can it be
can it be
that all I
She says, “Last night I thought
I heard God, but it mighta been
Wanna die, wanna die
from flying so high
today I am ten
(c) 2015-2019 Rob Goldstein
This is the last entry in a series of stories that began with three prompts from D. Wallace Peach.
In the second story Trina meets a shadow boy who is separated from his ‘boy’.
In the third story the shadow boy and Trina find a golden android but lose him.
After that Diana stopped the prompts for personal reasons but the story continued.
Trina decided she needed more adults in her world so she made an adult doll.
Later, Trina and the shadow boy find the golden android on a display stand in Macy’s.
Trina takes the android to her workshop, scrubs him up, and makes a new skin.
In this episode, Trina brings the android and her doll to life.
Caution: The story contains what some might consider ‘adult’ material.
Trina Tells a Story
Trina pulled a picnic table out of her bag and placed it in front of her bench at the duck pond in Central Park.
She added her tea set and Madison, and her new doll, Felicity.
Madison scowled at Felicity’s outfit. “People don’t dress like that in the past.”
“I’m a doll! How the Hell would I know? They just don’t.”
Trina sighed, opened her bag, pulled out her sewing machine, and set to work.
A few seconds later Trina had a new outfit for Felicity.
Trina dressed Felicity and asked her to stand. “Do you like it?” She asked.
“Very much.” Felicity replied.
“She looks like a tart.” Madison frowned.
Trina stuck her tongue out at Madison.
The shadow boy emerged from the shadows. ‘I think she’s pretty.”
“Thank you,” Trina said to the shadow boy: she opened her bag, pulled out the android, and stood him next to Felicity.
Trina stepped back to admire him.
The little shadow boy tugged on the android’s arm, “How do we turn him on?”
Trina reached into her bag and pulled out a button. “With this,” she replied. She aimed the button at the android and pressed it.
The android whirred to life.
“Do you know the Android’s name?” Trina asked the shadow boy.
The little shadow boy thought for a moment. “His name is Roger.”
Trina turned to Madison, “Do you think he’s handsome?”
“He’s a stud.” Madison cackled.
The android, now named Roger, cocked his head.
Felicity silently agreed.
Trina pulled a desk out of her bag and sat to write their story.
Anjana and his mice appeared and everyone quietly gathered to watch.
Somewhere, wrote Trina, by Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens New York
“Who is Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens New York?” asked Madison.
“It’s my pen name. Do- You- Mind?”
Madison scowled; Trina returned to her story.
by Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens New York
Felicity sits in a big red chair on the murky waters of
the Long Island Sound, she sings a song of seduction.
Roger cavorts on the shore, he is a straw man scattering breadcrumbs.
Tonight the moon rises as if this was some kind of night
Roger is transfixed.
Trina stood for applause.
Anjana watched two of his mice play an intense game of tennis.
Madison scowled harder than ever.
The shadow boy cleared his throat. “I thought you said they were gown ups.”
“They are,” replied Trina.
“I think you should make them do ‘it’?”
Trina was baffled. “Why?
“Isn’t that the only thing grownups do?”
Felicity stifled a smile.
The android raised his hand: “What is ‘it’ and how is it done?”
Trina was lost.
Anjana raised his trunk to whisper what he knew: ‘Now, I’m no hominid,’ he
A mortified Trina returned to her desk.
By Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens, New York
Roger and Felicity are doing ‘it’ on a big red bed on the murky
waters of the Long Island Sound.
“God!” Roger sighs , as he fills Felicity’s robust aperture.
“God back,” Felicity grins.
At last, unable to restrain his ghastly lust, Roger trumpets and ejects the squirmy substance of his love.
Anjana stood up on his hind legs and gave Trina a standing ovation. “Bravo!”
The shadow boy did a somersault.
Felicity blushed and glanced at Roger.
“That was mighty fine!” said Roger. “That was mighty fine indeed!”
Trina curtsied and said thank you.
She packed everything except Felicity and Roger into her bag.
“Remember to forget you’re not real.” she said.
Then Trina picked up her bag and vanished.
(c) Rob Goldstein 2019
The characters are fictional, anyone resemblance to anyone other than me is
She has strolled the
twenty yards among
the desperate Italians
who sleep on fine couches
beneath that crummy hotel
over Washington Square.
The wind as a Southern Storm
lifts her up to the land of
wildflowers and Irish seascapes.
Flemish belles wring
A clarion call!
An armistice! And
Felique is alone on a
subway that goes
As surely as the clock ticks,
Just as surely there is a way
to escape the Village—
But for Felique, whose anguish
has never been televised
And whose skirts are off the rack
There is no escape to money
This poem was first posted in March 2015
Poem and Image Rob Goldstein (c) 2015 All Rights Reserved