By Mort Castle
Read by Sarah Tolbert and Ben Phillips
Marilyn Monroe lies naked and dying.
You can see it there, at that spot on her forehead where electrolysis permanently removed her widow’s peak. Just beneath the skin’s surface, a blue black flower grows.
It is Death.
There is the promise of finality in her every tentative breath, the sporadic sighings, the intimation of ending.
Marilyn Monroe is dying.
I am her death.