Four writers for the price of one blog
For this week’s #fuckmefriday (and any Valentine’s Day). The cue word was ‘taste’. –M
“What are you brooding about, love?”
“Them,” Cupid waved in the general direction down. “I’ve lost them. Sure, I’m as strong as ever – stronger! Millions invoke me all the time. But my power is hollow. They have no idea.”
He waved his hand, and part of the marble wall swirled to cloud; misty images revealed pictures of toddler archers and stylized hearts.
“See? I adorn trinkets and petty symbols. My meaning is lost. They think they know desire. They think they know Eros, but look!” Another wave shifted the scene to people coupling in garish light, grainy recording, with plastic smiles and body parts, and pretend moans.
“This is what they think they want. This is what they think desire is.”
“You could show them, though,” Psyche said, stroking his shoulder soothingly, fingers trailing to his recurved bow. Cupid snorted.
“One? A hundred? For every man or woman I can, I lose a thousand to this. They feast with their eyes, but they barely get the merest taste. They’re starving themselves and don’t even know it.”
Psyche stood watching a moment with her husband, shifting their Gods’-eye view from the panoplies of flesh to the people watching them, men and women staring into video screens, bathed in the light of fantasy desire.
“What do they know of real want? Salivating lust? What do they know of soul-searing love? I can tell you. Nothing. All their paeans to me – or my image – echo with their ignorance. They drool at games.”
“Poor souls. If only you could send your arrows that way. One arrow, a thousand – or more – opened eyes and hearts at once.”
Cupid startled, jerking as if struck by Zeus himself. He stared at Psyche for a moment, wide eyes making all the cherubic paintings of him momentarily almost accurate.
“I don’t need my own arrow to love you, Psyche. You are a wonder.”
He gave her a deep, long kiss; the kind that still weakened her knees after thousands of years, then turned and ran down the Olympian hall calling for Hephaestus at the top of his voice.
Psyche dispelled the vision in the wall, wondering what fruit this seed would bear.
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