Dionysus Dissolving

“His lips drink water, but his heart drinks wine” – e.e. cummings

The sun glinted off the blue-green sharpshooter as it hopped up onto the dried vine, searching for a place to lay its eggs. Its bright green carapace the only spot of color amongst the rows of brown, fruitless stalks of the Silenus Vineyard.

The sharpshooter, like its locust cousin, carried its own form of plague–Pierce’s disease, a bacteria that prevented the vine from absorbing water and eventually die. Not that there was any water left to absorb after five years of drought, broken well pumps and the decimation of savings that had left Silenus Vineyards destitute of water and life.

A drop of water rolled off the proffered cup, hung suspended for a moment then fell to the floor where a small pool had collected.

Peter Silenus fixated on it.

“Interesting choice,” a woman said, suddenly at his side. “Most men would have ordered a nude woman.”

“What?” Peter turned to her, broken out of his reverie.

She wore a bemused smile. “The ice sculpture. It’s very… lifelike.”

It was very well done, life-size and anatomically correct in every detail.

“Do you know who it is?” Peter asked.

“Not for certain, but I can guess,” she said, drinking from her wine goblet. “Not Bacchus, the Greek gods were more brutish, less dainty, ergo he’s Roman. Dionysus?”

“Correct,” Peter said. “He’s said to be one of the dying gods.”

“Well, he is melting,” The woman said, as she watched another drop rolled down Dionysus’ chest, his belly, then off his erect penis onto the floor. “An obvious choice for a vineyard wedding.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Perhaps we should re-join the wedding? Your daughter is probably wondering where you are … ” She waited a moment, and then finished her wine. “I need a refill,” she announced, hoping he would join her.

Peter was back to studying the statue. More drips were forming. More drops falling.

Dionysus dissolving.

Peter sipped from a glass of water as he watched the moon climb past the mountains to the east, illuminating the vineyard in pale, blue light. A soft, warm wind blew off the hills. Dust devils danced down the neat, skeletal rows of dried vines, kicking up more dust, as if to emphasize the desiccation, placing a final layer of dirt over a bone-yard of hope.

The distant sounds of laughter, thumping of the DJ’s bass speaker, clinking glasses of wines being toasted, drunk and refilled, drunk and refilled–filtered out to him.

Peter’s cellar was thrown wide open, his stores depleting, his reserve flowing out.

Persephone was drunk, which was her right and duty as the bride. She sloppily drank Silenus Merlot from a silver chalice, spilling and staining the front of her wedding gown.

Her husband pointed this out to her.

“So what? I’ll never wear it again,” she laughed, as she poured the rest of her wine down her nearly exposed bosom, then forced her new husband’s face into it. His muffled laughter and eager tongue tickled her and she giggled happily.

A couple staggered down one of the long rows of vines. He made a sudden attempt to hug her, feel her up, seduce her … pushing her against one of the wooden stalk supports. The stalk snapped like a gunshot, the vine broke, dried up marbles of dead grapes scattered, as they fell, laughing, onto the dirt where they made dusty, stained love.

When Peter passed Dionysus, his face had melted away: a nude, dying god still offering up the grape.

Peter continued upstairs to his room. He sat at his writing table and inscribed a note. He signed it, folded it and carefully placed it into an off-white envelope.

On the outside he wrote: ‘To my darling daughter. Read this only AFTER your honeymoon. Love always, Dad.’

The orgy of festivity vibrated up through the floorboards.

The muddy pool of water around Dionysus’ remaining torso attracted a skimming mosquito. She drank a miniscule amount of water, then, being an unsatisfied female, went off in thirst for blood.

Despite the debris of broken bottles and sticky, spilled wine, Peter found the dim, quiet of the wine cellar reassuring. He laid his pounding head against the cool wall allowing the scorching heat from the day, seemingly trapped inside his body, to ebb into the bricks.

A well-endowed brunette, nearly falling out of her dress, as she nearly fell down the stairs, laughed at her own ineptitude.

“Hello,” she called out, spotting Peter. “I came for more wine,” she giggled, looking around the bottle-lined walls. “Do you think there’s any left?”

Peter raised his head. “I have just what you need.”

He led her back to where a thick, wooden door, was nearly hidden in a dark recess.

“Spooky,” the girl giggled, grabbing his hand for comfort.

He pulled out an old fashioned key and unlocked the door to a cramped stone room with a bare bulb hung from the ceiling.

Peter yanked the chain, lighting it. The bulb swung in, illuminating empty wine racks, save for two, dust-cobbed bottles before them; then swung out, catching the glint of a revolver’s barrel, unseen by the girl, atop the far rack.

“These are the last two remaining bottles from our very first cuvee,” Peter said handing her a bottle.

“Yummy!” She examined the label. “It’s older, than me. Is it still good?”

“Definitely.”

“Goodie,” she pressed the bottle against her chest. “Let’s go drink it!”

“I can’t, but will you give this to Persephone for me?” He handed her the envelope.

“Are you sure you don’t want to party?”

“Just make sure she gets the letter.”

“Okie-dokie!” she giggled, leaving him alone.

The bulb continued to sway as the last bottled was uncorked, the gun no longer on the shelf.
The giggling girl slipped in the pool of water left by Dionysus. She fell to the ground with a night shattering scream, the ancient bottle of wine smashing with a bang, spilling the blood of grapes across the thirsty soil.

The sun glinted off the blue-green sharpshooter as it hopped up onto the dried vine, searching for a place to lay its eggs. Its bright green carapace the only spot of color amongst the rows of brown, fruitless stalks of the Silenus Vineyard.

The sharpshooter, like its locust cousin, carried its own form of plague–Pierce’s disease, a bacteria that prevented the vine from absorbing water and eventually die. Not that there was any water left to absorb after five years of drought, broken well pumps and the decimation of savings that had left Silenus Vineyards destitute of water and life.

A drop of water rolled off the proffered cup, hung suspended for a moment then fell to the floor where a small pool had collected.

Peter Silenus fixated on it.

“Interesting choice,” a woman said, suddenly at his side. “Most men would have ordered a nude woman.”

“What?” Peter turned to her, broken out of his reverie.

She wore a bemused smile. “The ice sculpture. It’s very… lifelike.”

It was very well done, life-size and anatomically correct in every detail.

“Do you know who it is?” Peter asked.

“Not for certain, but I can guess,” she said, drinking from her wine goblet. “Not Bacchus, the Greek gods were more brutish, less dainty, ergo he’s Roman. Dionysus?”

“Correct,” Peter said. “He’s said to be one of the dying gods.”

“Well, he is melting,” The woman said, as she watched another drop rolled down Dionysus’ chest, his belly, then off his erect penis onto the floor. “An obvious choice for a vineyard wedding.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Perhaps we should re-join the wedding? Your daughter is probably wondering where you are … ” She waited a moment, and then finished her wine. “I need a refill,” she announced, hoping he would join her.

Peter was back to studying the statue. More drips were forming. More drops falling.

Dionysus dissolving.

Peter sipped from a glass of water as he watched the moon climb past the mountains to the east, illuminating the vineyard in pale, blue light. A soft, warm wind blew off the hills. Dust devils danced down the neat, skeletal rows of dried vines, kicking up more dust, as if to emphasize the desiccation, placing a final layer of dirt over a bone-yard of hope.

The distant sounds of laughter, thumping of the DJ’s bass speaker, clinking glasses of wines being toasted, drunk and refilled, drunk and refilled–filtered out to him.

Peter’s cellar was thrown wide open, his stores depleting, his reserve flowing out.

Persephone was drunk, which was her right and duty as the bride. She sloppily drank Silenus Merlot from a silver chalice, spilling and staining the front of her wedding gown.

Her husband pointed this out to her.

“So what? I’ll never wear it again,” she laughed, as she poured the rest of her wine down her nearly exposed bosom, then forced her new husband’s face into it. His muffled laughter and eager tongue tickled her and she giggled happily.

A couple staggered down one of the long rows of vines. He made a sudden attempt to hug her, feel her up, seduce her … pushing her against one of the wooden stalk supports. The stalk snapped like a gunshot, the vine broke, dried up marbles of dead grapes scattered, as they fell, laughing, onto the dirt where they made dusty, stained love.

When Peter passed Dionysus, his face had melted away: a nude, dying god still offering up the grape.

Peter continued upstairs to his room. He sat at his writing table and inscribed a note. He signed it, folded it and carefully placed it into an off-white envelope.

On the outside he wrote: ‘To my darling daughter. Read this only AFTER your honeymoon. Love always, Dad.’

The orgy of festivity vibrated up through the floorboards.

The muddy pool of water around Dionysus’ remaining torso attracted a skimming mosquito. She drank a miniscule amount of water, then, being an unsatisfied female, went off in thirst for blood.

Despite the debris of broken bottles and sticky, spilled wine, Peter found the dim, quiet of the wine cellar reassuring. He laid his pounding head against the cool wall allowing the scorching heat from the day, seemingly trapped inside his body, to ebb into the bricks.

A well-endowed brunette, nearly falling out of her dress, as she nearly fell down the stairs, laughed at her own ineptitude.

“Hello,” she called out, spotting Peter. “I came for more wine,” she giggled, looking around the bottle-lined walls. “Do you think there’s any left?”

Peter raised his head. “I have just what you need.”

He led her back to where a thick, wooden door, was nearly hidden in a dark recess.

“Spooky,” the girl giggled, grabbing his hand for comfort.

He pulled out an old fashioned key and unlocked the door to a cramped stone room with a bare bulb hung from the ceiling.

Peter yanked the chain, lighting it. The bulb swung in, illuminating empty wine racks, save for two, dust-cobbed bottles before them; then swung out, catching the glint of a revolver’s barrel, unseen by the girl, atop the far rack.

“These are the last two remaining bottles from our very first cuvee,” Peter said handing her a bottle.

“Yummy!” She examined the label. “It’s older, than me. Is it still good?”

“Definitely.”

“Goodie,” she pressed the bottle against her chest. “Let’s go drink it!”

“I can’t, but will you give this to Persephone for me?” He handed her the envelope.

“Are you sure you don’t want to party?”

“Just make sure she gets the letter.”

“Okie-dokie!” she giggled, leaving him alone.

The bulb continued to sway as the last bottled was uncorked, the gun no longer on the shelf.

The giggling girl slipped in the pool of water left by Dionysus.
She fell to the ground with a night shattering scream, the ancient bottle of wine smashing with a bang, spilling the blood of grapes across the thirsty soil.