What a Crock of S**t.

Well that is a year of my life I'll never get back.

A thought Simon never thought he would have.

Years he spent, the ideas niggling his brain.

Constantly on fire, looking for inspiration.

He found it.

He found it on the bus.

He found it on the train.

Never on a plane.

Eureka!

Simon set himself up at his desk and got to work.

Finally, thought Marjorie, his long suffering wife.

Finally, she can get on with her life.

The book caused nothing but strife.

The constant agitated toe tapping catching on her ear, replacing the ticking of the clock that seemed to get louder each year.

Simon had finally done it! Put pen to paper, finished off that wretched book no sooner than later.

If it were to take any longer Marjorie would be sure to poison his daily dinner.

One whisper of hazelnut would finish him off, as he ate hungrily- a pig with a trough.

What would be next for the weary ageing couple.

Another year of constant struggle.

Struggling to find a publisher that would fit.

Lest they forget Simon had wrote a crock of shit.

In what world would any one want to peruse, a story of a man who wanted to make love to his muse.

Not to say Simon essentially wrote a fanfic, because to Marjorie that would be less tragic, thinking that his talents would cause magic, no it's just a stream of his bullshit.

For 20 years Simon had been a Professor, wishing he could confess to her, confess to the girl in the front row, sitting pretty- a present for him wrapped up in a bow.

The girl would change year to year, often they lent Simon their ear, letting him ramble, spew his narcissistic preamble, whilst he stared at their breasts, often ample.

No surprise really when he did submit, as the publishers could see it was a crock of shit.

Marjorie silent almost lacking existence, able to keep herself at a safe distance, for the days that followed when Simon's book was denied, he started to spin out, his dreams had died.

Simon could not fathom that his book not seen as the masterpiece he believed, his reaction intense his bones now heaved.

Dragging his heavy limbs out of bed, as depression sunk in- an external dread.

His hatred for life was now piercingly clear, not wanting to hide it from his darling wife dear, she should see his pain and the life she had caused him, being so distant, never applause (ing).

Simon now his perspective black, waking up and praying for heart attack.

Anything to put him out of his misery, excessively drinking, his mind always dizzy.

Marjorie watching waiting in the wings, silently hoping it would take one more binge. One more binge for his heart to finally give up, oh how she prayed with a bit of luck.

Marjorie, not being quite as she appears, a fire set alight in her, burning fierce.

She had noticed strange themes, on how Simon's writing was all too keen, in writing about later aged teens.

She had an idea about 3 months in, the result would be death by gin.

The book was indeed a crock of shit, something she could see but would never admit.

The day had finally come to be.

The day Marjorie awaited with glee.

Simon's liver had completely given out.

Not to mention speckled with gout.

People would have wondered how it came about.

But the funeral was attended so sparse-small amount.

Marjorie had invited everyone she knew, many made excuses, work or the flu.

She lowered his body, feeling such a relief, hoping no one would ask why she displayed no grief.

Plotting his death for the last few months, filled her with purpose a life renewal, as if she overcame a constant duel.

A duel that had been ongoing for many years, always having to conform and adhere.

Adhere to her husband and the role he forced upon her, not knowing the devil he had begun to stir.

Not long after his death did she set up her new life, complete with a makeover that would have left Simon writhe, she now knew what she was put on Earth to do, an in demand hitwoman, with a formidable crew.

Who would expect the mid-sixties ladies, greying hair and sagging faces, all inheriting the wrath of Hades.

For too long they had been cast aside, left with an adult baby they had to provide, with dinners and smiles they cared not to deliver, but how appropriate they all died with damaged liver.

The crew would travel to where were they needed, able to carry out any task admitted, to most of us they are invisible, think again they are in fact invincible.

Marjorie standing proud, leading her crew through it all, is that a glass ceiling or is it a wall? Never underestimate the power of age, Marjorie conquered- made the world her stage.

And to think this all started because Simon wrote a book, a book revealing he was only a crook.

Let's not forget the power of this, never write a book that's a crock of shit.

Years had passed and Marjorie's infamy grew stronger, her criminal convictions stretching out beyond her, written out they'd be over a metre long, but think about it, is she really wrong?

Well you could say, she should had left the dim wit, cut the losses and ran away quick, but born at a time when the world was against her, it was easier to keep the fence up around her.

Luckily she never sired a child, if she did so the response would be mild, no telling what Simon would think would he love them, or would it push him to the brink.

If he left her for one of his muses, it would leave her thoughts- only intrusive.

That's not a pleasure she would want to give him, she knew he'd never satisfy with his limp "thing".

Don't discount us when we get old, you must remember youth may shine but is not gold.

Again, imagine how easy to solve this, if you hadn't written that book.

That crock of shit.