The Morgue Is Closed

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: General Erotica  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

The Morgue Is Closed

In the distance, a midnight whistle like a lonely bird as the steam engine crossed over into twilight. Past dreams and countryside of nocturnal songs at the gate.

It's was just a wrought gate with a lantern hung as moths serenade the flaming wick and the interred. Lost souls in the boneyard that can't find their nest... just seedlings from flesh yet to be brined, before the worms charm a moonlight requiem. A haberdasher's delight, "Would it be paisley or a four-in-hand knot?"

"But where is the cello player from stone 102?"

A green phosphorus cold flame rose from the grave like a zombie of a ghost. As if in a cartoon balloon-quote box the phantom spoke. "I'm too old to feel the kick and too young to feel at rest. Now, where did I leave my big fiddle?"

"Is it time for her menses, or is she going in out the rain to resin her tongue? Before she bows a thistle thorn of sweet opium in my dreams. Or was a chariot carrying her home?"

It was as dark as the Devil's backbone, with only the moon as a witness. I climbed the winding staircase to the sweet smell of decay. Silently my footsteps fell into the rhythm of the crickets as they chirped an acapella.

Leaving my pallor Mortis with her faux red lips and pallid skin, with a funeral home powder and wax. To chill out a while, and the drippings to drain. Someone had cleaved her in the head, but that is what body putty is for. It could make the difference between a silk liner or ride in a closed hearse.

Many nights that never die and memories that wouldn't fade. It was one of those cold New England nights when the frost stuck to the oysters. Upon reaching the top, slowly walking down the corridor. Through empty rooms and memories, hugging my mind. As if darkness collecting my soul.

Entering a room, to the sound of a cello and a scent of sour mulch in a brine of vinegar.

His eyes must be playing tricks on for only a moment ago she had been a grotesque figure with only black holes where her eyes should have been, and strands of matted gray hair sticking out of a skull covered with bits of rotting flesh; her skeletal figure clad in torn, faded rags. No cello, just a coffin opened and standing on end.

Then suddenly, her hair flowed across her shoulders with its golden-red curls. Where those black holes had been, green eyes now sparkled with the intensity of emeralds; and her bony figure transformed into a voluptuous woman whose creamy white breasts threatened to spill out of the clinging bodice of her beautiful silk and lace gown.

How could he not love her? His body, mind, and soul ached to take her into his arms and hold her.

How could he not desire her? His loins desperately needing to woo her into his bed, where he would slowly and deliberately undress her and touch her delicate pink folds with his fingers and his tongue before entering her with his lust-filled rigid shaft.

Even as he sensed her sadness, he couldn’t help but want her. Something deep inside his being longed to take away all her pain and sorrow; to bring her joy and wonder.

Her heart was filled with frustration and angst. Tears that needed to flow could not fall, and yet the floor beneath her feet was stained with them.

If he could meld his body with hers, he believed he could rid her of her despair. Yet how could his flesh penetrate what was merely a vision?

“Why can’t I touch you?” he said, frustrated by the inability to put his hands on her.

She was silent for a moment. Would he believe her?

When she finally answered, she spoke so softly that he could barely hear her. “I’m an apparition, you see—a ghost. Somehow you can see me as I was when I was young and lovely and full of life. I don’t know how this is possible; it’s been years since anyone could see my lost beauty or hear my voice, muzzled by my circumstances.”

“It would be my luck,” he said bleakly, “that my eyes should fall upon the purest vision of beauty that I’ve ever been blessed to see; yet I cannot touch you, cannot hold you. Life can be so cruel it seems.”

“Yes, but we can converse for a while if you’d be so kind as to indulge me. I’ve been wandering, lonely, unable to find my resting place, aching to be free of this suppressed existence,” she pleaded.

“I suppose it can’t hurt to grant you a bit of my time,” he answered cautiously.

“Will you walk with me?”

“I dare not leave this room. For should I do so, whatever glorious magic that has enabled you to gaze upon my face and see life and beauty will surely dissipate rapidly and you’ll be standing with a rotting corpse? I couldn’t bear to be seen with such a dreadful visage. Humor me, kind sir, and sit here for a while; warm my bones with tales of life, as all I have known for years is the darkness,” she begged.

“My life has been full of darkness as well,” he said sadly. “I have known only loss and disappointment over the years. I am a broken man, so I fear that I have no tales to share that would bring you any joy.”

She paced the floor, annoyed with this man and his poor manners. She’d waited a long time to not be invisible, and this dolt was not going to disappoint her by giving up so easily.

“Then make something up!” she snapped. “Surely you have an image somewhere in that thick head of yours. Despite the darkness, surely you can imagine light! Share that imaginary vision with me. I refuse to believe that the one man who can actually see and hear me is unable to weave a fanciful tale that will delight my soul, if only for a short while. Please, I beg you!”

He looked at her with such pity, that she was apprehensive that he could no longer see the once lovely woman she had been. However, she quickly realized his benevolence was due to his own fear of disappointing her.

“Forgive me for being so churlish, I used to be as lovely of heart as I was of face,” she whispered, shame filling her voice.

“You’ve no need to apologize my dear lady. I am embarrassed by my poor behavior. Of course, I will sit with you. But rather than anecdotes of a nonexistent past, let me soothe your aching soul with tales of a fantastical evening with me. Let me woo you with my own unfulfilled desires,” he said wistfully.

As he sat down beside her, he continued, “Beauty such as yours causes a man’s loins to stir. I’d try to be a gentleman, of course, stealing kisses whenever luck would allow. But eventually, I’d need to have you. I’d be tender at first; caressing your soft skin, brushing my lips against yours as if our mouths were two whispers floating in the air, and nuzzling your neck to inhale your sweet perfume.”

She sighed, “Go on.”

He smiled at her, yearning to touch her, “Your intoxicating scent would cause my manhood to awaken. I’d be at war with myself, trying desperately to remain the nobleman, holding my lust at bay.

She smiled, the rarest occurrence for her, and pleaded, “Please, tell me more!”

“I’d take you in my arms and kiss you passionately, hoping to ignite feelings of passion within you. I would stroke your soft cheeks gently with one hand, letting my fingers dance across your face ever so lightly. The fingers of my other hand would wind themselves softly around your curls of silk while admiring the soft red hue of them, with flecks of gold sparkling in the moonlight. My heart would be beating so loudly, you’d find it almost deafening, and yet music to your ears. You’d smile, knowing it was your loveliness that caused such a reaction; understanding that my longing for you would render me helpless to resist your charms.

Eventually, my sweet lady, your own need would grow as well. You will find your voice as you ask me to help you satisfy your bodily cravings.

You will plead for me to touch you where your soft pink folds glisten with the evidence of your longing,” he said, moving closer.

She shivered.

“You will beseech me to fondle your creamy white breasts and implore me to suckle your tender nipples,” he said, moving closer still, “Your womanly yearning will have you hoping that my fingers will probe you and tease you. And your long-denied need will cry out for me to enter you with my shaft and take you over the edge into pleasures as you’ve never known.”

She reached out to touch his chest, and for a brief instance, they both felt the spark. Impossible, they each thought to themselves, yet there was no denying what had transpired.

Moments later he left the room. But not before kissing her and laying her down in her coffin.

Leaving the house. He turned a sign around in the window. "I'm Sorry, But The Morgue Is Closed."

Submitted: July 12, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Atticus Abbey. All rights reserved.

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