Rise of the Goddess (****All proceeds from the Rise of the Goddess anthology will go to benefit the Elliott Public Library**** Book 1)

by Catherine Stovall

  Moira snuggled into his chest. “And will I be able to come back here when I want?”

  “Whenever you wish, my love,” Mars said as he pulled her into his embrace and kissed her passionately. “We’ll make it work, where ever we are.”

  And they did.

  The Cast Iron Skillet

  Shebat Legion

  Amanda slid down the smooth surface of the washing machine, her back pressed against it; crouched in the darkness and anonymity of the laundry room, hiding. Her husband was too drunk to think of looking for her there, and she almost smiled, but grimaced instead. Whoever would have thought she would have ended up in a bivouac beside her Maytag?

  She could hear her husband stumbling in the hall, a crash, and a curse muttered as he walked into a wall. Again, she almost smiled. For, yes, it had come to the point where she found his drunken state almost humorous. Therein lay the horror, that she could somehow find any of this to be funny.

  “You don't pay the bills!” he had screamed, face reddened with rage. What had started the argument, Amanda could not remember, only that it had escalated, and somehow, she was to blame. There was no way around it now; there was nothing she could say that would be the right thing, no magic phrase that could placate her husband. The thing would have to run its course, whatever the cause of this fight was not relevant, staying out of his way, was.

  Amanda ran the tips of her fingers across the smooth white door of the washing machine almost absently. It was somehow comforting. She patted the machine as if it were a dog and then stiffened as it made a slight sound, its metal frame slightly buckling in response to her ministrations. She listened carefully, her face still and blank. Perhaps her husband had gone outside. Maybe he had gone down to the boat. Maybe she could sneak out of the laundry room, to where she wasn't sure, but her knees were becoming cramped from crouching for so long.

  The slightly opened laundry room door allowed her to see into the kitchen. Amanda had a view of the pine kitchen island and its pans and pots and hanging lids, those that were left, for he had kicked the island when he called her a “bitch.” The island looked intact, thank goodness; it was a present from her mother, as so many of her belongings were. She didn't know what she would say if it were to be broken, rather, she did, she would have to lie.

  Rhyming Simons—a childhood memory of running off the edge of the dock, straight into the water as fast as she able. Why this act of running was called by that name, she never could find out, but she had borrowed the term to mean something more than running into the water. To her, it meant running into danger, and she had been thinking to herself, “It's Rhyming Simons time. My god, it’s Rhyming Simons time,” for the better part of three hours now.

  Running to, running from. She had run into danger, and now, she was enacting “hiding from danger.” on the days that she cursed herself for being a coward, she remembered this one thing, she was doing Rhyming Simons. Yes, but she was also saving her own life.

  Amanda flexed, and the washing machine flexed with her, making a slight sound as it did, almost as if it were perhaps agreeing that, yes, she was right, saving her own life was important.

  Amanda stared shock-eyed at the kitchen island, askew where he had left it. It was, in actuality, a medium sized cart, shelved and on wheels, but very sturdy. It solved the need for counter space quite neatly. Amanda blinked.

  She could see one of the wooden spoons and the strainer pot where they had fallen, as she listened for the sound of breathing other than her own. She licked her dry lips. He had made her beg.

  “Until I think that you are sincere, when I know that you are really sorry, that you mean it, don't even think to say you are sorry! And don't you fucking have a cup of my coffee in the morning and have fun with the 'nic cravings!” He had roared, “Don't be smoking any of my cigarettes, and don't you dare eat any of my food!”

  He had gone on and on until she had said that yes, she was sorry, yes, she did mean it, and dammit she was sincere. The entire time shaking, and yet, thinking to herself as she begged for forgiveness, “is he really doing this?”

  But of course, he really, really was. It wasn't the first time, and however she may have tried to explain it to herself, she didn't understand how her husband, who could be so nice could turn into what? A monster? Yes, a monster, and so quickly after he had a few drinks in him.

  It was truly astounding how much her he could drink. While it was mostly beer that was his preferred beverage, tonight, he had added whiskey. She knew what that meant. She would have to be especially careful, and even that would probably not be enough.

  “I have stress!” he had screamed with spittle across her face as she tried not to cringe, tried not to show fear, because to show weakness would have made things worse for her. “Stress!”

  Well, yes. He did have stress. Everyone had stress, but best not to think about that because she could hear the front door slam as the monster reentered the house from where it had gone. It. He.

  He had never drunk so much whiskey, the bottle lay on the floor where he had thrown it, and it was almost empty.

  She crouched in the darkness, trembling and willing her cramped legs to just shut up already, enough with the complaints, this was her life, not her knees that were at stake here.

  In Amanda's brighter moments, she thought, “He has never hit me, not really. Pushed, yes. Threatened, yes. Broke things, expensive things. Maybe he will stop, the sun is shining and he is smiling, and maybe he will see what he is doing, maybe he will.”

  But in Amanda's darker moments, when the sun was gone, when her husband was not her husband but a monster instead, she thought only of getting out. Getting away, escaping if she could, somehow, somewhere. Yes, she sometimes thought about how nice it would be, how convenient, if the monster would just die. A heart attack maybe, or a stroke; either would do just fine. Then he would be gone for good. Yes, she would probably feel bad about it, and she would grieve but...

  “Where the fuck are you, Amanda?”

  She heard him calling from the bedroom. Yes, that was the sound of a crash, and it was probably something expensive too. Her lips curled up into an almost smile again, why couldn't he break cheap things? They had so many extra cups. The ones with the turkeys on them were not something she would miss, but it was almost as if the more expensive the object, the more satisfying it was for him to break it. This didn't make sense really, since so much of what the monster complained about was how badly in debt they were.

  “His debt,” a voice seemed to say and it was the voice Amanda called her inner goddess voice. It was a voice of reason, or rather, a voice that tried to reason with her, even if it was only inside where no one could hear it except for her. “His debt,” the voice insisted, and this was mostly true.

  Her husband really did have a tendency to buy things he could not afford. When she asked for something for herself, out of the money she herself made, the money he took, the money that he kept, her money, on the bank card that was in his wallet and not hers, it became her fault somehow that they didn't have the money for it.

  “Amanda!” the monster roared, and she closed her eyes.

  “You do not have to live this way,” the voice reasoned, “He is in the bedroom, run for the door, and get to a neighbor. Call the police.”

  “But,” she objected, “he is so fast!” And it was true. He could be very fast, and if the police didn't keep him, if she couldn't find somewhere far enough away, she knew that this call for help could also cost her dearly. In her dark moments, when that sun did not shine, Amanda knew that if she had her husband arrested, he would track her down and kill her like a dog.

  No, a heart attack or a stroke or....

  “Sweetheart,” the voice said, “You can hope for him to drop dead all you want but it’s not something you can count on. Go. Go now! Get up and run! You are in trouble, worse than before. Go! Live now, worry about the rest later. This is your life we are talking about here!”

  She almo
st did. The voice was that insistent. She almost uncurled herself from where she crouched with her arms around her knees, but she didn't, and she could hear that voice inside of her give a sigh of exasperation. She could hear the monster in the living room and knew she had lost her window of opportunity. If he found her, he would be very angry, and he had drunk so much whiskey.

  “But,” the voice said firmly, that voice, her inner goddess voice, “he is already angry, there is no help for it now. Get out while you still can.”

  “I can't! He will catch me,” Amanda mourned, “It isn't like I can fight him, he is so strong!”

  And this was true, yes. Her husband was strong, but the monster was even stronger, and the sun was not shining tonight. No, not at all.

  She couldn't fight him, and that is when her eyes turned to the cast iron skillet that had fallen to the floor with a huge clang when he had kicked the center island, wheeled, cart-thing.

  She could hit him with it, if she had to. She could tell the police that he had come after her and that she was afraid and had hit him with it out of self defense. It wouldn't even be a lie. Why, maybe she could hit him enough times that a heart attack or a stroke would seem like a mercy in comparison.

  “Well,” Amanda's inner goddess argued, “But could you really? Could you really hit him? Let’s look at this reasonably. The skillet is heavy, and you are not exactly known for upper body strength.”

  “Yes!” Amanda argued back, “Yes, I could! I could use both arms. Get a good solid grip on it and bash his face in with it.”

  “But what if he died?” the goddess inside of Amanda asked gently, “What if you ended up killing him?”

  “What if I did?” Amanda shrieked silently.

  “Could you live with that?” asked the voice, and it did seem as if the goddess was interested in the answer. So was the washing machine apparently, for it gave another small ding as Amanda shifted.

  “The monster would be dead,” Amanda whined. “Dead and gone, and then, and then…”

  “Perhaps,” the goddess mused, “and yes, perhaps you could live with that today, but what about tomorrow? Could you live with that tomorrow? The day after that? Forever?”

  “Yes,” Amanda answered in a surly tone, even though she knew that really, the goddess was right. There would be no living with it tomorrow. His death would haunt her forever. It wasn't in Amanda to be violent, even if she had to be. Along with the word “bitch,” came his other word for her, which was “wuss.” While Amanda, on her bright days, thought this word to mean that she was a nice woman, even on the brightest of all bright days, she knew the word meant something quite different to her husband.

  Amanda dug her fingers into her legs, maybe she was a wuss the way her husband saw it. Maybe she was.

  “No, you are not!” the voice said. “But you must decide, because the monster is coming closer.”

  And dear lord, it was true. She could hear him coming, and soon he would see her, and then what would she say? What? “I was cleaning the laundry room in the dark?” No of course she could not say that!

  “Then, it’s one or the other honey. The skillet, or you make a break for it, because sometimes, whatever you do, it’s going to be Rhyming Simons whether you like it or not.”

  Amanda jumped to her feet and ran for the skillet, grabbing it as the monster spotted her. As he rushed forward, roaring, she threw it for all she was worth at the center island wheeled cart thing, and she hit it too. The skillet made a crashing sound and the monster roared in surprise. Amanda ran as if her life depended on it because, really, didn't it? Yes, yes it did.

  “Rhyming Simons! Rhyming Simons!” Amanda screamed as she ran past her husband, out of the door, and down the street, and into the first drive way that she came to.

  The sun was gone, yes, and maybe it would be gone for a very long time. Maybe it would not be gone forever and the voice gently agreed that this was true.

  The Weaver

  Zoe Adams

  *This story contains UK English*

  Athena’s holiday was drawing to an end. This was her last full day in the country and she intended to have it all to herself. Lounging by the pool, with an occasional swim, followed by a late lunch. Later, she would take a final walk to the centre of town. She had been in contact with her boss, Timothy Loomis, who was counting down the days until her return. Apparently, the office wasn’t the same without her, and there were some big contracts coming up that he would love her assistance with.

  Her partner, Royce, was excited too—he was all prepared to pick her up from Heathrow and shower her with hugs and kisses.

  As she stretched on her lounger, she felt the sun bronze her skin. She was already tanned. A natural glow, Royce said, but it couldn’t hurt her to catch a few more rays. It wasn’t like she had to worry about skin cancer or anything like that. As a Goddess, she was virtually indestructible.

  She peered through her dark sunglasses, the thick trashy paperback book dropping a few inches, as she surveyed the other holiday makers…

  The family of three with the unruly teenage daughter who had refused on multiple occasions to get out of the pool. She had thrown a royal fit the other day over where to eat in the evening, and her father had pushed her back into the water. The resulting splash took more water out of the pool, and drenched the nearby Athena, who had only just settled on the lounger after a day’s excursion to the Asklepion.

  The gang of teenage boys, who were hung over from last night’s escapades. Athena had passed them in the town as one of them struggled to stand upright and his legs buckled beneath him. One of the others had recognised her from the hotel and asked her what to do with him.

  She had answered, quite brusquely, “Bread, water and bed.”

  The couple who were asleep and burning their skin to a crisp. Their room wasn’t far from Athena’s and she often heard them making love— rather noisily— several times a day. She could only imagine the pain that the sunburn would bring to their amorous activities later that night.

  She reached for the bottled water at her side, and took a long drink, her eyes wandering around. She seemed to be the only sensible one here. When she had explained her holiday to Timothy, a month before she had caught her flight, he had laughed.

  “Sweetheart, we all love you here. You’re great, lass, but it’s sort of hard to imagine you abroad. Do you, like, let your hair down and sleep the day away, only to get drunk on the evenings? I’ve never even known you to even get wasted at the office parties!”

  Athena knew the pain that alcohol caused. Her cousin Dionysus was to blame. He was the original party animal, and when the family reunions came along once a year, he would always turn up, drunk off his own supplies, and try to turn the event into some kind of orgy. Athena would have one glass and keep herself to herself.

  Occasionally, she got into a bit of a scrap with other Gods and Goddesses, but many didn’t blame her. It might have been years ago, but she still wasn’t overly fond of Hera and Aphrodite. That bloody incident with the apple. She had been made a laughing stock for years to come, until the Greeks overcame the Trojan’s. Her brother, Ares, had become the black sheep (so to speak). After that, nobody dared meddle with her wisdom.

  It was such a shame that human’s couldn’t follow wisdom every so often. They came up with clichéd expressions, such as, “A good head and a good heart are always a formidable combination.” They gave others splendid advice, but when it came to their own predicaments, they forgot what they had told their friends and let things get so muddled. It was awful to see.

  Over the centuries, Athena had taken up residency in multiple human forms. She had sworn to her father, Zeus, that she would not tamper with any mortal lives or use her influence on others. Athena never broke her promises, and she had multiple passports, in case of a quick getaway or things not going to plan. The one she was using currently said her name was Anthea Titan.

  Sighing, she checked her mobile phone. Seven o’clock in Greek
time. Five o’clock in English time. She supposed she better have a shower and head into town. She’d wander around the little markets, and finally get Royce and Timothy each a keepsake, before getting something to eat. There were plenty of nice restaurants in Kos Town, but she thought tonight, she’d visit the Amaryllis. It was just on the coastline and she had a splendid view of the beach. She’d often see tourist ships and fishing boats pass. She could just watch the world go by from there. Even though she had seen it shape and change in dramatic ways, it was nice to sit back and relax every so often.

  She slid her bookmark into place before piling everything into her woven beach bag. She folded the towel she had laid upon and slid her sandals back on her feet. She wrapped her sarong tightly about her waist, and made sure her breasts had not escaped her stylish and sporty bikini top. The last time she had been on holiday with the other Goddesses, Aphrodite kept finding excuses to flash herself—the best excuse being, “I think this old thing is just too small for me.” She would flutter her lashes and all the boys would come running. Athena would just roll her eyes, and turn onto her front to let her back tan, loosing herself once more in the plot of her holiday read.

  Her hotel room was a modest size. It had a settee which folded out into a bed and a matching table and chair set in a little living room. A tiny kitchenette held enough items for someone suited to self-catering, like Athena was. The bathroom had working facilities, even if the shower was sometimes a little temperamental with its heat. A bedroom housed the double bed, a vanity dresser and two matching nightstands. Athena would lie in bed at night, the balcony doors open, the thin gauzy curtain sailing backwards and forwards in the breeze, with nary a stitch on her body, letting the cool air move through.

  From her balcony, she could see the distant mountains and villages. Another hotel neighboured theirs and she had seen some sights that made her eyes bulge from their sockets. She was left wondering how people could afford to go all inclusive. She couldn’t see a point in it, but that was her opinion. She liked to cater to her own needs—she always had and always would.