Demeter's Torment
“Obey me cursed weeds! Obey your Goddess!”
Demeter’s silky voice rattled the fertile valley. The copious grains cowered, their heavy heads obeising. The single tree shook, its billowy leaves quivering. Even the dirt trembled below her, clutching tight to the roots that crawled through it.
But the tares did not obey.
“Curse you, tares! Where did you come from?”
Demeter’s porcelain skin glimmered in the sun’s morning rays. Her lissome hands held tight to a weathered scythe. Back and forth. Back and forth. She struck the noxious weeds with one potent blow after another. Their severed heads dropped to the ground, piling around her nimble feet like summer rain.
“I will find your source, foul imposters. Then I will find your progenitor. Then I will have justice.”
Demeter worked in silence, swinging her scythe with violent rhythm. All day she cut. All day she searched. All day she sweated—even gods and goddesses can perspire wrath.
Finally. Mercifully. Demeter found the center of the tares, where the thickest parasite stood proud and defiant.
Shouting a seething curse, she murdered the first offenders with a single, mighty swing. Satisfaction settled along her flawless face. And throughout the valley.
Looking down along the deceased plants’ stalks, where stem meets rich and chocolate earth, Demeter spied a mark. It was a print, lithe but deliberate. And beside the print, a broach. Left behind with taunting intent.
Demeter’s angel brow furrowed. Her ruby lips curled. Her crystal eyes teared.
“Até. Goddess of mischief. Damn you.”
Copyright © Graham, 2024; All Rights Reserved