Achilles removed his armor.
His servant announced, “The soldiers wish to celebrate your victory over Hector. I’ll re-attach your anklet.”
He waved him away. “I don’t need it just to drag a body before the gates of Troy.”
Achilles taunted the Trojans, then felt the deadly bite of Paris’ arrow.
Bill Diamond is a writer in Evergreen, Colorado, whose initial work has appeared in The MacGuffin, Eastern Iowa Review and Windmill and other publications. See more at bdiamondwriting.com.
For ten years Penelope weaves her tapestry daily, unpicking it nightly, while Odysseus, tossed by tide and fortune, struggles to reach home.
Landing, he slaughters her besieging suitors.
She’s furious. “Where have you been?”
Bristling, he retorts, “Haven’t you finished that darned tapestry yet?”
It’s like he’s never been away.
Viv Burgess is finding the brain cell is flagging a bit these days. She obviously needs more tea and cake.
He dreamed of flying.
Every day he stayed home, sequestered himself in his workshop, and pursued his dream.
He considered himself the Noah of the twenty-first century. The global flood was coming, and he would live in the sky.
But he was not this era’s Noah: he was its Daedalus.