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
