Of Peacocks and Pomegranates
I hold the hair between my thumb and index finger, stretching my arm as far away from my torso as my hours of yoga will allow. It gleams red in the sunlight from our bedroom window, a lustrous copper thread against the royal blue of the curtains we chose together. Just below it, my thousands of golden hairs swing across my naked breasts, a rich breastplate that defends me from the single repulsive red arrow shot by my rival. It has been some time since I had a rival -I suppose I should be grateful for that. The early days of our marriage were when he strayed most frequently. I would scream, he would apologize (or not), she would vanish, and things would be good for awhile. Until they weren't. Around and around we went.
And now here we go again, the familiar sick drag of knowing that I'm not enough for him, will never be enough for him, rooting me into place in front of our extensive business wear closet. Zee's slightly-wrinkled grey button down hangs before me, and I can picture the redhead curling up into the shoulder, her single hair catching on the collar button and parting from her scalp with a slight pinch. I hope it hurt her, the bitch. Carelessly, I drop the thin strand of her DNA on the floor, wishing that she could be discarded just as easily.
I'll deal with Zee tonight. Until then, I have my own appointments to attend to. I snatch my custom pumps from the shoe shelf, the peacock feathers winking from the toes as I clasp my bra behind my back. Today of all days, I don't feel like seeing my clients. How is it, I wonder, that I am so good at counseling other couples through their marital problems when my own marriage has been falling apart for years? An even better question: why do I do it? We hardly need the money; Zee practically owns a goddamn airline. It's cost us enough time lost in arguing -everything from the prestige-based ad campaign (my idea, which he eventually lauded as "okay") to the lightening bolt logo (I thought it was stupid and childish. He kept it.). Of course, I know why I do it. I'm a marriage counselor for the affirmation, the rush of the grateful glances and prayerful praise. I, a millionaire ex-supermodel who most women would kill to be, am insecure. And as I apply my Pomegranate Power lipstick, I feel it.
All day, I sit and half-listen to the yammering of my clients and offer fool-proof advice as I mull over my own blindness. I should have known he was cheating. He's taken to calling me "Sissy" to my face, which he knows I hate, and in front of other people, it's been "Her." Close enough to my actual name, but it's somehow worse. Plus, he's begun joking about our age difference again. He's never meant "Cougar" and "Golden Oldie" to be flattering. Names have power, and Zee knows that better than anyone. So now he's gone and found himself some twenty something redhead whore with daddy issues to stroke his grey-streaked beard.
I'm drinking Nectar Moscato in long draughts when I hear Zee circling the drive that night. Garage door opening, I finish my third glass. Car door slamming, I pour another. He comes into the entryway whistling Led Zeppelin, I throw the empty bottle, and it shatters against the marble floor. His footsteps pause. I smile maliciously.
"Sissy?" he calls, and my husband steps into our kitchen, grey eyes concerned, grey beard perfectly arranged, red hair on his collar.
"Zee." I stare at him, face blank, carefully uncaring. "How long have we been together?"
He gazes back at me for a full second, glances at the shattered wine bottle, the full glass in my hand, back at my face, eyes moving in a circle. Around and around we go. With an uncertain half smile, he says, "Eons." He's actually trying to joke his way out of this.
I set my jaw. "Fine. Since you don't want to answer that one seriously, here's another one: in the many, many years we've been married, how many mistresses have you had?"
Finally, I see what I'm looking for: anger. Deep in his eyes, a storm begins to brew. "How did you find out?"
"Well would you listen to that! Cutting right to the chase are we? Maybe you've learned something after all!" I stride toward him, and he puts his hands up, palms out, as if he's going to push me. When I'm still an arm's length away, I stop, reach out, and pluck the new hair from his collar. I hold it aloft as I did with the first one this morning, and it hangs between us. An indictment, a trial, and a conviction rolled into a single copper strand.
He sighs, "Sissy-"
"STOP CALLING ME THAT! You know I hate that name!" I roar at him, pulling back my arm to strike.
He catches my wrist easily and hisses into my face, "Fine. Hera, what do you want me to say? That I'm bored? That it's been decades since I've strayed? That I'm sick of playing the business man, and I want to have sons and daughters to fight in another great war? Because all of it is true. I'm sick of this life, I want the excitement and sacrifice and adoration of the old days, and if I can't have it, the least I can do is find a beautiful mortal to make me feel like a god again."
Static crackles between his beard and my hair, and for the first time in decades, I feel like the goddess I am as my golden strands draw his face down to mine. I lean forward and whisper against his mouth, "Zeus, my lord, my brother, my husband. If you want to begin the world anew, say the word. If you want to force them to bow before us once more, I will stand by your side. But if another woman catches your eye, I will personally transform her into a beast of burden. I will slay her, and you will find yourself chewing her sweet flesh for your evening meal."
Prose Challenge of the Week #65
Hello, Prosers,
We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!
It’s week sixty-five of the Prose Challenge of the Week.
For the last week, you have been writing about hilarious moments, and man, did you deliver. Before we check out who the deserving winner and recipient of $100 is, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:
CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Now, back to the winner of week sixty-four.
We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the Twisted Tale challenge is @SelfTitledKND with their piece, French Uno is Called Une.
Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.
In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!
Until next time, Prosers,
Prose.
Alzheimer’s
I stand frozen, watching the flames all around me.
All the words of my beautiful mind, turning to ashes.
I hear screams of terror from all my characters, every persona I've taken, every life I've created, all the words I've bleed disintegrating to nothing.
My castle of thoughts diminished.
I'm cold. No walls surround me.
Charred flesh in masses, smoky haze fills the air.
I gasp, trying to catch my breath, trying to understand....
What happened? What's happening to me?
Something ticks on my wrist, telling me it's dark with its dusty hands.
Something reaches for me.
I see a stranger's face of sympathy and tears as I ask why, why did this happen?
I sink to the blackened snow and wonder...
I shiver, trying to recall why I'm here. My limbs are frozen in the ice.
I panic, tears in my eyes, as one last image crosses my mind....
And to think, it all started in a room of books.
Prose Challenge of the Week #64
Hello, Prosers,
We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!
It’s week sixty-four of the Prose Challenge of the Week.
For the last week, you have been writing a twisted tale, and man, did you deliver. Before we check out who the deserving winner and recipient of $100 is, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:
CotW #64: Write about the most hilarious thing you have ever witnessed. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Now, back to the winner of week sixty-three.
We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the Twisted Tale challenge is @jwelker76 with their piece, Until Morning.
Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.
In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!
Until next time, Prosers,
Prose.
Please Forgive Me
Dear Kaden,
I'm sorry for all the hardships I ever put you through, the ridicule, the hate, the mockery, the beatings, the torture...I really am sorry.
My life has taken a turn for the worst, and when I was sitting in a jail cell when mother's funeral was going on, I decided I had better change for the better. But I can't,Kaden. You don't understand the terrible struggle I am going through, the agony, the pain, the despair. I would kill myself except that's not the answer. But I don't know what is.
I know we never got along, and I know you hate me, and with good reason. I'm sorry. I know "sorry" doesn't erease the horrors of seventeen years, but I am trying. And if you can find it anywhere in there, please please forgive me.
Your brother,
Kole