A Twisting, A Turning

I look in the mirror at myself nude this evening, really look. I wonder what some of the men who loved me once or who lusted for me, would think of this body now.

One lover admired my spine. I suppose he comes to mind because I broke my back a few months ago and though decently healed it doesn't look quite right back there. My age is certainly a factor also. This lover I remember, he would run his hands up and down my spinal cord. He enjoyed manipulating my body into different positions - and I'm not speaking sexually. When I was at my most relaxed that's when he would amuse himself posing me. After lovemaking, I barely inhabit my body anyway, so I didn't care what he did with it.

He said he read once in the Goncourt Journals that a certain sculptor would use only French female models because their spines had the most flexibility in the world, he said. Any little French girl from the streets could give, effortlessly, "a twisting, a turning...the inflexion of a Hebe offering Jupiter his cup."

I no longer have such an offering.

Heart's Content

I was surprised at the demon's appearance. Not surprised at the fact that he appeared, because I summoned him with a very reliable spell. No, the surprise was how he looked. That’s what I meant by appearance. His was so normal. Normal for a demon, I mean. Rather cliche, I judged. So very… last millenium. You'd think the demon race would demand a makeover by now.

"Nice pitchfork," I greeted him.

He growled. I distinguished the words "damn human" in that rumble of a voice.

Well, obviously I'm going to be damned for this.

"Let's get down to business, shall we," I suggested.

He grunted. "Fame, fortune, love - ho-hum."

"None of those," I contradicted. "It's revenge I want.”

He sneered. "Probably just want him roughed up some."

"Once again you're mistaken, demon. I could have done that myself. What I want you to do is rip his body apart slowly, shred his skin, squash his organs to a pulp - that sort of thing."

I detected a flicker of interest in those soulless yellow orbs he uses for eyes.

"I trust you know your job,” I continued, “so dispose of the parts however you choose. I don't care about anything but the heart. Just bring it to me, intact.”

The Demon spat. Though I took that for assent, I wasn't going to risk any misunderstanding.

“Intact,” I repeated.

“Still beating,” he grinned.

“You know what Ben Franklin said.”

He looked confused.

“When a man dies, the last thing to stop moving is the heart,” I enlightened him.

He made a rude, dismissive gesture when I held out a piece of paper with name, address, cell phone, fax number and other relevant data. Then he disappeared amidst the same flourish of incarnadine smoke in which he had arrived.

I made a mental note that when I get to hell someday, I will approach the one in charge with a proposal for new costumes, special affects, and other such outer trappings. In fact, I thought, reaching for my sketch pad, I could make some preliminary drawings while waiting for the demon’s return.

Holding the pad at arm’s length, I admired my work. I rather take pride in my God-given artistic ability. Though my own heart had become now merely a mechanical object in my chest, I realized for the first time in a long while that life – and the Afterlife - still held possibilities for enjoyment.

What I was about to do with a heart, for instance, to my heart's content.