it
not been so mocking. “And this is why I should help you?”
Aphrodite took two courageous steps forward. “It is to your benefit.
Together we could become even stronger, transform this world into a
haven of pleasure and joy not unlike Eden. We could restore your
influence to that of-“
Aphrodite realized the arrogance of her statement only as the cats
darted from sight in a flurry of scampering claws. Freya arose abruptly
and stormed toward her, her hair and cloak streaming behind her like
wispy clouds. Aphrodite cowered.
“How dare you insinuate my power is lesser than yours.” Even with
her eyes shut tight Aphrodite felt the goddess towering over her. Freya’s
breath rustled the top of Aphrodite’s hair. The musty odor of feathers and
rawhide filled her nostrils.
“I may not be revered in the classic artwork of man, or gloried in
literature, but I am the goddess of lust and fertility, little one. Humans do
not require love when they are controlled by their genitals.” Aphrodite
recognized sarcasm in Freya’s tone. “They need no romance or
tenderness to procreate.”
To procreate, the chamber echoed. In her rage she reminded Aphrodite
of Ares. But she would not taunt Freya as she did him.
A rustling of cloth and retreating footsteps allowed Aphrodite to peek.
She saw only Freya’s ivory hair and the striking black and grey of her
cape.
“It is not me who should worry about the balance of magick,” Freya
said over her shoulder. “Regardless of who wins this contest, I will
remain strong.”
Freya’s left hand shot out and she snapped her fingers.
Aphrodite found herself shivering on the rainbow bridge.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Poetry found Jenny hunched like a broken doll over tea in the far
corner of Second Cup.
Poetry looped her purse over the chair across from her and parked.
She uncapped her bottled water--no more caffeine on an empty
stomach---and took a long swig.
It eased her tightened throat, but for a moment Poetry couldn’t speak.
Jenny had abandoned her, ditched her when she needed her the most.
Yet here Poetry sat, prepared to shove their disagreement under the rug
once again in the name of friendship.
Poetry wondered if maybe she deserved Jenny’s anger. She had a
point about her bringing that thug around. And what would have
happened if they’d been home when Kevin went on the rampage? Guilt
brought Poetry here.
Jenny picked her head up and peered at her with crimson-rimmed
eyes.
“You look awful.”
Jenny stared her down. “Thanks.”
Suddenly Poetry’s ragged cuticles and peeling cobalt nail polish
became the focus of her attention. She bit down a terse response.
Meeting Jenny had been a mistake.
“Sorry,” Jenny said. “It was a long night.”
“I bet.” I had the worst week of my life, thanks for asking.
Poetry waited for Jenny to quit rubbing at mascara tracks, tapping an
impatient beat on the plastic water bottle.
“Listen, I’m sorry for the way things ended. I shouldn’t have yelled at
you like that.”
“We both made mistakes,” Poetry said, feeling some tension seep
away. “You were right. Kevin was a jerk and I couldn’t see it. I should
have listened to you.”
“You’re a really good friend for coming here after the way I acted.”
Jenny looked down again and picked up her tea. The fresh green grass
smell of it wafted over to Poetry, reminding her of old times hanging out,
watching movies, and talking about guys. She could almost taste buttered
popcorn.
What I am is a sentimental mush.
A variety of comforting platitudes came to mind but Poetry couldn’t
push any of them past her teeth. She didn’t want to tell Jenny it didn’t
matter now, that all was forgiven. Jenny would not do the same for her.
Instead she said, “Tell me what happened.”
Jenny put her cup down, pressed her tissue back to her cheek as fresh
tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.
“It’s Gary.” A dramatic torrent of sobs and moisture gushed forth, and
not been so mocking. “And this is why I should help you?”
Aphrodite took two courageous steps forward. “It is to your benefit.
Together we could become even stronger, transform this world into a
haven of pleasure and joy not unlike Eden. We could restore your
influence to that of-“
Aphrodite realized the arrogance of her statement only as the cats
darted from sight in a flurry of scampering claws. Freya arose abruptly
and stormed toward her, her hair and cloak streaming behind her like
wispy clouds. Aphrodite cowered.
“How dare you insinuate my power is lesser than yours.” Even with
her eyes shut tight Aphrodite felt the goddess towering over her. Freya’s
breath rustled the top of Aphrodite’s hair. The musty odor of feathers and
rawhide filled her nostrils.
“I may not be revered in the classic artwork of man, or gloried in
literature, but I am the goddess of lust and fertility, little one. Humans do
not require love when they are controlled by their genitals.” Aphrodite
recognized sarcasm in Freya’s tone. “They need no romance or
tenderness to procreate.”
To procreate, the chamber echoed. In her rage she reminded Aphrodite
of Ares. But she would not taunt Freya as she did him.
A rustling of cloth and retreating footsteps allowed Aphrodite to peek.
She saw only Freya’s ivory hair and the striking black and grey of her
cape.
“It is not me who should worry about the balance of magick,” Freya
said over her shoulder. “Regardless of who wins this contest, I will
remain strong.”
Freya’s left hand shot out and she snapped her fingers.
Aphrodite found herself shivering on the rainbow bridge.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Poetry found Jenny hunched like a broken doll over tea in the far
corner of Second Cup.
Poetry looped her purse over the chair across from her and parked.
She uncapped her bottled water--no more caffeine on an empty
stomach---and took a long swig.
It eased her tightened throat, but for a moment Poetry couldn’t speak.
Jenny had abandoned her, ditched her when she needed her the most.
Yet here Poetry sat, prepared to shove their disagreement under the rug
once again in the name of friendship.
Poetry wondered if maybe she deserved Jenny’s anger. She had a
point about her bringing that thug around. And what would have
happened if they’d been home when Kevin went on the rampage? Guilt
brought Poetry here.
Jenny picked her head up and peered at her with crimson-rimmed
eyes.
“You look awful.”
Jenny stared her down. “Thanks.”
Suddenly Poetry’s ragged cuticles and peeling cobalt nail polish
became the focus of her attention. She bit down a terse response.
Meeting Jenny had been a mistake.
“Sorry,” Jenny said. “It was a long night.”
“I bet.” I had the worst week of my life, thanks for asking.
Poetry waited for Jenny to quit rubbing at mascara tracks, tapping an
impatient beat on the plastic water bottle.
“Listen, I’m sorry for the way things ended. I shouldn’t have yelled at
you like that.”
“We both made mistakes,” Poetry said, feeling some tension seep
away. “You were right. Kevin was a jerk and I couldn’t see it. I should
have listened to you.”
“You’re a really good friend for coming here after the way I acted.”
Jenny looked down again and picked up her tea. The fresh green grass
smell of it wafted over to Poetry, reminding her of old times hanging out,
watching movies, and talking about guys. She could almost taste buttered
popcorn.
What I am is a sentimental mush.
A variety of comforting platitudes came to mind but Poetry couldn’t
push any of them past her teeth. She didn’t want to tell Jenny it didn’t
matter now, that all was forgiven. Jenny would not do the same for her.
Instead she said, “Tell me what happened.”
Jenny put her cup down, pressed her tissue back to her cheek as fresh
tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.
“It’s Gary.” A dramatic torrent of sobs and moisture gushed forth, and
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