Oliver and Eleanor

         

I had known Oliver since high school.  We had both attended the revered Mount Olympus School of Music. I was there on scholarship. He was there because his father could afford it. Oliver was the son of the world famous composer Apollo Greco and his wife Calli, the famous muse and grand dame of the poetry world. Also, Oliver was there because he was just plain talented. His voice poured forth like honey and his fingers vibrated like extensions of the violin strings he bowed. The faces of the teachers, students, the very tree branches that brushed against the auditorium windows, seemed to strain toward the mesmerizing melodies he produced. His music was almost not of this realm.

Outside of school he was a plain all-around good guy. He’d stand us for drinks, drive us out to his parents’ Hampton house, or play a piece on the old piano in the back of the Bacchus Bar and Grill.

Even an ordinary ditty was magic in his hands. As he played “Siren’s Sweet Song” the gal at the bar, sipping her Aphrodite Light Ambrosia, caught his eye and gave him a come hither smile. And boy, did he hurry hither, and then thither, right on back to her place. Eleanor and Oliver shared their first kiss at the beginning of that date, waiting on the downtown F subway platform. Soon he was taking her out to the Hamptons instead of us, and a big diamond appeared hanging off that 4^th finger of her left hand.

 At the wedding that followed, the giants of classical music filled Olympus Hall and provided the wedding guests with interludes to make the very gods pause to listen. The new couple, still in tux and gown, decided to commemorate their first kiss by prancing down the subway steps to the very F train platform where the smooch had occurred.  The post-party group followed in a procession. We “ooed” as their lips locked and “aahed” as they looked deep into each other’s eyes.

Just then we felt the whoosh of the F train as it approached the station from the dark tunnel. No one noticed the homeless man as he barreled down the subway steps toward the couple.

Eleanor felt a huge shove from behind her. As she fell to the tracks, she could hear the fateful thunder of the train. She looked up to the horribly distorted faces of the wedding celebrants. Among them stood one dissolute looking man with a crazed glint in his eye. He had struck and quickly slithered away with a forked tongue flicking from his smirking face.  For Eleanor, all went black as she disappeared beneath the underbelly of the subway car. Her spirit slipped down the long dusky subway tunnel and drainage ditches to the system’s underworld, known among its dead and disenfranchised as Hades South.

Life without Eleanor was impossible for Oliver. Anguish, depression, drugs, liquor all followed. Then one day, he meandered down some subway steps and soulfully played “Eleanor’s Elegy.”   Soon he had haunted all the express and local routes, playing his melancholic homage to his wife. The sad notes filtered down the tracks, through the tunnels, down to Hades South itself, where the king and queen of the underworld were so moved by the melody that they invited Oliver to enter Hades. Through one of the Styx Transit maintenance closets at the end of the PanHellenic /74 Street transfer point, he entered their world. 

Marsha H.

Dec. 9, 2019

October Trees

The sunlight pierces the leaves just so and crafts globules of quartz and glass that glint off the once verdant leaves, now scarlet, russet, and cadmium yellow. Nature’s alchemy has bleached away the chlorophyll-filled cells and allowed the secret colors underneath to reveal themselves. The leaves flutter fiercely like signal flags warning of the coming coolness. But for now the stand of trees is royal, trumpeting proudly that this is fall and they are autumn. Other surrounding trees have not been so blessed. Their leaves transmute and slay the brightness. They convert the sunlight into brown and mottled forms, which will soon dejectedly separate from their lifeblood and fling themselves to the ground, becoming one with the earth. The trees, bright or brown, young or old, will all winter over with us, in sturdy determination, remembering the delicious summer and transformational fall.

Marsha H.

Oct. 25, 2019

Yom Kippur Memorial Candle

The illumination that spans the cosmos and beyond the continuums, from here on earth to there in the after-place, flickers its light against the wall and creates a soft focus in the darkened room. A simple wick, lit in memoriam on the eve of Yom Kippur, brings forth the remembrances:  the people who formed my body and sculpted my being, parents and grandparents decades gone, a good friend lost just this year. Miniature Images of the departed visit as they appear to hold hands around the halo of the Yartzeit lamp.  The glow reignites the glint in their eyes, the familiar warmth of their presence, their tender-hearted countenances. Reanimated are the kindness and caring, the laughs and shouts. And then, after the gates of the holy day close, the candle sputters out. The visitation over, the room becomes dark and vacant again.

Shalom until the next candle lighting.

Marsha H.

Oct 21, 2019

A HOT POTATO

The Civic Association group was assembled in the small downstairs meeting room of the Kew Gardens Hills Synagogue. The room was hot and dry but most of those assembled were wearing their dark suits and most of those assembled were wearing their yarmulkes.They probably came directly from work after a quick dinner. All of the attendees were men while the wives were probably at home doing the dishes and getting the children ready for bed.

The meeting primarily focused on the  impending race track in Flushing Meadows Park which Donald Manes, the Queens Borough president was pushing. My husband chaired the meeting as president of the Civic Association. My role was to put together the light refreshments on the back table. This kept me busy arranging the coffee, tea, soda and small cakes. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the men passing a black, a diaphanous article from one person to the next. Each seemed to be handling the item like a hot potato, getting rid of it as fast as possible. There was also the sound of quiet laughter. The object ended up on the last empty folding chair.

I helped serve the food and was busy cleaning up. Finally after everyone had left and my chores were done, I picked up the item and was surprised to see how much it resembled my black nylon Maidenform brassiere. This is weird!! It was even my size 32A. Hey, this looks just like the black 32A Maidenform bra I had brought up from my basement laundry room and put on my banister railing earlier this evening. I didn’t need Sherlock Holmes or Watson or even a scientist to quickly figure out how my black nylon 32A Maidenform brassiere got to this synagogue basement room. STATIC ELECTRICITY. This has to be the explanation. I brought the dry bra up from the laundry room, put it on the banister railing expecting to bring it upstairs. Instead my black down jacket was put over it. Static electricity made the nylon bra adhere to my jacket. I could only surmise when I took my jacket off, the bra fell to the meeting room floor. 

Manes committed suicide. The racetrack was never built. However, the meeting was memorable. How many black nylon 32A Maidenform brassieres had the men in the room ever handled?  Indeed, it was a hot potato!

A true story by Ethyl H.

Nov. 2019

THIS JUST IN

Narcissus the Hunter and the Water Nymph Echo Found Dead in the Enchanted Woods.

Authorities say both withered away from not eating. Upon investigating it is known that Echo died from the emotional pain of being rejected by Narcissus and a misdirected death spell from Hera, Zeus’s wife.

Narcissus is known to locals as an arrogant, stuck up, louse that recently rejected the love of Ameinias who committed suicide at Narcissus doorstep. Looks like the god Nemesis  answered Ameinias last dying prayers for revenge because there were many complaint calls to authorities that Narcissus was at the pool glaring at the clear water and pining away at his own reflection. This was not a crime, but very strange behavior that concerned the locals.

This tragedy is a cry for mental health intervention. Gods and mortals alike are sick of Hera casting spells to destroy the innocent who have been used and abused by her husband Zeus. Hence Echo was one of those victims of Hera’s misguided humiliation by her husband.  Clearly this is not love on her part, but a sick twisted trauma bond to an ogre.

Narcissus is clearly self-centered, arrogant, selfish, manipulating, patronizing, demanding and unable to be humanly close and compassionate to anyone. What went wrong in his life, inquiring minds want to know!

As this report is being presented, authorities, gods and mortals are gathering to bring an end to poor mental health services here at the enchanted woods. This step may be the only thing that can save the planet. 

We will keep you up to date as the investigation progresses.

Back to you - viewers