would come to this.

I make a fresh pot of tea. It is the last of the package. The last of all packages. Richard worked for NASA. He expected sons, or even girls to carry on his dream. I failed.

Esher’s multiples on a plane, pleasing, confounding, petrifying, Stravinsky’s complex compositions, Hegel’s theories, Einstein’s gifts merge into a helix of variables, where past and present play tricks; the child called Futurity ties his shoelaces, draws the bow taut.. I add to my former lines,

“The children know forever. The children never tell, they owe no explanations. Listen, say the children, there’s music everywhere.”

I lay down my pen. Before me is a blank screen. It is past time for the broadcast, the one that will tell us what we need to do.

∼ Marge Simon

Ripper’s Street

August 24, 2022August 8, 2022 ~ Marge Simon ~ 6 Comments

Softly settles East End fog, thick with industry’s residue. It leaves an oily coat on the skin,

plays games with the vision. Forms appear and vanish in the mist, the stink of piss and rotten meat, slimy creatures of dark alleyways. These streets, the Ripper’s playground.

Me being young, and with no binding ties, I once went slumming with the lads. Begging favors of Miss Mary, we taking turns with her to satisfy our bursting loins. And that she did with competence, such was her service for our coins. When we were done, we bade good night and off she went into that dense Whitechapel fog.

Years passed, and I’m a doctor now, with a different take on whores. They’re still corrupting honest men, giving them most dreadful maladies. I should know, being one among them on that certain night. Now I walk these midnight streets alone, carrying my own assorted tools. There’s many a strumpet up ahead, for a trained man skillful with the blade.

∼ Marge Simon

The Castrato’s Parade

June 8, 2022May 5, 2022 ~ Marge Simon ~ 5 Comments

The eunuchs parade for rights, today. Legions of dour men marching in clipped unison on a cold November afternoon with neither bands nor majorettes, nor clowns in little wagons. Their leader is out in front astride a white ox.

You turn to me, a question in your eyes, but I put a finger on your lips. Silently, we watch them proceed down Broadway until they diminish from view. Onlookers unify in a mighty sigh and return to go about their business.

Later we discuss this in bed, my arms embracing your shoulders, your legs twined in mine.

“Was it to make a statement, to gain recognition, acceptance?”

“I suppose it was,” I reply. “We started all this, didn’t we, Flora, decades ago? Why do you frown?”

“I guess they expect equal rights, too. It won’t happen in our lifetime, love!” I say, pulling your hands to encircle my breasts. We kiss with tenderness as only women do.

I lie awake, afraid to fall asleep. When we ascended to world leadership, we agreed males must be irrevocably controlled. But even so, those austere faces continue to invade my dreams with the force of their neutered dissent.

~ Marge Simon

Pathway to Glory

March 23, 2022February 15, 2022 ~ Marge Simon ~ 3 Comments

It is delicious experience to be 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 are a number of gorgeous walkways lined with arching redbuds off the deck where patrons may stretch their legs. The foothill 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 guests will take a last stroll through the bowers before time to return to their hectic lives in the real world , some in pairs, some alone. The budding branches form an archway suffused in heavenly light. It is just the sort of place one couple intends to kneel and give thanks to their lord by having a bit of illicit hot sex. Like an archway to heaven, it draws them on. Crouched behind one of the trees, the beautiful angel known as Glory awaits their arrival. Wings folded, she flexes her claws and licks her lips.

~ Marge Simon

A Good Wine

January 5, 2022 ~ Marge Simon ~ 2 Comments

An old woman stands boning fish. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. It leaves a trail of silver scales that match the streaks in her hair. The bones are piled on old newspapers she’s never read. She can’t see the tiny print, only the headline: World Famine. There are always plenty of fish, Thom says. Even after the last bombs that ruined the farmlands. “Fish are like the news, something to get by on.”

Where the famine is, she doesn’t know. They have no neighbors, no visitors. Her son makes sure to pay the bills, he’s good with figures. All this is done by mail, but no postman has come for days. Thom usually leaves his boots on the porch, but not this time. She drops the knife when she sees his face.

“Bad news?” He slumps in a chair, staring at something distant. He’ll tell her when he’s ready, always has. She returns to the fish, arranges a row of neat fillets and covers it with a plate. There are a few potatoes left. They’ll do, if he has brought the shrimp. She doesn’t want to bother him right now, but she must ask. When she gets no response, she touches his arm.

“Don’t,” he says, pulling away. “They’re gone.” She hears this but doesn’t understand. It’s something bad, she knows that much. In the cabinet under the sink is a bottle. It is time for this bottle. She puts it on the table. He looks up at her, tears in his eyes. “Gone, ma. The fish, the men, the boats. Even mine.”

She frowns, clicks her tongue. “Then we’ll have to wait,” she says. “Can’t make chowder without shrimp. They’re coming back, aren’t they?” He says nothing. She wraps the fish in the last piece of newspaper. She should ask him to get more, but not now. She pours herself a small glass and smiles. The wine is good.

∼ Marge Simon

The Exile

October 20, 2021October 6, 2021 ~ Marge Simon ~ 2 Comments

Earth hangs on the horizon, round and blue. Once, he was a god. Now he is an ice sculpture on a flat forever plain, alone in the terrible cold of the sidereal night. His eyes have become a waterfall of frozen tears. He knows it is his due for sleeping with a Native mortal, though she was of great beauty, body and mind as well. She could never have an equal.

If forgiven, he would know a sluggish awakening after a millennium. His children’s heels would drum the earth, rousing him from dreams of thunder and flame, calling him home. He would remember that insatiable hunger known only to certain gods. His mouth would salivate, recalling the feel of soft pale skin, so like the surface of grapes when peeled for the fruit within. Yet best of all delicious in his jaws, the marrow of the White Man’s bones.

~ Marge Simon