This is the text from a writing excersize in the workshop. I was very much continuing the work I’d done here, but enjoying letting the power of storytelling enter a little more. The final text I performed, which I’ll post one of these days, was somewhere in between in terms of flowery storytelling language and stark physical imagery.
I was struck at birth by the shaft of Ares. It’s true. The gods on high looked down and across time and saw me, barely formed. Perhaps one smiled or one frowned, perhaps they were spiteful or bitter or joyful or pleased; I don’t know. But I know Ares (or, perhaps, the warriors of Ares, his phalanx of gleaming, armored troops, which – in the end – is close enough to a mortal such as myself) drew his bow, notched a piece of wood, straight and true, and let fly his arrow.
It was a poison arrow.