---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Gone Fishing” Down in the Dirt, v173 (the July 2020 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Outside the Box the Down in the Dirt May-Aug. 2020 issues collection book		get the 422 page May-Aug. 2020 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book “Vote Early, Read Often” the 2020 short stories & art collection anthology		get the 422 page short stories & artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Mary Shelley

Susie Gharib

    “I have brought my homework with me,” I say with apparent amusement.
    “It’s a pretty good idea,” he responds with joy beaming from his bluebell eyes. I know that he enjoys the fact that I did not defer our meeting despite an impending academic duty, diligent as I am.
    “There is a homework for you too,” I add, with a look that appeals to his partiality to any form of impishness.
    “I am always ready for your literary tests,” he responds with enthusiasm, instantly taking his glasses from his pocket.
    I had a nightmare the night before and rendered the scenes I recalled in a fictive form in order to receive his neutral, psychoanalytic response. I had seen a face in a very low sky, that of an old singer whom my dad liked when I was a child. His lips were mumbling something in my ears that I could not understand. The sullen face that covered the entire sky almost touched mine. Then my gory intestines began one by one to come out of my mouth. I woke up with a sense of horror lurking on my tongue.
    “Can you analyze this for me?” I ask, assuming a more serious look.
    He takes my handwritten piece with a keen interest on his face and after a careful survey with his intelligent eyes, he confidently responds: “This must have been written by Mary Shelley. Is it Frankenstein?”
    “It is a nightmare. What does it mean?” I ask, feeling proud about the assimilation of my depiction to Mary Shelley’s, but quite anxious to understand its purport.
    “Is it Shelley’s?” he persists.
    “No,” I answer with no intention of telling lies.
    “So who wrote it?” he asks with apparent disappointment.
    “The question is about what it means, not who wrote it,” I respond, beginning to feel some unease. I feel remorseful and think of a way of appeasing his wounded pride.
    “It will help to know who wrote it,” he repeats.
    “I wrote it. I wanted to have your opinion about a dream I had,” I promptly answer.
    “Did you really write this?” asks Gerard with disbelief.
    “I did. I never meant it to be as a test of your literary knowledge,” I say, looking into his eyes with genuine regret.
    “It is good,” he admits, knitting his brows. I think he cannot understand how he could have mistaken my written piece for literary expertise, widely read as he is.
    “Let us see what it means,” he states, assuming an analytic pose.
    He keeps me waiting for suspense and then has his vengeance upon me with a few words.
    “I think you are worried about losing your virginity,” he states.
    “Virginity!” I exclaim, with undisguised shock.
    “The gory stuff which comes out of your stomach is your maiden’s blood,” he asserts in a matter of fact.
    I feel speechless and hurt. I have spoiled the evening for both of us.
    Poe, the Romantics and the Graveyard poets are amongst numerous writers whom we frequently discuss during our drives to the countryside. My preference of certain poets makes Gerard pronounce the verdict that I must be fascinated by death. He drives me to some cemeteries and though I aesthetically enjoy their serenity, I am surprised when he chooses to encircle my finger with a ring as we are standing in a graveyard before a monument.
    These drives are frequently accompanied by his favorite pieces of music that enhance his deep-embedded, tragic sense even in my company. Tchaikovsky’s swans paddle in his moist eyes. He has been reiterating the wish that he had met me twenty-two years ago, but then I would have been only three years old! He believes I am bound to abandon him for a virile youth.
    “But I am monogamous by nature,” I assert, a sense of frustration beginning to release my agitated tongue from its bridle.
    “It has nothing to do with monogamy,” he states. “When I am old, you will be quite young and the dictates of nature will make you seek a better company.”
    “The dictates of nature!” I repeat the words with a sardonic twist that he has resented on other occasions. “The dictates of my nature are monogamy and not biology. I also happen to have ethics. I do not abandon a mate because of old age.”
    He inspects my face as he would some piece of architecture when he is worried about its upkeep then relapses into one of his philosophic moods with Rachmaninoff for a soundtrack.
    Fatigued with increasing disagreements, I accelerate the tempo of an inevitable release. When we finally decide to split, Gerard asks me to wait for God to unravel his purpose to me. Though my skills have mainly consisted of rivulets of words, I know I am neither a preacher nor the awaited Messiah at Jerusalem’s gate, so excuses for his diffidence remain irreparably lame.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...