The Creek

The Creek

We had to cross Holmes Creek to buy alcohol, back then, at the little liquor store or maybe the biker bar just around the corner from it, up the county road. That’s off the state highway, y’know, running north.

Things change, people change—even the Baptists, or maybe they were just outnumbered, at last. Now I can get a six-pack at the convenience store, a bottle of wine at the Pig.

The hard stuff? I suppose they still sell that on the other side of Holmes Creek. That was never my thing. Now I only cross the creek when I am on my way somewhere else.

It’s a nice little creek, flowing off southward into swampland and then on to the Choctawhatchee. I’ve crossed that on occasion, too.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

Wild Guavas

Wild Guavas

Along the abandoned railroad tracks where the palmetto had been cleared away and not yet reclaimed its domain, its scrub country birthright, we came to gather wild guavas. My brother and I brought buckets and bags and a twenty-two to plink at the empty cans we found. We always found cans, mostly beer but sometimes soda. Either works for target practice.

But the guavas, that's why we came: sweet and tart, full of worms but free and the worms didn't matter once they were cooked down with plenty of sugar. I know about the guava jelly and the paste found at stores or those roadside stands for the tourists but there's nothing better than homemade guava preserves topping a bowl of vanilla ice cream. That's how Florida tasted to me.

We gathered as many as we could find, as many as we could carry home; there Mom took charge and filled the house with their aroma, simmering in the big dented stock pot and even outdoors we'd catch that perfume sifting through the open jalousie windows.

It's been too many years since I picked a wild guava, a long time since I was a boy with a bag and a rifle and an eye out for snakes and I don't know if they grow there anymore.

But they did; they did, back then.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

used in Retellings, 2013

June in July

JUNE IN JULY

a Branford Perry story

Stephen Brooke ©2017

I've seen drunken rednecks aplenty. They can't compare with June’s family.

I know Yankees aren’t all like that. Well, honestly, I’ve not seen enough drunken northerners to say. I only know that those Michiganders were, if not rowdier than your typical good ol’ boys, far less gracious.

No, no, I’m not putting down folks of the Yankee persuasion, you understand, but I've seen enough to suspect that there is a different attitude up north. Shoot, just look at how the tourists drive when they come down here!

I loved June. That’s a fact. So, I figured I had to at least tolerate her people for a few days of family reunion and Fourth of July barbecue. Love’s like that, y’know?

Almost from the day I met June Schiller, she talked about her family — her father, especially. Looking down on the whole affair, from a perch a few years higher, I can see that was a pretty darn clear danger signal. But I hadn’t had any experience with a Daddy’s girl back then. I was kind of dumb, I reckon.

But love’s like that, y’know? Yeah, I said that already.

I’m okay with my siblings but nothing like that. We dispersed in all directions and didn’t look back. As for gathering us for a reunion — well, good luck with that.

It was a Sunday afternoon — I usually spent Sundays at June’s place, over near Gainesville — when she called me to the computer. “This is the tee-shirt I designed for the reunion,” she told me. June, by the way, was a graphic designer. I liked that about her. I like creative people.

I like to think that I’m creative but let’s not get into that.

I looked over her shoulder at the screen and the rainbow logo she had created. “You have the colors in the wrong order,” I offered. “Remember ‘Roy G. Biv.’”

“Who’s that?”

“It stands for red-orange-yellow-green-blue-indigo-violet. I learned about Roy by watching Sesame Street.”

“Oh. Okay.” Was that a bit of pique in her voice? Maybe I should have just said it looked nice and offered no more. Maybe some of my friends would have called it ‘man-splaining.’ I’m full of useless information, anyway.

She never changed it, of course, and all the tee-shirts ended up with incorrect rainbows. I suppose no one but me ever minded nor even noticed. My tee still hangs in the back of my closet, a small white ghost to haunt me, if I choose to look at it now and again. I don’t wear it.

It wasn’t just a celebration of the Fourth, you see, or a family reunion. It was also June’s birthday and that of her father, both clustered around Independence Day. That’s pretty much my favorite time of the year, the heat of the summer, the days of swimming in the clear, cool springs that well up around Florida, the afternoons of thunderstorm, bringing fresh, electric air to the evenings.

It may also have been the happiest time in my life. I was thoroughly in love, in a way I had never been before, and spent as many of those summer nights as possible with my June. I would have moved in – the hell with my responsibilities – if she had been willing. Oh, all those warning signs were there; they had been from the start. I avoided looking at them.

The sassafras grew along June’s fence line, standing as slender sentinels of her pasture. Inside those fences were the big live oaks, old survivors amid the grass, jungle gyms for her goats. It was the dead wood that had fallen from them we gathered on more than one Saturday, for the bonfire she envisioned.

It was her vision, after all, though I supported it as I could. The canopy from my art shows was at her disposal for an outdoor family dinner, laid out on the folding tables we brought home in my truck from a garage sale one Saturday. And her extended family ate and drank and talked and it was all stuff I didn’t much care about, nor even understand some of the time. We spoke a different language and I’m not just talking about my southern accent.

Still, I’ll always have pleasant enough memories of sitting around the huge bonfire, the one for which I spent those weeks dragging dead wood from her pastures, with the family, playing guitar and watching that bunch of pyromaniacs shoot off fireworks. Taking them all to Ginny Springs so they could tube down the river. Listening to stories of people I didn’t know.

There are those who tell me I don’t know how to have a good time. They could be right.

Did I see it as wasted time? Did I resent it? It is possible, but there was too much else in my head to sort that out, right then. It’s possible June sensed it too. Maybe she could tell I didn’t much like her folks.

I mostly just sat at the outside of her family’s circle at the bonfire, listened some, drank a little. I’m not one to overdo that, nor did I share the joint that eventually made its way around. “I shouldn’t. I could lose my job,” said one cousin, or whatever he was, before taking a toke and passing it along. No, I didn’t fit here; it was only because of June I let myself be bored this way, attempted to be friendly — or at least pretended to be.

But then, love’s like that, as I said.

There were fireworks one or another had brought, or maybe more than one. It was just as illegal, whoever was responsible. Or irresponsible. They didn’t seem to care. Ragged drunken cheers rose with each sky rocket launched into the July night.

A rocket flashes and fades, a fire burns down to embers. Scattered plastic chairs, their plainness turned to ruddy chiaroscuro by the dying bonfire, threw dark paths across her lawn, her fresh-mown fragrant lawn, beneath summer’s stars. Couple by lingering couple, our guests hugged and farewelled and welcomed me to the family before flipping on headlights and driving out of my life.

In the silent emptiness of then, I held June to me, both of us too exhausted, both a little too full of Sam Adams — her brother had brought a keg — to make love that July night. I think that is when we, too, began to say goodbye.

“Thanks, Bran, for all you’ve done,” she whispered. And I wondered whether it was worth it. I still do. Then, I also was headed home, into the darkness, toward the responsibilities of my life.

I can see from here that was the high point of my relationship with June. Yeah, it took some time for it to fizzle out and maybe I’ll get into that one of these days — into that whole downhill slope. Or maybe it’s better just to leave it all at this point.

Despite the time that has passed, despite everything, I find myself misting up a bit when I think about those days. Nostalgia? I suppose. Love? Maybe a part of me still loves her. I think a part of me always will. Nothing wrong with that. It would be far worse if she became just a memory that no longer meant anything.

Love really is like that, y’know?

Ambrosia

Ambrosia

Stephen Brooke

Apollo was to blame. He was late getting to his sun-chariot that morning and took a slice of ambrosia along, to breakfast on as he drove his steeds across the sky. So it was a crumb, so slight a crumb, fell to the earth of mortals.

“It looks like honey,” said Glaucus. He sniffed at the golden crumb. “Smells like it too. Sort of.”

His wife was skeptical. “When has honey fallen from the sky?”

Glaucus was ever the sort to come up with a ready answer, whether sensible or preposterous. “Bees do fly,” he said. “Perhaps a very large bee, a gigantic bee—”

This idea made Astyoche uncomfortable. The stings of bees of ordinary size were quite bad enough! She could imagine herself swelling up like a ripe pomegranate if stung by an enormous one. The woman warily scanned the skies above them.

“Hmmph.” Only the sun, riding above the scattered clouds. For all she—or Glaucus—knew it could have fallen from there. Astyoche knew better than to mention that idea to her husband. Rather, she asked a practical question. “So, do you think this honey-stuff is safe to eat?”

“You could try it and find out for yourself,” replied Glaucus.

“No, my fine husband, it would be better if you tasted it,” came his wife’s immediate reply.

At that very moment, a mongrel dog, both scrawny and scroungy, aimlessly wandered into their yard. Glacus watched as it sat scratching at fleas somewhere among its protruding ribs. “I know,” said he. “We’ll try some out on Hector.”

The tiniest of pieces he broke off and held it out in his palm. “Here, boy. A treat for you.” The mutt cringed at the voice and gave him the most suspicious of looks but finally came over, tail between his legs, to lick up the proffered food.

Hector sat back on his haunches and gave the pair of humans a long look, before saying, “My! I haven’t felt this good since I was a pup.”

“I didn’t know you could speak,” said the astonished Astyoche. Glaucus only stared, mouth agape.

“Neither did I. In fact, I don’t know why I never did before.”

“He’s getting bigger,” muttered Glaucus.

Yes, bigger, better looking—there was no denying it. His coat had grown thick and luxuriant, his tail curled most extravagantly. Now Hector eyed the chunk of ambrosia in his master’s hand.

Glaucus was not sure he could keep this alarmingly transformed canine from taking it. “Into the cottage, woman,” he hissed to his wife. “Quickly!”

Door shut and bolted behind them, Glaucus listened to Hector snuffling and scratching. Would those flimsy boards hold? He should have repaired them long ago. The whole house wouldn’t hold up to any serious effort to breach its walls. There had never been any reason to worry about that as the couple never had anything worth taking. Until this morning.

“We should split it right now,” stated Astyoche. “And don’t you think of giving me a smaller piece than yours!”

Glaucus had been thinking of just that, to be sure. He looked at his wife’s expression—and the heavy piece of firewood she had picked up—and rethought.

“Quickly!” she hissed. “The door is giving in.”

Indeed, it was bowing inward somewhat more than it should. At once, he broke the crumb in two, as evenly as he could, and handed half to his wife. Both swallowed their pieces down.

“My, that warms one,” said Astyoche.

“Doesn’t taste bad either.” It was something like honey but also something quite different. Glaucus couldn’t quite put his finger on the difference and, moreover, he was distracted by the sudden changes in the woman he had married. She’d never been that tall!

He felt his own tunic growing tight and beginning to tear. He was further distracted when the door suddenly buckled and gave in. A wolfhound-sized Hector stood in its warped frame, cocking his head at the two. “So you’ve eaten it all, eh? Oh, well.” The dog lifted his muzzle and sniffed. “Hmm, there seem to be several bitches in heat within a league or two. They won’t be turning me down this time!” He wheeled and bounded away, howling heartily.

Glaucus’s attention returned to his wife. Was that Astyoche? A goddess stood before him! He felt quite like howling heartily himself!

Let it be said the couple paid little attention to anything other than each other for the next couple of hours. “This makes up for the honeymoon,” Astyoche finally declared. That had been a disappointment and she had never hesitated to let Glaucus know it.

He had similar sentiments but had known better than to express them. “I’m ravenous,” he said. “I wonder where we can get more of that stuff.”

Astyoche felt decidedly hungry herself. “I’d go for some normal food.” There was little of that in their hovel. There was none at all a minute or two later. “There is always the pig,” the woman suggested.

Glaucus was fond of their sow and, moreover, considered her an investment. It didn’t feel right to eat her now. Maybe later. “I’d prefer some beef,” he told his wife.

“The king has plenty.”

That was all the encouragement Glaucus needed. He wheeled and headed out the doorway, his head crashing into the lintel. “Ouch! How did that get so low?”

“It is you who got so large, husband,” Astyoche told him. She looked him up and down, rather appreciatively. “Oh, I don’t think we have any clothes that fit anymore!”

“So who’s going to complain?” he asked and set off toward the king’s fields.

It is most unlikely anyone who saw two towering, nude demigods pass by recognized them as their neighbors Astyoche and Glaucus. And none complained. To just whom could they?

The cowherds did not complain either when Glaucus threw a young bullock across his shoulders and carried it off. They were only slaves. Let the king’s soldiers tend to this sort of problem.

Those, however, cowered inside old Nisos’s keep, only peeping over the ramparts until the couple was a safe distance away. Then they sallied forth with a great deal of noise, clashing their spears against their bronze shields and bemoaning the fact that their adversaries had retreated, depriving them of their glory.

Nisos was not fooled. But that is a different tale.

Astyoche was busy barbecuing the rear half of the purloined bull—the front portion being saved for breakfast—when a tremendously loud buzzing began. She remembered her earlier fear of enormous bees and looked about with some concern. Sure enough, a great striped insect was descending toward them.

It alighted near the couple and transformed into a demure and not at all diminutive maiden. She still had gauzy wings attached.

“Hi! I’m Mellisa the Messenger! The Busy Bee of the gods!” She gave the pair a looking over. “We’ve gotten into some ambrosia, haven’t we?”

“Is that what it was?” wondered Glaucus.

Astyoche had a more practical question. “Are we immortal now?”

“Oh, you need nektar too for that. Ambrosia keeps you youthful and strong and beautiful. Nektar makes you immortal. One without the other would be no good! Who would want to be stooped and wrinkled when they were only a million years old?”

“Better than being dead,” muttered Glaucus.

At that moment, Hector came bounding out of the dusk, wagging his tail in a most satisfied manner.

“Oh, hello doggy,” said Melissa, scratching him behind an over-sized ear. “Are you a good boy?”

“Not today!” came Hector’s cheerful response. He cocked his head, looking over her wings. “You fly? Do you know the big dog in the sky? I sometimes see her at night and wonder if she’s lonely.”

“Well, little dog, maybe you’d like to go up in the sky yourself and keep her company? You would be fed ambrosia every day.”

The hound’s tail wagged even more vigorously. “Sound good to me!” He turned an eye skyward. “I wonder if I can jump that high.”

“No need,” said Melissa, letting out a buzzy laugh. “I’ll take you up later.”

That, of course, is how the constellation we know as Canis Minor ended up in the southern sky, ever in pursuit of Canis Major or, as Hector calls her, the Big Bitch. He chased her so far she can’t even be seen from Greece anymore.

“As for you two,” she went on, turning her attention back to Astyoche and Glaucus, “I’m afraid you’ll need to remain earthbound.”

“Will this—wear off?” asked Astyoche.

“I’m afraid that, too, is so. Not quickly. Some effects will linger all your lives.”

“Linger?”

“Yes. It has a long half-life.”

Glaucus nodded wisely though he had no idea what a ‘half-life’ was.

“Well, come along, boy,” called Melissa, as she turned back into a bee. Cradled in her six legs, Hector howled a goodbye and was carried away. It is doubtful he ever missed his former master and mistress.

Those watched the great insect dwindle and disappear in the sky. Astyoche turned to her husband. “We’ll have to find a way of getting more, you know.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed.

The next morning they were noticeably shorter, though their old clothes still did not begin to fit. Moreover, they were unable to consume more than a quarter of the bullock for breakfast.

Neither questioned what their course should be. “Which way to Olympus?” asked Astyoche.

“North.” And so they set out. The couple made good time at first.

“I’m not feeling as strong,” complained Glaucus after a while.

“Me neither. Let’s rest over there.” His wife pointed toward a cave in the hillside. It looked like a pleasant-enough spot, with tall cypress standing about its entrance.

They might have known a well-tended cave was already occupied. A venerable centaur, white hair and beard hanging to his withers, greeted them. “Welcome, travelers!” He squinted at them, seemingly puzzled, before slipping on a pair of spectacles and squinting again. “I say, not quite the ordinary run of travelers, are we?”

Astyoche and Glaucus were astounded, having neither seen a centaur nor spectacles before. None the less, the woman announced, “We’re off to Olympus to get ambrosia.”

“Ah! So that’s it. I thought for a moment you might be some sort of minor gods. Like my old buddy Hercules.” Glaucus did not mind at all being compared to the heroic demigod.

“They won’t let you in,” continued the centaur. “The gods do not like to share. And—” He scrutinized the pair again. “I doubt you’ll have enough left to get you to the top of the mountain anyway. You’d do better going to Hades.”

The couple could only give each other perplexed looks at this advice.

“Time no longer matters in the underworld,” explained their host. “Come on in and have some wine, won’t you?” They followed him into the roomy but not overly tidy cavern. The horse half of the centaur apparently knew nothing of restrooms. “The effect of the ambrosia would not wear off. I think.” He suddenly seemed doubtful. “Maybe there is something in my books.”

There were a great number of those, stacked about the place. Neither Astyoche nor Glaucus could read, so they didn’t set much store by what might be in them. As many others, they were suspicious of all things they didn’t understand.

“Isn’t there any way we could get more?” asked Astyoche.

“Oh, you could go where it is made.” He handed each goblets. They were of gold, encrusted with luminous jewels, emeralds, sapphires, and each worth more than all the money either mortal had ever seen. That didn’t interest them at the moment.

“Not on Olympus?”

“Doves carry it to the gods each day, from beyond the dawn.” That sounded even further to travel than Olympus. The centaur noted their dejection. “They fly over here around noon. You might see one if you’ve a sharp eye.”

Now they did have sharp eyes, at least for the time being, and could see much further than before.

“Also, you might smell it,” said the old centaur. “It is quite fragrant, as you may have noticed.”

“But how do we get one of these doves to land?” wondered Glaucus. His eye strayed to the powerful centaur bow hanging on the cave wall.

“Oh no, none of that my boy! The gods would be likely to strap you to a mountain top for the vultures to consume. Old Prometheus isn’t the only one they’ve done that to, you know.”

“I have a way,” announced Astyoche. “Come with me, husband.” With a quick farewell and thank you to the centaur, they were back out into the sun. It was still morning, but barely. They hurried to the top of the highest hill in the vicinity.

Glaucus sniffed. “They’re near.” Both scanned the skies.

At once, Astyoche began cooing. Surprisingly loud she was! Glaucus watched a curious dove descend toward them, growing larger and larger. And larger—it was quite enormous. As it hovered above them, trying to figure them out, he reached up and grasped a tree-like leg. “I’ll hold it while you get the ambrosia,” he called.

That was not to be. The huge gray bird began to lift him from the ground. Astyoche barely had time to leap up and wrap her arms around the other leg.

“Are you two going to hang onto me all the way to Olympus?” asked the dove.

“It looks that way,” Glaucus replied. “Or you could set us down with a little of your cargo.”

“I’d end up as a pigeon pie for Zeus if I did that. Just hold on, mortals. Or don’t. I don’t much care.” It winged on toward the mountain of the gods, following the flock of its fellow columbine couriers.

When the great Mount Olympus stood before them, the doves rose, up and up, past its highest peak. “I don’t see any sign of the gods’ home,” remarked Astyoche.

“They don’t actually live on the mountain, humans,” said the dove. “An invisible stairway leads from its summit to their world.”

The line of doves had climbed into the clouds and disappeared from sight. Having been delayed by the couple, their own ride was the last. Now the birds descended toward a gleaming city, with lush green fields and forest lying about it as far as could be seen. Having a bird’s eye view of it, that was pretty far.

“Best you just let yourselves be seen rather than trying to sneak in,” spoke the dove, “Um, but you might get off me first so no one knows I brought you, okay?”

“Certainly,” agreed Astyoche. “We’ve caused you enough trouble.” She and Glaucus exchanged glances.

“That’s most unlike you, my dearest,” said her husband.

“It is, isn’t it? I don’t know what’s come over me.”

They did manage to slip unnoticed off the dove, screened by its fellows as they lit in a great colonnaded courtyard. A tall, statuesque woman was keeping track as each bird was unloaded by a group of scurrying fauns.

She took notice of them at once when they showed themselves. “So, stowaways? Which one of these bird-brains brought you here?”

“Beats me,” lied Glaucus. “They all look the same.”

“They do, don’t they? If I asked them I could probably find out but it doesn’t matter to me. And I have a schedule to keep.” She checked off another load on her tablet. “I’m Hebe. I’m in charge of distributing the ambrosia.”

“The nektar too?” asked Astyoche. She hadn’t forgotten it was necessary for immortality.

“That’s Ganymede’s job.” The goddess looked the two over. “Don’t let Zeus see your woman,” she warned. “She’s somewhat attractive at the moment and that’s enough for him.”

Astyoche wondered where she could find Zeus and learn if it was true.

“You’re somewhat attractive yourself,” said Glaucus.

Hebe smiled tolerantly. “That’s just the ambrosia talking,” she told him. “It does make one horny at first.”

“For the first couple thousand years,” interjected one of the satyrs. All his fellows snickered.

“Oh, you guys are always horny. Take that load off to the nymphs now, will you? And don’t dawdle.”

“We never dawdle,” one assured her.

“So complain the nymphs. Now, as to you two—how much ambrosia have you consumed so far?”

“Just a crumb,” said Astyoche. “About this big.” She held thumb and index finger an inch or so apart.

“And we shared that,” Glaucus added.

“Ah. Not nearly enough to make you dependent. I guess I’d better report you to someone who can make an immigration decision.”

“You can’t?” They didn’t like the idea of being passed along through the divine bureaucracy. They had some knowledge of the mortal version.

“I’m only the goddess of youth and spring. Ho, you,” she called to a young woman in shining golden armor passing by. “Go tell your boss about this pair.”

“Couldn’t we have a little ambrosia while we wait?” asked Glaucus, in the most ingratiating tones he could manage.

The goddess gave him a firm shake of her head. “You’ll have to talk to Athena first. If you’re approved to stay, come back and I’ll fix you up.” Neither mortal appeared at all comforted by that assurance. “Don’t worry, she’s nicer than her reputation makes her out to be. Even if Zeus is known to refer to her as his headache.”

“Is she, um, attractive too?” asked Glaucus.

“I would never say otherwise, remembering what happened to Paris! But she isn’t into guys.” Noting Astyoche’s immediate interest, she said, “Or women either. Unlike Artemis.”

They stood watching Hebe order her little workers about for a while. There wasn’t much else to see in this big otherwise-empty courtyard. Both wanted to get out and explore Olympus! “Here she comes,” said the goddess of spring. “Who’s that with her? Oh, Hestia. That makes sense.” She turned to them and whispered in an aside, “Both virgins, officially, but that’s no more than an aspect of Hestia. She’s as into guys as the next goddess, and always reverts to virginity, well, after, you know?”

“That must be handy,” observed Glaucus.

How like a man, Astyoche thought. Losing ones virginity over and over was surely uncomfortable.

Athena was at least a head taller than her companion, who was plump and pretty. Not at all what either of them expected from a deity. “I’m disappointed,” murmured Astyoche. “She’s not wearing her armor.”

This, the tall goddess of war and brains caught. “That would also be uncomfortable, little mortal,” she said, her voice perhaps an octave lower than Glaucus’s. “I only armor up when necessary.”

Had she read Astyoche’s mind just then? The woman tried to think of nothing and failed completely.

“That kyrtle does look comfy,” commented Hebe. “So, both of you are going to decide on this?”

“It’s Hestia’s decision, ultimately,” said Athena. “She’s goddess of the hearth and home, after all.”

“Unless my brother overrules me,” said Hestia.

“Yes, Dad might do that. No need for him to know about any of it though, is there?” she asked. “I’m just here to give advice.” Her gray eyes swept imperiously across the human couple. “It takes grit to make your way here. Some smarts too. I admire that.”

“But they don’t belong,” commented Hestia.

“Yet they have tasted of ambrosia, right?” Athena looked to Hebe.

“A morsel,” she admitted. “Not enough to matter. And I do not want to get involved in this!”

“What would we do with them?” Hestia asked her companion. “They’d need to have a place in Olympus. Jobs.” Her gaze went to Hebe who shook her head vigorously. She wouldn’t be offering them employment.

“They’re only peasants, I think,” Hestia went on. “You aren’t slaves, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” murmured Astyoche.

“We’re free folk,” spoke Glaucus, his voice only slightly more loud.

Athena nodded approval. “That’s good. If you belonged to someone, we’d have to return you.” She chuckled. “But not necessarily alive.”

“Yes,” said the goddess of the hearth. “We can’t have you going back and spreading gossip about Olympus, you see. If we don’t let you stay, we’ll have to—well, dispose of you somehow.”

“I suppose it probably will come to that,” Athena intoned, with a great deal of gravity.

“Oh, you silly things,” exclaimed Hebe, in frustration. She motioned one of the little fauns to her and whispered into its large hairy ear. It nodded and scampered off. “Come to my grove,” she told them and marched away. All four, mortals and goddesses alike, followed.

At last Astyoche and Glaucus got a look at the wonders of Olympus. “It’s like home, except better,” Astyoche whispered to her husband. Across fields and hills of intense green, more vivid, more alive, than any they had ever known, they traveled.

In the distance, they heard the baying of hounds and glimpsed figures coursing along the edge of a great forest. “Who’s that?” asked Glaucus.

Athena gazed toward them. “Oh, that’s just Artemis and her girl-gang. Don’t get in their way, little man. Her hounds would as soon tear you apart as a stag.”

Perhaps this wasn’t such a good place to be, after all, he thought.

Hebe’s grove was just that—and more. There was a small house, or temple maybe. Astyoche wasn’t sure which word one should use for a god’s abode. Fruit trees bearing both scented blooms and ripe fruit. Deep, vibrant lawns, brilliant flowers scattered throughout. It was quite lovely, she felt. She wouldn’t mind living right here.

“Maybe I could get on as one of her gardeners,” whispered Glaucus. It seemed like a pretty good idea to her right then. They all seated themselves on the luxuriant grass, as soft as any cushion. The songs of birds sounded all around, more musical than ever they had heard, and the more distant maahs and baahs of sheep.

“What you need is some nektar,” Hebe announced. She held up a hand of warning when the other goddesses looked ready to raise objections. A faun trotted up and handed her a stone jar. Hebe carefully allowed no more than a couple drops to fall into each of the two bowls she had ready. A little water was poured in with the liquid. “Just this much for now. The water will make it easier to drink down.”

Hestia and Athena exchanged suspicious looks.

Down it went, both draining their bowls. Astyoche made a face. “It tastes like swamp water.”

“Umm, yesss—” Glaucus’s chin fell on his chest and loud snores began. A moment later, his wife slumped over on the grass.

“I take it that was not nektar,” said Athena.

“Water of the River Lethe. I always keep a little on hand and always eventually find it useful.” She looked on the two slumbering mortals. “I’ll call Melissa to carry them home. I daresay all of this will seem like a dream when they awaken.”

“If they remember it at all. Or anything! A little too much Lethe water can do that,” said Hestia.

“I think I got the amount right. But the ambrosia they consumed will still have its effect on them. They won’t be the same people they were before.”

“That’s for sure,” agreed Athena. “It might be fun to keep an eye on them.”

*

Astyoche opened her eyes. Whatever had happened to the door? It was hanging entirely off its hinges! She shook her husband. “Wake up, Glaucus!”

My, she didn’t remember him ever looking so handsome. And vital. And interested!

She felt pretty interested herself. The two vigorously explored their interests for the next hour and some. When they rested, Glaucus said, “I had the oddest of dreams last night.”

“Why, so did I, husband,” answered Astyoche. “I do wish I could better remember them.”

“Dreams are fine but I want to be awake right now. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so awake and so alive. So ready to do something!”

“Me too. I think the future will be good. I know it will be.” The two went to the off-plumb doorway and gazed out into the night.

Far above them, a little dog of stars ran across the sky.

appeared in Lands Far Away 2021

Trip

Trip

As ribbons of light chase ribbons of wave to the horizon, we whisper. Outa control. Maybe up at Canaveral it’s surfable.

A Sixty-two Corvair on A-1-A, a winter morning, a winter swell; a monster swell and we are not the kids to attempt the ride. No, not at Monster Hole. We can see surfers there, a few specks in the valley of the swell, from atop Sebastian bridge. We know that even the paddle out would be too much for us.

Head north. North past the joggers waking themselves in the wind. North past Patrick, where no one is practicing landings this morning.

At least it’s still offshore, my brother mutters and we nod but maybe we’d just as soon the wind came around and broke the back of this swell, made it unrideable, and we could sit in the Krystal eating breakfast chili and taking comfort in coffee.

Canaveral. Jetty Park. Last chance—we can’t drive any further along the coast and, hey, it’s not bad! My new Rick should handle these just fine and Pat has his magic board and so what if half the kids in Cocoa are out in it?

So what if my morning classes are a hundred miles in my past?

It’s Nineteen and Sixty-nine and any trip is good.

Any trip at all.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

appeared in the “Retellings” collection

Chilies Rellenos

warning: contains some graphic sexual content

Chilies Rellenos

a Branford Perry story by Stephen Brooke ©2011

“We should just quit our jobs and open a restaurant,” June told me, holding out her glass. I refilled it with the cheap, alizarin-tinted merlot I’d picked up at the Publix a couple hours earlier. It went well enough with the chilies rellenos we had just prepared.

“Sure, kid. But which of us gets to run the kitchen?” I am pretty sure each of us was thinking, ‘that would be me!’ We were neither serious, of course; maybe I was unfettered enough to consider such a move but her streak of practicality ran far too deep.

Too deep. Yes, I suspect June saw me as irresponsible, as lacking ambition. I didn’t do much to change her mind, either. I didn’t want to, perhaps, didn’t want to give the impression that I would change for her. Even though I would have.

Something of a ritual had developed. A rut, some might call it, but I like the familiar. I like things I can depend on. Okay, I’m basically a boring guy. Sunday afternoons we spent at her house outside Gainesville; I would bring a bottle of wine and we would cook.

Oh, how we would cook! We were nearly as passionate about that as we were about each other. The kitchen was small. We didn’t mind. I would hang over her shoulder as she stirred something on the stove, steal a kiss as she squeezed by to open the fridge.

It had been peppers today. June loved peppers: bell peppers and chilies, mild, hot, and in-between. For me, they were always an invitation to heartburn and gas. No matter how many times I told her so, she ignored me and kept right on preparing them. And I loved June, so I ate them. We were preparing chilies rellenos. Stuffed peppers. June had found some lovely poblanos earlier in the week; one of the advantages of living in a relatively cosmopolitan town with a large university was the variety of produce available. Not much variety was to be found at the little market back in Ruby, where I lived and worked, an hour’s drive and more from June’s place.

Poblanos—they’re okay. They are about half way between a green bell pepper — which I simply can not digest — and the hot ones, which makes them excellent for stuffing. Inside would be meat, mushrooms, diced jalapenos, cheese. Coring, peeling, and chopping, we went at preparing those peppers, both the poblanos and the jalapenos, using our fingers but being careful to keep those acidic juices away from our eyes.

Ground meat sizzled in a pan on the harvest-gold range. Turkey, as June didn’t touch red meat. She said she would not eat any animal she was not willing to kill herself. I could respect that. Hari, her Afghan, was perpetually underfoot, waiting his chance to snatch a taste of whatever was cooking. Hari—that’s from Isaac Asimov; June was a sci-fi fan and the ‘Foundation’ books were some of her favorites. Hari was pretty hairy, too. I never asked if that played a role in the name choice.

It was a marvelous meal, I admit, the deep viridian poblanos with their savory filling, washed down with the merlot, a tossed salad on the side. Carbohydrates were few and far between at June’s Atkins-inspired table. After, we snuggled on the couch with three or four dogs and watched a video. I don’t remember what it was about. That is because I didn’t care.

I kind of hated wasting a couple hours watching a movie. I’d rather be doing something, preferably with the woman beside me. Yes, that, to be certain, but just about anything, really. “Sure you don’t want me to wash the dishes?” I asked.

June snuggled closer. “They’ll keep.”

Maybe if my hands had soaked in dishwater for a while — well, no sense getting ahead of myself here. My mind went a different direction at that point, anyway.

“You’re turning me on,” I admitted.

She snickered. “Oh, everything turns you on, Bran.” Which was probably true.

But nothing came of that right then and my mind inevitably wandered off again. A thousand thoughts — okay, maybe not a thousand, but a lot — were rising like the bubbles in a broth, to pop and subside. I should stop stirring that pot, to force a forced metaphor even further. I should stop worrying whether this woman was the ingredient I had needed.

I should stop worrying about worrying, but it was kind of what I did. June—tonight, next week, next year. Those thoughts, those hopes, yes, those fears, were ever roiling. Waiting while June went through her bedtime chores, kenneling up the dogs, putting this here and that there, didn’t help. It was too businesslike, wasn’t it? But I would not interrupt.

No, I would sit and wait with my thoughts. Or get up and wander with them — this I also did. I would not enter her inner sanctum, with its computer and shrine to her guru, its piles of dirty clothes, its constant doggy smell, just yet. When I wasn’t there, Hari was her bed-mate. Sometimes, all the dogs. I think maybe I was jealous of them.

If they didn’t like me so much, I might even have resented them. “All done?” I asked. June only came over to me with a long, deep kiss for an answer.

So, strip and into the California king, the ceiling fan turning above us as we kissed and fondled. I like kissing and fondling. I like slow lovemaking. My fear was that June would whisper, “Ravish me,” and make me work hard. Shoot, after the wine and the meal I was more likely to fall asleep — not that I wouldn’t try to oblige.

We let our hands explore, seeking each other. My fingers found their way to her sex, slipped in, tentatively at first. She seemed to be getting excited, more than I might normally have expected, as I slid two fingers in and became more vigorous with my stroking. Suddenly, June shrieked and jumped up!

Scared the shit out of me. What had I done wrong? Or had I done something really right? June ran to the bathroom and turned on the water. I followed immediately.

“I’m on fire! There was still pepper juice on your hands!” she exclaimed as she doused herself. Suddenly, I became aware of a certain burning on my own manhood.

“Oh, hell, I’m sorry girl! Will you be alright?” And will we still have sex tonight?

We did, after washing ourselves thoroughly. But it was ‘hands off.’ I must confess, I thought the whole thing was kind of funny, though I’m sure it was rather painful for June.

Is that a good memory? I think it is but, as so often with June, it can be hard to sort the good times from the bad ones. I know I loved her, as I had loved no woman before; there were just too many things to keep us from working out. Still, if she finds herself fixing chilies rellenos some evening, I hope she remembers me and smiles.

I hope she remembers me as that hot guy.

The Horns of Faerie

The Horns of Faerie

a fantasy tale by Stephen Brooke

 

He shouldn’t be able to hear the traffic from here. Arthur’s office was a windowless room on the fifth floor, well insulated from the tumult of the city that lay all about the building. Yet he had distinctly heard a horn. He was sure of it.

Arthur went to the door and looked down the hall, both directions. Nothing to be seen. Shaking his head, he returned to his desk and his numbers.

That evening, on the bus, he thought he heard an unfamiliar note arise amid the customary, unnoticed din, the background of a hundred, a thousand, such bus rides. It seemed to come from somewhere other than the busy streets, somewhere far away. Soft, distant, haunting, it echoed a moment and faded. He looked about at his fellow riders. None seemed to have noticed anything unusual.

Nor did he that evening. Arthur slept solidly and had quite forgotten about it the next day.

But night came again, as ever it does. Falling into sleep, once more he heard the horn. Closer now, it seemed, yet still somehow immeasurably far distant. He sat up to see a faint glimmer, a mist of moonlight between dark, thick columns. The trunks of great forest trees, he realized, as it faded, returning him to the darkness of his bedroom, broken only by the glow of his alarm clock. A dream, Arthur told himself, and fell slowly, fitfully, back into sleep.

A dream that persisted and haunted; a dream that called to him, for Arthur Reed yearned for more than his gray daily life, the dreary office, the empty apartment. He had known such dreams before, when he was a boy, and forgotten them. Forever, he had thought.

Now the memories wafted back, as fitful breezes do that toss the dark scented pines of some lost valley, as a longing for something long lost that he could not quite name. He saw the way more clearly each time the horn sounded, sounded more and more strong, more and more near. At last he took a step toward those woods that seemed a world away, to see them again fade. But had he spied shapes moving among the trees, men and horses? Had he heard fair voices crying?

Each day he harked to that horn. It blew more often and the world where he lived and worked became less real to him. He seemed to spend hours looking at his papers and accomplishing nothing.

“Something must be done about Reed,” said his employer. “He was always a good man. A solid man.” He shook his head. Yes, something must be done. He’d give him a little more time but then—perhaps he would have to let him go.

It had done no good to speak to him. The man had barely been listening, he thought, as if other more important concerns occupied his mind.

And Arthur’s eyes had seen past him, seen moss-covered hoary oaks rising in a forest man did not know. He had gone deeper into those woods each time the horn had called. He stood now in the shadows, listening to the riders, somewhere near, crying out to one another, the great tall horses neighing in the exhilaration of their headlong rush through the wild.

“The hunt is on!” came a voice near at hand. Arthur turned to see who spoke and knew this was no man such as dwelt in the world to which he was born. All in green he was, upon a stamping mist-gray steed, and the light in his eyes spoke of ages unknown.

“The hunt?”

“The Wild Hunt, lad,” came the reply. With a laugh, the huntsman urged his horse forward, crying back over his shoulder, “We follow the stag. Run with us, if ye will!”

The forest faded, as before, leaving Arthur in his gray windowless office. I can not stay here, he told himself. The horns of faerie have called and I must go. Had he not sought them all his life? Out into the street he went, moving as sleepwalker.

“The hunt,” he murmured. “I must find the hunt.” People moved away from him as he stumbled forward. Their faces began to blur, to be replaced by other visions. The forest again rose about him. The Hunt was somewhere off that direction. He could hear the wild riders.

Come! Come! called their voices. Come join the hunt!

“I will!” cried Arthur, rushing forward, free at last. “I will! I come!”

As he ran, he fell to all-fours. He saw his hands become great cloven hooves. He felt the heavy antlers that spread wide from his head. Behind him, rose the horns of the hunt.

He who was once Arthur Reed fled into the forest.

appeared in Lands Far Away 2021

Lightning

Lightning

a Branford Perry story by Stephen Brooke ©2008

 

June feared storms. This shouldn’t be surprising as she had been struck by lightning three times in her life. I didn’t stand too close to her during bad weather.

We were doing a show down in Lisbon, at the old train depot. Arts and crafts — June with her silver jewelry, me trying to sell my paintings. All of this was familiar territory for me. I had done plenty of shows over the years. Not so much for June.

It seems that every little town the railroad used to pass through has an abandoned depot to turn it into some sort of community center or museum, something that will bring shoppers to what is usually the not-so-nice side of town. Craft shows can be a part of that, at least in the minds of their organizers.

I knew it was not at all the sort of venue where I should be showing the artwork. Wrong time of year, wrong sort of advertising, just the wrong place altogether. Better to spend ones time and money on the shows in larger cities, the ones in the artsy downtown districts. But June wanted to do a show with me, maybe thinking it would be something new and exciting.

Yeah, I knew better. I said yes anyway. Lisbon was close enough to home and pleasing June was something I liked to do. Maybe it would be okay, I thought, as I parked my truck near the depot, freshly painted in white and green. All ready for the next train to pull in.

It didn’t take much time for me to set up my tent, that fresh summer Saturday morning, put out a table for June’s trinkets, hang paintings on my racks. Too little time, perhaps; I’m used to organizing and doing things myself and, although I did my best not to show it, June was mostly in my way. I tried to share the experience because I was, after all, in love. Still, it’s in my nature to be efficient and self-contained.

She took charge of our cards and fliers, arranging them on the card table up front. June had designed them, that being the sort of thing she did for a livelihood. I’ll admit, though, that I thought I could have done just as good a job on them. We were both artists and both had reasonably high opinions concerning our own work.

Once we set up, there was plenty of time to look over some of the other displays. It would be a while before the potential customers showed in any numbers. A few spaces down from ours, an older woman in dark attire – pretty much the regulation artist uniform – was setting up jewelry cases. “Good morning, ladies,” she cheerfully greeted us with a wave of her multi-ringed hand. At that time of the morning it was probably still real cheer. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d been mistaken for female, being small-boned, long-haired, and fond of wearing aloha shirts. If she recognized her mistake, she didn’t correct it before we moved on to the next vendor.

We were both in those flowered Hawaiian shirts that day and wearing fanny packs, to boot. “I’m sure they suspect that we’re lesbian lovers,” I told June. “I’m the cute one in the couple, of course.”

June gave me ‘that’ look. She never really appreciated my humor. I don’t think she liked the whole idea of me being mistaken for a woman, either, nor my ‘who cares’ attitude about it. The truth is, I may be insecure about a great many things — oh, yes, that’s for sure — but my masculinity has never been one of them.

It truly was a lovely summer day. It was also a summer day in Florida which meant a good chance of rain, wind and storms later on. I knew about such hazards and had a well secured and covered set up for art shows. Too well covered, perhaps, as it got pretty hot under all those plastic tarps as the sun rose higher. Not much to do about that so I just sat and smiled at the browsers, hoping one might become a buyer. A long shot, to be sure, but I was used to this sort of waiting game.

June, on the other hand, was new to the outdoor show experience. Soon came boredom, followed closely by complaints. “You should talk more to people when they stop.”

“Maybe.” I wasn’t going to argue the point, though I know folks like to browse in peace, more often than not. No sense in putting them on the spot or making them uncomfortable. Nor am I known to be the most talkative person. No sense in putting me on the spot, either.

Be that and all other things as it may, I didn’t talk more to people when they stopped. Instead, I engaged June on the subject of the teenage boys playing energetic punk-pop on the old depot platform. “Sound a bit like Green Day,” I offered.

She didn’t know who Green Day was. Our conversations took such turns too frequently, I’m afraid.

I’m afraid, too, that June wasn’t finding much excitement in our day’s outing. She abandoned me, after a while, to stroll about and gossip with other exhibitors. I sat and watched the clouds multiply in the afternoon sky, first only a few puffballs, then larger cumulus towers and mounds, shifting from white to ever-darker shades of gray.

From the west, out toward the Gulf of Mexico, came a subdued rumble, sensed as much as heard. The breeze was picking up some and the chill of rain was in it. Well, it was about time to pack it up for the day, anyway. Sales had been few — prints, some small pieces of jewelry — but folks had picked up our handouts. Maybe something would come of that. Some do like to think about things before buying. Or they hope that they can get a deal if they wait.

June was nervous. I suppose I had never taken her fear of lightning very seriously; I love lightning storms myself, not that I would stand out in a field during one. That, however, was not my concern at that moment. I wanted to get our stuff under cover before the storm arrived. Trying to break down the display and getting it stowed away in the wind and rain is an experience to be avoided, yet all too common at outdoor shows.

Having gathered our equipment into orderly groupings — with June once again getting in the way of my all-too-obsessive routine — I went to get the truck from a parking lot around the block. I pulled it into the last parking space before the corner, not really that far from our exhibition space.

“Oh Bran, just move it forward,” said June, “and let’s get done quickly.” She seemed quite insistent that I should park illegally.

And I, just as adamantly, refused to park in the turn lane. After all, it would save, what, fifteen or twenty feet of distance? “This will do fine,” I replied. “Let’s load up.”

Light rain was sprinkling and the occasional thunder rumbled, still relatively distant. “Oh, come on. Please. I want to get out of here.”

I realized there was real panic in her voice, as well as a certain frustration with my ways. Still, I was loathe to pull that truck forward. I’ve always been a person who respected boundaries and hoped others would respect mine.

This was no time to explain things, assuming I could explain things at all. I knew that. Then again, I was also in love with June and men in love do things against their nature. And then do them again.

So, perhaps not as graciously as I might have, I started up the truck and drove it forward. All the while, I was thinking I could already be partly loaded up and fumed a bit that I could let myself be turned from my course.

Now, it was raining harder. And, yes, the thunder sounded more closely, as lightning flickered along the dark belly of an approaching front. We hurried to finish getting everything into the bed of the truck.

“Go ahead and get inside,” I told June. “I’ll throw on the tarp and tie everything down.”

To her credit, June didn’t desert in the face of fire, even though I took my time and perhaps tied things down a little more securely than necessary. I could tell she was impatient, none the less, and that she had her eye on the skies.

She probably never realized how hard it was for me to break the rules like that, even little, seemingly unimportant rules. She never realized a lot of things. Right then, that didn’t matter to me, as we drove through the storm to my place. We would spend the night wrapped in each other but not really knowing each other.

One thing I do know about her, though.

June finally did find some excitement that day.