She didn't ask for this. She didn't even want this. But here she was, on a dreadful descent to an unknown land. She couldn't believe how quickly her world had been turned upside down.
Young Persephone was gathering flowers among the elysian fields to decorate her home. It was a beautiful day. The sun was beaming down on her angelic face, making her wavy strawberry hair glisten as it danced about in the soft wind. As her dress caressed her young, graceful form, her eyes twinkled with delight and she filled the air with a sweet, melodic giggle as she beheld nature with pure joy, and nature beheld her with the same.
Suddenly, there was a foreboding stillness in the atmosphere. A deathly odor broke through the floral bouquet that had filled the air just moments ago. Persephone stopped in her tracks as an expression of dread took over her delicate face, her perfectly pouty lips parting in dismay as her aqua-blue eyes grew big and round, realizing the terrifying scene that was unfolding in front of her. The ground rumbled as it began to open up, knocking her off her feet. She stumbled backward and scrambled frantically to get away, as pieces of earth crumbled and gave way to a black chariot amid dark clouds of dust. Persephone covered her face and squinted her eyes, choking on the thick clouds.
Persephone couldn't see anything around her. Suddenly, the once peaceful field was filled with ear-piercing screams as she was grabbed and carried away by the chariot's dark passenger. After the chariot began its descent, Persephone's eyes began to adjust. She started to make out the shapes around her. What she saw made her skin crawl. No one seemed to be driving this chariot of onyx she was aboard. The dark passenger who grabbed her said nothing, but his sharp, grim features, completely void of expression, were enough to tell Persephone that she was in danger.
Her pulse quickened and she shuddered uncontrollably as she swallowed hard and tried to assess her surroundings. The dark chariot quickly moved deeper into the earth, down into a land she never knew existed. Persephone looked up toward the sky, and the place where the dark chariot had penetrated the ground was now a window of light that grew smaller and smaller. Persephone grabbed the dark passenger.
"Where are you taking me?" she demanded. "You can't do this!"
The dark passenger just stared ahead. No response. Deeper into the earth, darkness took over as the window of light disappeared completely, and fear wrapped around Persephone like a cocoon, threatening to suffocate her.
"Please don't do this! ... Please! Please take me back!" Persephone cried in desperation. "I need to go back home! I need to see my mother."
Her voice trailed off in the darkness. The dark passenger said nothing, acknowledged nothing. He just stared straight ahead, a cold, hollow shell who had neither compassion nor concern for the girl's pleas. He was just a servant, carrying out his master's orders.
While Persephone's cries fell on cold, indifferent ears well below the surface, Demeter was just learning of her daughter's abduction. She ran all the way to the field. Her servants held her back as she almost threw herself into the ground to retrieve her missing daughter. How could this happen? she asked herself. Demeter had been so careful, sheltering her daughter from anything in life she found unseemly. She had turned away so many unfit suitors, waiting for the day that perfect man would come in on a white horse and give her daughter the life Demeter had always wanted for her. Now, that life Demeter had preserved so carefully was taken away, without warning.
Below, Persephone alternated between bombarding the infernally silent guard with questions, and making panicked petitions for her release. As she descended deeper into the underworld, any notion of ever being free again began to die away, and the fate that awaited her began to dawn on her. She sank down, hugged her knees to her chest and mourned the world she was being forced to leave behind. She knew her life would never be the same, and the innocence she knew was quickly becoming a memory.
As she moved further and further away from the warmth of the
island sun and the cool mist of the ocean breeze, Persephone began to acknowledge what awaited her: The god of the underworld
had decided to take her as his bride. There was nothing she, or anyone else for that matter, could do about it.
Reality gradually sank in on what seemed like a never-ending journey. Persephone's features began to take on the darkness of her surroundings. With every speculation of what her new life might be, a little bit of the girl she once was gave way to the woman she was fated to become. Her youthful features hardened, transforming Persephone into a cold, refined goddess. Her light red hair darkened to a ravishing shade of auburn, and her lilting, soft voice became low and somber. A solemn chill took over where there used to be a light in her eyes.
The chariot finally came to a halt at an ominously tall iron gate with skulls decorating the posts. Persephone swallowed hard as she stood, paralyzed by fear. The dark passenger firmly escorted her through the gate, where she saw him. Hades stood before her, radiating equal parts maleficence and lust for his new bride. Chills swept down her spine as he locked eyes with her, and he extended his hand toward her. He held her hand as he slid a gold ring on her finger.
"Welcome, my bride," Hades said in a voice that made Persephone shudder. Aware that she was helpless to stop what was going on, she pasted on a brave smile and nodded to her new husband. She had to play her cards right, until she could find a way out. But for the time being, her dreadful fate had been decided for her.
Persephone was now the Queen of the Dead.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Flash fiction: The life and times of Maxwell Sheffield
Maxwell Sheffield was a lucky bastard, if he didn't say so himself.
He was the sole benefactor of the Sheffield International hotel chain. His late father had sold the hospitality empire before he died, only requesting that the Sheffield name remain on every building, and that his only child be allowed to stay at any of the 2,000 hotels within the chain, free of charge. (Maxwell's favorite place of residence was, of course, in New York City.)
The group of Jewish investors who agreed to this deal resented that condition, but this was an offer they simply couldn't refuse. Maxwell didn't give a shit either way; his lifestyle was the same, except he would never have to worry about sales, accounting, or any of the other bullshit business owners have to think about.
In the outside world, the recession raged on. Families were at their breaking point, with husbands and wives screaming at each other over finances, and companies laying people off in droves. Suicides were on the rise.
But none of this existed in Maxwell's world. He had never known these troubles, nor would he. He was completely sheltered, always given whatever his pampered heart desired. He went to school with fellow children of privilege, but he was by far the most wealthy.
He was, however, neither smart nor talented. He was rude and arrogant, and bullied everyone within a 5-mile radius. Beyond his looks, he was rotten to the core. He was the product of a weekend fling his father had with a ditsy, but beautiful, secretary. His biological mother was paid a generous sum to quietly disappear, and his father's wife was willing to look the other way as long as she was kept spoiled and happy.
At 29, Maxwell couldn't fault his late father for all the times he cheated on his wife. After all, Maxwell was no stranger to indiscretions himself. Without his father's money and influence, Maxwell would have served time for his DWI arrests, assault cases and more. Already being a textbook narcissist, Maxwell was done no favors by getting everything he ever wanted while seldom paying consequences; it simply set the groundwork for his expectations later in life.
Growing up, his teachers were terrified of him. If they dared to give him a grade lower than a B, his powerful father would personally pay a visit to the school principal, and the grave mistake would be corrected. If little Maxwell wanted to throw spitballs at another student, the teacher would turn her head the other way, then punish the spitball target if he opened his mouth in protest.
On top of it all, Maxwell got his pick of the litter when it came to the girls. They all were willing to overlook his bad boy reputation and that he, in fact, had never kept a girlfriend any longer than two weeks. Just like all the expensive toys he played with as a kid, he would toss them aside as soon as he lost interest.
These days, Maxwell just did what he did best: Going to the gym to perfect his figure, shopping for clothes on Fifth Avenue, and partying. Like many of his friends, Maxwell was incredibly vain. He shuddered to think of his impending birthday -- he was about to hit the big three-oh. This compelled him to spend extra time at the gym, as if an extra set of bicep curls would turn back the clock.
"It's just a number, Max, it doesn't mean anything!"
Gregory, Maxwell's personal trainer and drinking buddy, spotted him while he bench pressed the 300-pound barbell. Personally, Gregory couldn't stand the jerk, but membership in Maxwell's inner circle had its privileges. Gregory wasn't rich like Maxwell, but the chicks who flocked around didn't know that.
"C'mon, man up! Give me five more and I'll buy you a round at happy hour!"
That got Maxwell moving. He completed the set, and headed for the locker room. On the way, a couple of stone-cold foxes came out of spin class and smiled at them. Not one to miss an opportunity, Gregory came up and introduced himself, then invited the ladies to happy hour.
That evening was a blur of drugs, vodka, and sex. Maxwell wasn't sure when he left Pacha and wound up Cielo. All he knew in his cocaine-addled mind was that midnight was approaching, and he might as well be dead. In fact, he used to tell his friends that he would rather die than age past 30.
Well, as luck would have it -- and Maxwell was very lucky -- his wish was about to come true. His lifestyle rarely made room for visits to the doctor. Had Maxwell gone in for regular checkups, he might have learned what fate had in store for him.
And had the late Mr. Sheffield given Maxwell's real mom the opportunity to be part of her son's life in some way, shape or form, he might have learned about the disease the boy stood a strong chance of developing.
It didn't help that with Maxwell's lifestyle, symptoms in recent months such as chronic insomnia, mood swings, blurred vision and impaired thinking went by unnoticed.
Right before midnight, the same extremely rare strain of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease that had killed his mother before her 31st birthday took its toll on Maxwell. Gregory, alternately making out with the two girls he picked up from the gym, looked over to see a body on the ground. At first, Gregory thought his friend had passed out, but even a hard slap to the face didn't phase the guy. Maxwell Sheffield died of heart failure just minutes before his 30th birthday.
He had no children, no siblings, no spouse and no will. It had never occurred to him to leave his money to anyone. His estate went to the state of New York, and funded rather lavish holiday bonuses for some very lucky bastards that the citizens of New York elected into office.
He was the sole benefactor of the Sheffield International hotel chain. His late father had sold the hospitality empire before he died, only requesting that the Sheffield name remain on every building, and that his only child be allowed to stay at any of the 2,000 hotels within the chain, free of charge. (Maxwell's favorite place of residence was, of course, in New York City.)
The group of Jewish investors who agreed to this deal resented that condition, but this was an offer they simply couldn't refuse. Maxwell didn't give a shit either way; his lifestyle was the same, except he would never have to worry about sales, accounting, or any of the other bullshit business owners have to think about.
In the outside world, the recession raged on. Families were at their breaking point, with husbands and wives screaming at each other over finances, and companies laying people off in droves. Suicides were on the rise.
But none of this existed in Maxwell's world. He had never known these troubles, nor would he. He was completely sheltered, always given whatever his pampered heart desired. He went to school with fellow children of privilege, but he was by far the most wealthy.
He was, however, neither smart nor talented. He was rude and arrogant, and bullied everyone within a 5-mile radius. Beyond his looks, he was rotten to the core. He was the product of a weekend fling his father had with a ditsy, but beautiful, secretary. His biological mother was paid a generous sum to quietly disappear, and his father's wife was willing to look the other way as long as she was kept spoiled and happy.
At 29, Maxwell couldn't fault his late father for all the times he cheated on his wife. After all, Maxwell was no stranger to indiscretions himself. Without his father's money and influence, Maxwell would have served time for his DWI arrests, assault cases and more. Already being a textbook narcissist, Maxwell was done no favors by getting everything he ever wanted while seldom paying consequences; it simply set the groundwork for his expectations later in life.
Growing up, his teachers were terrified of him. If they dared to give him a grade lower than a B, his powerful father would personally pay a visit to the school principal, and the grave mistake would be corrected. If little Maxwell wanted to throw spitballs at another student, the teacher would turn her head the other way, then punish the spitball target if he opened his mouth in protest.
On top of it all, Maxwell got his pick of the litter when it came to the girls. They all were willing to overlook his bad boy reputation and that he, in fact, had never kept a girlfriend any longer than two weeks. Just like all the expensive toys he played with as a kid, he would toss them aside as soon as he lost interest.
These days, Maxwell just did what he did best: Going to the gym to perfect his figure, shopping for clothes on Fifth Avenue, and partying. Like many of his friends, Maxwell was incredibly vain. He shuddered to think of his impending birthday -- he was about to hit the big three-oh. This compelled him to spend extra time at the gym, as if an extra set of bicep curls would turn back the clock.
"It's just a number, Max, it doesn't mean anything!"
Gregory, Maxwell's personal trainer and drinking buddy, spotted him while he bench pressed the 300-pound barbell. Personally, Gregory couldn't stand the jerk, but membership in Maxwell's inner circle had its privileges. Gregory wasn't rich like Maxwell, but the chicks who flocked around didn't know that.
"C'mon, man up! Give me five more and I'll buy you a round at happy hour!"
That got Maxwell moving. He completed the set, and headed for the locker room. On the way, a couple of stone-cold foxes came out of spin class and smiled at them. Not one to miss an opportunity, Gregory came up and introduced himself, then invited the ladies to happy hour.
That evening was a blur of drugs, vodka, and sex. Maxwell wasn't sure when he left Pacha and wound up Cielo. All he knew in his cocaine-addled mind was that midnight was approaching, and he might as well be dead. In fact, he used to tell his friends that he would rather die than age past 30.
Well, as luck would have it -- and Maxwell was very lucky -- his wish was about to come true. His lifestyle rarely made room for visits to the doctor. Had Maxwell gone in for regular checkups, he might have learned what fate had in store for him.
And had the late Mr. Sheffield given Maxwell's real mom the opportunity to be part of her son's life in some way, shape or form, he might have learned about the disease the boy stood a strong chance of developing.
It didn't help that with Maxwell's lifestyle, symptoms in recent months such as chronic insomnia, mood swings, blurred vision and impaired thinking went by unnoticed.
Right before midnight, the same extremely rare strain of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease that had killed his mother before her 31st birthday took its toll on Maxwell. Gregory, alternately making out with the two girls he picked up from the gym, looked over to see a body on the ground. At first, Gregory thought his friend had passed out, but even a hard slap to the face didn't phase the guy. Maxwell Sheffield died of heart failure just minutes before his 30th birthday.
He had no children, no siblings, no spouse and no will. It had never occurred to him to leave his money to anyone. His estate went to the state of New York, and funded rather lavish holiday bonuses for some very lucky bastards that the citizens of New York elected into office.
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