Poison Arrow

By Paul Kelly

New York magazine columnist Joy Gibson was searching for the answer to the eternal question: why are all the wrong people falling in love? After all, love is a choice surely... but what if it wasn't your choice?

Unbeknown to Joy, hers and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chronos Publishing
• Release date: Feb 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781914529115

Book preview

Dedication

For David & Linda

My rock in stormy waters. x

Chapter 1

Eros sighed heavily, his normal cheery demeanour deserted him as he flew tentatively through the barren landscape. He swooped and turned taking great care not to tear his gossamer wings on the twisted, skeletal trees that reached out from the ground, like rotting zombies trying to free themselves from their earthly tomb. Storm clouds brooded heavily overhead and spat lightening viciously at the ground in a bid to seek out and char any living thing in this forsaken and soulless place. It need not have bothered searching, for apart from Eros, there was only one living thing here… and he was trapped down the well.

As Eros flew closer to the ancient, grey stone well which was perched at the top of a large hill of rocks and shale, he saw sparks erupt from the well’s dull metal water bucket, which hung via a chain on the well head cross bar, as something flew out of the well in a burst of light. Eros jumped as another arrow fired out and ricocheted off the bucket, shooting skyward leaving a trail of green flames and sparks in its wake. Eros despaired as he watched each of these poisoned arrows pierce the very fabric of their realm in a flash of light high above the clouds, then disappear. When they broke through to the human’s world, where would they land? For these guided missiles would not stop their flight until they hit a beating heart. Two more arrows in quick succession rattled the bucket, dashing it wildly against the side of the well. Each venomous firework launched into the clouds before disappearing in a flash of light.

"Brother!" Eros’s voice was croaky with fear.

The arrows stopped firing. Gingerly, Eros peered over the top of the well. In the gloom of the deep dark well he swore he could see a pair of hate filled eyes burning right through him.

Lower the water pail.

The low voice was tinged with barely concealed rage. The cherub’s breath was panicked in the ominous silence, then the sky exploded as a thunderbolt struck the ground close to him, sending shingle and rock flying into the air. A second flash of forked lightening smashed into a nearby tree bursting it into flames. The low voice from below snapped his attention back from the blazing tree.

Lower the water pail now… and I will forgive you your treachery.

Eros tensed and steeled himself for the ritualistic onslaught that was sure to follow.

I… I’m not here for your forgiveness.

A low chuckle was the precursor to his sibling’s rabid rant.

Oh… and what are you here for then… dear brother?

Eros had only ever once before had the courage to stand up to his brother and that encounter had resulted in him being incarcerated down this ancient well. Not so much a well… more of a prison. One which he had been trapped in for a very long time.

I… I’m here to ask you to stop firing your arrows.

That sarcastic chuckle again.

And why would I want to do that, pray tell?

Sighing as he lowered his head, he replied,

People are getting hurt.

The humour had drained out of his voice now.

That was my role… REMEMBER?!

The last word was spat out with such menace, that Eros involuntary took a step back from the well for fear his brother might reach up and strangle him. The cherub yet again peered into the gloom.

I remember… b... but the wrong people are getting hurt. Innocents. Your randomly fired arrows are indiscriminate as to whose heart they hit… He was cut short,

Well, you know dear brother, my aim hasn’t been all that accurate recently. What with being imprisoned and everything. Very hard to see who to target, if you get my drift? But… if you were to set me free… I’ll make sure only the righteous hearts receive my special arrows.

Eros swallowed hard.

We tried that and it was much worse. You wouldn’t listen, you wouldn’t stop.

The anger Eros knew was coming, erupted in unbridled fury.

Oh! So, you get to choose who you target… and I get to do as I’m told?!

Almost tearful now, the cherub blurted out,

I… I didn’t choose the bows.

No… but you could’ve swapped!

The voice leered up from the watery abyss.

In fact, swap with me now, brother. I’ll be the romantic Father Christmas they all adore, dishing out eternal love and happiness… and YOU can be in charge of the naughty list. How about it, brother?

Eros flapped his silken wings and launched into the air.

I… I just need you to stop.

A green shimmering arrow illuminated the well, showering it in sparks before rocketing skyward.

You know, you won’t be able to keep me down here as your little pet forever, brother dear. One day I will get out… you do know that, don’t you?

Eros flew as fast as he could, wanting nothing more than to be as far away as possible from his evil brother. Behind him the well erupted in a fireball of sparks… as arrow after arrow pierced the night sky.

Chapter 2

Joy Gibson tapped out the last five words of her latest column and signed off with her trademark kiss. This month’s social comment was a two thousand five-hundred-word article lamenting on how highly successful, intelligent career women were regrettably still falling head over heels for total and utter bastards. The research for the piece was both depressing and yet intriguing with equal measure.

This age-old enigma crossed social and economic boundaries as well. From trailer park waitresses with one tooth in their heads, to Manhattan socialites with Daddy’s trust fund and not a thought in their heads. They all seemed helplessly addicted to men who blatantly advertised the fact that they would treat these ladies like shit. Paradoxically the worse these women were treated by these love rats, the more in love they seemed to be. This went far beyond the cliché:

"Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen!" misogynistic motto.

No, this was by far something deeper. Almost an uncontrollable self-destructive urge that went against everything a century of female suffrage ever fought tooth and nail against. Yet, like a lovelorn virus, not all were afflicted by its sickness and delirium fever. For most women she knew were with loving partners, herself included.

In her research for this article, she interviewed many women, some of whom were her own work colleagues and asked them why were they so attracted to, and stayed with a total bastard? Unfortunately, the answers always came back the same:

I don’t know.

A heroin addict knows why he is hooked on drugs. Initially, despite all the clear warnings and millions spent on anti-drug education… the would-be addict made a conscious decision to take heroin. In their ego driven frame of mind, they thought they could dip their toe in the morphine-soaked waters and paddle… in reality, they drowned.

Joy’s research unearthed the elephant in the room, that there was no way these ladies could say that they hadn’t been warned. Just like the advertising campaign that tried to save the heroin addict, the mainstream media had been trying to drum into women, "Say no to bastards."

Each day from broadcast, to social media, the airwaves bombarded the globe with feminist rhetoric that (in her own secret opinion, went way too far) warning women off bastards like they were the new social cancer. Yet, mimicking lemmings, some of these ladies leapt off the cliff with a smile on their faces. Was it hormonal? Surely not.

Despite menstruation, marriage and menopause, there was not one common denominator as to why a substantial section of her gender gleefully boarded this misery train. Even despite her overzealous editor’s claims, the men couldn’t take total blame for this phenomenon. For as she dug deeper into her research, Joy discovered that the few decent men she had interviewed were suffering from the very same complaint. The most wonderful men she had spoken to, were besotted with absolute poisonous witches.

Disgustedly, her editor told Joy to disregard this data as all men deserved the pain they got… and then some. That notwithstanding, Joy really wanted to get to the bottom of an almost age-old taboo question: ‘Why were all the wrong people falling in love?’

Across town, high above Manhattan… an arrow fell to Earth.

Chapter 3

Martha Bain’s vast office had one of the best views in Manhattan. The whole outside walls were floor to ceiling in glass. Even the Whitehouse couldn’t afford her window cleaner.

The walls and shelves were decorated with publishing awards, media trophies, and framed covers of her beloved glossy style magazine ‘Missandry.’

All senses were bludgeoned as you sat in that temple to her ego… and you were expected to worship at its altar.

Martha tried to furrow her brow as she read Joy’s latest piece. Unfortunately, her countless facelifts had precluded any attempt at frowning. Her long, blood red talon jabbed at the ultra-thin keyboard, sending Joy’s article off to print. That red slash that bisected her face, told Joy that her work had been accepted without being hacked to pieces.

Unlike Martha’s patchwork face. This thought tickled Joy, as it was a covert office joke… the face that launched a thousand quips.

We’re having cocktails at Gino’s at 7pm.

This sounded very much like a demand rather than an invitation. Joy was having dinner with her boyfriend Tony tonight. Also, from the way he has been acting lately, she suspected that tonight could be THE night. The night her one true love made an honest woman of her, the night she would tell their grandchildren about for the rest of her days. So, given the choice between cosmetic surgery’s worst adverts (as all of Martha’s friends faces had been chop shopped as well, so much so that they looked like a pissed Picasso drew them on an Etch A Sketch) spewing anti male bile over seventy-dollar cocktails, or a night of romantic destiny… it was no contest.

Er…I already have a date, Martha.

The room turned suddenly cold.

When you are barefoot and pregnant, how long do you think your gullible little fairy tale will last? Two years? Three?

Martha faced the huge window, gazed across the city, and tapped on the glass with her crimson nail.

This city is full of silly girls who have fallen prey to unscrupulous bastards who want nothing more than to ensnare you in a trap, you’ll find it nigh on impossible to escape from.

It’s wasn’t often that Joy felt any bravery in her heart, but this was her beloved Tony that she was talking about.

Tony isn’t a bastard.

The ice queen turned slowly to face Joy on her thirty-thousand-dollar stilettos and gave as big a smile as her restricted face would allow.

Of course, he isn’t my dear. None of them are… to begin with.

A silence hung in the room. Her boss was the first to break it.

Loved your article.

A smile beamed from Joy’s face, which was instantly dropped as she inwardly chastised herself for gushing like a giggly schoolgirl desperately seeking Mummy’s approval.

Only one criticism, though.

Oh… here it comes.

You state that rather than these vile men preying on decent women, it is an addiction of sorts… alluding to some measure of responsibility on the woman’s part.

Before Joy could answer she was cut short.

It smacks of a rape victim being told that she was asking for it.

The intercom buzzed on Martha’s black onyx marble desk, her secretary’s voice filled the room,

Fox television on line one, Ms Bain.

Martha’s eye twitched rapidly in annoyance at her secretary’s drawn-out pronunciation of ‘Ms.’ Martha chose to be addressed as Ms, because she refused to be pigeonholed into male dominated stereotypes such as single or married. Despite the fact she has had four marriages and four extremely lucrative divorces under her belt, that was beside the point. No evil patriarchy was going to brand her like cattle! Yet this jumped-up trailer park trash of a secretary had really got under her skin, always addressing her as ‘Mzzzzzzzz’ as if she had a swarm of fucking irate wasps in her mouth. But the way that she said it, in that underlined sarcastic tone implied something else. Probably in this dizzy little bitch’s head, Miss meant single, young, carefree. Mrs equalled Mr Right, wonderful home, loving children. But Ms... was seen in a category all of its own. Spinster, lesbian, dried up old crone with only a mangey flea bitten cat for company. A cat… the pet of choice for gnarled hate filled witches in fables of old. Martha was aware her nostrils on her twenty-five-thousand-dollar nose were feebly attempting to flare, as the anger boiled at this lackey’s impertinence.

Fox television on line one Ms Bain.

Joy jumped as Martha jabbed at the intercom and roared,

TELL THEM TO FUCKING WAIT!

Her boss was visibly shaking. She blinked rapidly as if to reorientate herself with her surroundings.

Martha… are you alright?

Martha cleared her throat and gave an insincere smile. Yes, of course Joy.

Pointing to the intercom,

You just can’t get the staff. She’ll be serving gherkins to lard ass schoolkids in McDonalds before lunchtime.

Joy surreptitiously glanced at her watch. The deadline for the secretary’s unemployment was twenty minutes away. Martha used firing or the threat of being fired, the same way most people used Tippex. If you pissed her off intentionally, or unluckily enough for you unintentionally, then you were history. No ifs or buts. Employment law meant nothing to Ms Bain. Her lawyers were too powerful, she was too rich. As for the unions… in this right-wing town, being in a trade union was tantamount to membership of a terrorist organisation. Joy didn’t know what the poor unfortunate underling had done to incur her publisher’s wrath, but in this corporate climate of fear, a line from Band Aid’s charity song came to mind,

"Well tonight thank God it’s them, instead of you."

Easing her designer clad backside into an equally outrageously expensive designer leather chair, Martha composed herself and addressed Joy.

Now dear… where were we?

It was a rhetorical question, as a sermon was about to be delivered.

Ah, yes… your take on women’s inability to resist bastards.

Joy held her tongue as she knew she was being led into a bear trap.

You see Joy, every month 7.5 million women buy MY magazine.

She overemphasized the ‘MY’ for this was no hippy sister commune for the greater advancement of womankind. No, this was the publishing arm and propaganda machine for Martha Bain’s global empire… and no one had better forget it.

Do you realise of all our readership, we speak to them more often than they actually speak to their own mothers? Think about it, we have more control over their minds than the women who gave birth to them…

She paused. She liked pauses did old Martha. Joy mused that she must have made quite a few notes whilst watching old Gestapo movies.

…now that’s REAL POWER!

She tried to open her eyes wide to hammer home her point. Alas, intensive eye lid surgery had rendered the publisher with a constant look of surprise. Not too dissimilar to the look on someone’s face whose fingers have just gone through wet toilet paper. Joy wondered who the president was when Martha could actually blink of her own free will. Was it Bush? Nah! Probably Nixon. The sermon continued.

But with real power, comes responsibility. You see Joy, all these women look to us for guidance in these troubled times. For thousands of years men have subjugated women and trod them into the dirt…

Joy groaned inwardly. Oh, please God no! not the Martin Luther King in knickers, I have a dream!

… our readers want hope, guidance and salvation from the yolk of oppression that evil men have enslaved women with since the dark ages.

A sense of mischievous crept over Joy… and it just slipped out,

And we are the light?

For the first time that morning Martha Bain actually smiled a real smile. No corporate gurning for trade photographs, no crocodile flash of enamel on the red carpet, but a real smile that conveyed happiness behind it.

THAT’S IT! …We are the light!

She jumped to her feet and tottered round the desk pacing up and down. I can feel a big spread coming on! This is BIG! We deliver all womankind out of the depths of despair and darkness…

she spread her arms wide and looked up for divine approval.

…and deliver them into the light!

Oh, sweet Jesus Joy, that bloody sense of humour of yours. What have you done? So, is this how Dr Frankenstein felt when it all went tits up?

Martha darted over to the intercom.

I want the full editorial team and marketing people in here now.

The unsuspecting secretary with only 10 minutes of her job left, spoke,

Fox television are still on line one Ms Bain.

All anger at previous misdemeanours forgotten now.

Tell them to call back, we have a campaign to run!

Martha, schizophrenic tyrant that she was, was elated. Joy was glad too. She may have inadvertently saved the poor secretary’s job.

Chapter 4

Cupid brushed his hand through his wavy, flame red hair and looked at his reflection in the well’s dark water. There he sat on one of five rocky little islands in the immense lower chamber of the well, which was a reservoir for a very special liquid indeed.

For this was no ordinary well. This was a mystical cavern that existed in a realm that no mortal human had ever visited. Yet they play a huge part in its very existence for this is,

‘The Well of Bitter Tears.’

It is replenished and filled daily with the tears of jilted brides, heartbroken mortals, and unrequited love.

Bit of a speciality, unrequited love for old Cupid. When he shot his poisoned arrow into Narcissus as an act of revenge for breaking Echo’s heart, the unfortunate Narcissus was compelled to love the very next person he saw. Alas his vanity was his undoing and unable to resist looking at his own image in a lake, he was doomed for all eternity to love his own reflection… something that would never love him back.

As Cupid glanced at his own reflection in the rippling tears, the irony was not lost on him. He gritted his teeth and roared as he lashed out at his own image, sending water splashing against the well’s dripping circular walls. Each time a heart was broken, down the walls the tears would drip. Seeing as it was his poisoned arrows that created most of these tears… it was a case of return to sender. The more arrows he fired out of the well’s opening into the sky, the more tears would come flooding down that night.

Most days he used this as a productivity chart. Anything to pass the time. Oh, and his days were long. How long had he been imprisoned down here now? One thousand years? No, it was much nearer to two. He’d notched up every day on the walls to mark time, but over the years the constant dripping of salted tears had worn his original marks away. So now he had no idea how long his enforced incarceration was. The only indication of the passing of time was the change of the siren’s song.

In ancient times, when a mortal’s heart was torn in two, the unfortunate soul would bleat out a popular wail of woe. Each time Cupid’s arrows would inflame a heart by making them burn with desire for the meanest wretch alive, the walls would reverberate with the sounds of their caterwauling.

Down the ages these songs had changed as humans evolved… but the most popular of these songs were secretly cursed by the Gods. To sing one of these songs once with a broken heart was to proclaim to the world your woe. To sing it twice was to roar at the very Gods for forsaking you in your hour of need. But, to sing this cursed song a third time was viewed as you damning the Gods for your plight.

Despite eons of patience, the Gods are not known for taking being damned by a mere mortal lying down. Any human regardless of how immeasurable their heartache who dared defy the Gods by wailing the cursed siren song thrice… would be instantly transported to the very bowels of misery itself…

The Well of Bitter Tears.

Once there the mortal is doomed to spend an eternity in the well… where only a God can set them free. By constantly firing off his arrows blindly into the sky, Cupid hoped to ensnare someone, one very special individual. Someone who, when their heart was broken, would howl the cursed siren song thrice and give him his chance of freedom. That doomed mortal would swap places with him. It had been over 400 years since the cursed siren song had been sung twice. But Cupid knew that one special broken heart was out there… somewhere.

Chapter 5

On the phone Joy nearly spilt her coffee over her laptop. The sheer horror was not for almost damaging a five-grand piece of electronic equipment. No, it was for the inevitable patronising lecture she’d receive from an obese IT engineer… basically a nerd who is proficient with calculators.

Yeah, okay…meet you at 8pm…love you.

Joy spied her work colleague Nancy grinning like a Cheshire cat as she put down the phone.

And?

Said Nancy with an overexaggerated theatrical shrug.

Smiling coyly, Joy said quietly as she looked left and right to check no one was listening.

I think he’s going to propose tonight.

Both women jumped up and down, screaming and hugging.

Chapter 6

Joy tried not to hyperventilate as she walked up to the Maître D in ‘Pretieus,’ the third most expensive French restaurant in New York. The jumped-up head waiter looked her up and down as if she had just been freshly shat out of a hippo’s arse.

Yes?

Ooh! Big talker this one!

She mused as her nerves were quickly superseded for simmering anger.

Table for two, in the name of Gibson. I’m expecting a guest.

The charm school reject scanned his guest register with all the speed of a dyslexic scrabble player. Joy rolled her eyes at this mock Frenchman, who was probably a groin scratching, greaseball from the Bronx named Vinnie.

Table six Madam. Your guest is here…

Joy walked past him and was stopped dead in her tracks as the Maître D added condescendingly,

…and your other guest is running a little late.

Joy opened her mouth to question him, but he had already power minced off to verbally abuse one of his minions. She felt her heart skip a beat as she spied her beloved Tony seated next to the grand piano.

As she was distracted by her handsome man, she suddenly bumped into a young waiter and sent a tray of empty coffee cups he was carrying sailing into the air. She held her breath and waited for the inevitable symphony of shattering crockery. It never came. With the speed of a wasp in a hurry, the waiter not so much caught, as snatched each tumbling cup out of the air. It was part Ninja kata, part juggling act.

Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! blurted out Joy.

Yet the poor lad didn’t seem to hear her. He just quickly restacked the cups and scurried off under the harsh glare of the Maître D who now scowled at Joy. Withering under his glare, she sat down quickly, blushing next to Tony.

Made a new buddy there.

Laughed her beloved as he picked up his glass of wine and held it up in mock toasting salute to the head waiter. This sent Joy’s face a deeper shade of red.

Tony! Don’t!

She giggled as she forced his glass gently back onto the table.

Fuck him! The minimum wage has gone to his head. Bet he was milk monitor at school as well, weren’t you Frenchie? What’s this, a demotion?

Tony!

She looked around embarrassed at her soon to be fiancé’s outburst. But Tony didn’t hear her. He was locking eyeballs with the head waiter as his hand tightened around the wine bottle’s neck.

That’s right, fucker! You keep gawking and I’m gonna cut them little piggy eyes out of your fucking skull!

Apart from the odd nervous cough, the restaurant was deadly silent. Even the pianist stopped playing. All eyes were on the couple. Joy wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. The head waiter sensed his French aloofness and his minuscule position of power he held in a glorified café would not protect him from having a wine bottle screwed into his face, and promptly power minced back into the safety of the kitchen.

Yeah! You’d better run motherfucker!

Called Tony after the fleeing Frenchman. He gulped his wine and refilled his glass.

The