Felicity and the Bright Red Pumps

Felicity stood nude in front of the full-length mirror.

She didn’t look forty.

Her hair?

Still thick and black.

Felicity inspected her breasts: firm and free of puckers.

She stepped back from the mirror for a last quick take.

Her skin fit perfectly.

Roger watched from the bed.

Mornings were difficult for him, more so recently, with
the burning in his gut that never goes away.

He grimaced and took another swig of his coffee.

“What?” Felicity asked.

“What, what?” replied Roger.

“You made a face.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t be coy darling. Is it me?”

“It’s never you.” Roger said. “It’s me. My stomach hurts.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better–tell me the
truth: you think I’m a hag!”

Roger gestured toward a chair by the bed.

“Have a seat Imelda.”

Felicity sat and smiled, “Bring me my choose.”

Roger hopped up and scurried over to the walk in closet.

Felicity watched him cross the room.

“I like that little droop in your ass.”

“I should have known not to let you see me naked. How
many pairs do want, Imelda?”

“Bring me my dance shoes!” Felicity laughed. “I was giving you
a compliment; you’re a sexy older man.”

“And you are well-preserved; are these the heels you want?”

Roger held up a pair of bright red Christian Louboutin
cha-cha heels.

“Perfect Ferdinand; you may kees my toes.”

“Will you promise to give me a break on the age thing?

“Oh, but Roger, Roger, Roger; I’m having a mid-life crisis: there
are books to buy and surgeons to consult!”

Roger crossed the room, knelt by her feet and said
in a mocking whine: “When I feel old I feel guilty!”

Felicity slipped her feet into her pumps and stood: “That’s
the spirit, darling. You write the book; I’ll buy the shoes.”

 

<c> Robert Goldstein 1990 -2017 All Rights Reserved

for Christy Birmingham with a change of perspective.

Felique Dupré in the Haunted World: Whose Hell is This?

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

Illustration of Persephone made from a photograph of an avatar
Union Turnpike

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?”

Surrealist photograph of virtual reality avatars to represent Persephone and Lucifer entering the Garden
Persephone and Lucifer enter the Garden

Persephone examines one of Lucifer’s paintings and smiles: “Life is like a skyscraper on quicksand.”

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

Felique Dupré in the Haunted World: By the Statue of the Unknown Bodybuilder

Midnight in the underworld, fireflies twinkle.

Hades scratches himself and remarks on the rain, “Wet, ain’t it?”

The hot Sun settles over Jamaica Plains as the F Train find its
way to The Village.

Persephone claps her hands to her forehead and remarks to the old
woman in the seat across from hers: Oh, the unbearable lightness of
being!”

Replies the old woman, “I’m sorry, these are my bad ears.”

“They look fine to me.”

“Don’t be absurd!”

Persephone points through the screen at the writer: “Tell him to don’t.”

“Oh he never doesn’t!” proclaims the old woman. When do you reach Hell?”

“As soon as I relinquish this train.”

“That could be any time.”

“That could be as we speak.”

“But it won’t be you know,” the old woman points through the screen at the writer. “He hates mixing action with dialogue.”

The train slows as it nears the mouth of Hell and stops.

Persephone disembarks; a cat darts between the wheels of a cart and she recognizes the familiar landmarks of her youth:

The Statue of the Unknown Bodybuilder heroically crushing a mound of
squirming women beneath his feet; the 7Eleven where she stops to buy
Hades a fine cigar.

Public Domain Photo of the Statue of Civic Virtue which Stood at the Union TurnPike station in Queens until it was removed in 2015
The Statue of the Unknown Bodybuilder

How the old devil loves his cigars!

“White Owl.” she says.

“Oui.” replies the clerk.

And it is done.

(C) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

Statue of the Unknown Body Builder based on a public domain photo of the Statue of Civic Virtue which stood in Queens at Union Turnpike Station until
2015.

Felique Dupré in the Haunted World: Felique Steals Credibility

Felique Duprix sang a gentle lullaby to the little girl clamped between her knees.

“Ladies and Gentlemen/Take my advice, pull down your pants/And slide on hot ice”

The girl’s Mother wept when the train rolled out of Hootersville but Stella knew it was for the best; her little girl would lead a more charming and sophisticated life with Felique.

Stella,” said Felique, “Take off that tacky dress and give me your daughter.

Now, the little girl is a prisoner on the Amtrak to Hell.

The train rocked and rocked and a South of the Border rolled by.

“I want my Muthuh!” said the girl.

A South of the Border rolls by…

“A hag in rags?” replied Felique.

A South of the Border rolled by…

But she’s my Muthuh.”

A South of the Border rolls by…

“Well. So is God in his own way!”

A South of the Border rolls by…

The little girl pulls out her notebook
and writes a poem:

Mommy cried

when

Trina left.

tiny lizards

with

sharp little

teeth

fell from

her eyes

and ran down

her

cheeks.

She closes her notebook and waits:

a South of the Border rolls by.

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved