March 13, 2016
The sky looked like a bruise. Not a gentle reddish kiss, but a roiling welt of deep purples, oily blacks, and sullen grays. And it was angry. Angry as I'd ever seen it. I knew why.
You shouldn't tell him no. He doesn't take no for an answer. But I wasn't worried about him. When all is said and done, he's just a man with a hard-on looking for a willing or not-so-willing woman to fuck - nothing for me to fear. I've dealt with men and gods alike - both are slaves to their baser needs - rutting like dogs at the scent of a bitch. Some women liked such things, crave it like fine food and drink.
But I know better. It isn't the thunder you need to fear.
Just ask poor Io, pale as milk, lowing in the field as a cow, under the watchful eyes of Argus. Ask Semele, whose ashes drift on the wind after seeing her lover in all his immortal glory. Look to the Bear that was once Callisto, chaste nymph of our fair huntress - chaste until the thunder rolled. Call out in a cave and hear the voice of little Echo. Poor girls.
For all his bluster, for all his rage is but a prelude to the real storm. So I'll bow out of this era, and find a time when he and his ilk have settled some. Where they play cards in the shade of new constellations.
And perhaps... Perhaps Hera will have learned a thing or two. Burn a bra, or have him sign a pre-nup with clauses that account for bird-transformations, or let him cool his thunderbolts on the couch for a century or three. It would do him some good.
Until then, I'll stay out of this myth. Or better yet, make some new ones to groove to.