The Spirit of His Will
a short fiction by Avital Gad-Cykman

I was born inside Jim Morrison, languidly parting from the inner walls of the belly he grew in his last years. Birth pain wracked him when my spirit broke through his. He fell to his knees, hitting the earth, and his contracting muscles brought me to my first climax.

Already a woman, I rested between his soft tissues and drifted safely in my blood-nurtured temple. Within the delicate lace of our veins, I could not differentiate his thoughts from mine, his fingerprints from my bodylines. Witchcrafted, my flesh was transformed by his verses to mirror his desire. I trailed into his dreams, unwrapping fine veils of flesh to tie his lyrics with my umbilical cord. Soon his voice penetrated my thinning skin, burning and aging both mine and his.            

I breathed: “Pain is the one thing that overpowers time. Can we have more?”

“We can.”

The echo of the crowds’ cries thrashed his walls, moving back and forth like a maddened ball without a hitter. Deadly tongues of strangers flickered at us from street corners and journal stands.

Turning heavy, we sank into non-existent swamps. Down by the bottom, we peeled life of its every layer of magic. We spun in the center of the bubbling grounds to embrace the death that tiptoed behind us. Oh, sweet intoxication!

Yet even in the heat of our death-lust, we meticulously considered stage, scenery and lighting for the final act. No others could transcend time; only the two of us.

He gave the finger to potential saviors.

When the sky turned orange and betrayed a growing heat, his oxygen swirled in my lungs leaving him breathless. I whispered my promise of eternity into the air that suffocated him. No other Ophelia had ever outlived her lover, drawing the breath of his agony.

In Paris, the city of romance and decay, of poetry and drains, we joined earth to earth, ash to ash by way of honoring the Greek history of orgies. Consuming our love in the wilderness of after-death, we called poets and lovers to split the ground and dive in with us. 

While time dissolved into liquid, his heart poured juices into mine. Soon from the richness of his body—opened from chest to crotch, sweet as a ripe passion fruit—I grew and bloomed underneath the cemetery, spreading as grass throughout the cities of his dreams. My arms reached for his love but it no longer had physical boundaries. Sprouting from his every vein, my long tendrils sprang sending delicate strings to wrap around the men and women that once were his public.

In the unison of their cries, my Jim Morrison materialized.

  

© 2001 Avital Gad-Cykman

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