Persephone plods relentlessly towards Hell.
Great drifts of snow form a tunnel along Union Turnpike.
Everything is grey: grey snow from a grey sky on grey
buildings.
Persephone rolls her eyes at the writer; perseveration of
thought is the sign of an overwrought mind.
Yet, she does consider the landscape grey
“Alla Saints an’ Mother Theresa coul’na saved me!” laughs Hades
with a puff on his cigar.
He’s just told the story of how, as a young Catholic converting a Jew in Switzerland, he was chased by a pack of Protestant dogs.
“My twisted sister!” Persephone hikes her skirt; that story never fails to impress.
“Hades,” she says, “about Felique…”
“I don’t have your precious Felique!”
Nevertheless, she persisted: “But you must!”
Hades relaxes and chuckles affectionately: “Of course I must. She’s in the Garden playing with dolls. She’d love to see you.”
Persephone is confused: “What was that business with the hag in the mirror?”
“You know how the writer likes special effects.”
“And Felique…?”
“She’s a little girl named Trina.”
“I see…and, whose Hell is this?
“Cocteau’s, do you like it?”
Persephone examines one of Lucifer’s paintings and smiles: “Life is like a skyscraper on quicksand.”
(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved
“He’s just told the story of how, as a young Catholic converting a Jew in Switzerland, he was chased by a pack of Protestant dogs.”
A “skyscraper on quicksand” indeed. Well done, Rob. I enjoyed that. The graphics are perfect for the story too.
Wishing you a great new week. Hugs.
Thanks Teagan. This is one of the strangest fables in my collection. Editing it is like working on a puzzle. I appreciate your comment.
I’m finally ready to begin editing a book that I’ve “touched” on and off for 4 1/2 years… It definitely feels like a puzzle after years of stop and start.
When I was living with Norse he advised me to throw nothing away. He said something that reads like crap today may be a gem that you’re not ready to see. So I have trunks of drafts and fragments produced over the years. I’m still transcribing that work. As therapy progresses I see the work as less fragmented and begin to understand how the different sections of writing relate to each other. To some extent I was writing flash fiction in the 80’s but using poetic forms.