Cherub

little arrows in your clothing, little arrows in your hair

written for Nicole’s story prompt for February at Stop Writing Alone .

A PERSON WHO IS GUIDED BY CUPID IN THEIR DREAMS AND STARTS A MATCHMAKING SERVICE

Using these words in your story:

Arrow, meddle, arrow, fish, love, match, monkey,

thunderstorm, curiosity, mistake, opposite,

pencil, vomit, destiny, predict, oracle

I will confess that I found this one difficult, even after we adjusted the word list a bit so don’t go looking for a masterpiece or even anything that makes and kind of sense.

Oh hello, said a voice that I did not recognise. You’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence. That’s nice. Long time no see. Who would have thunk it? The old team is back together. Are you looking forward to a bit of creative meddling in the love lives of the mortals? Creating a little bit of mayhem?

There is a cool breeze blowing across my face but even so it’s a struggle to get my eyes open. I haul myself up to a sitting posture and when I rub my eyes my cheeks feel moist.

The boy is laid at the opposite end of the bed on a pile of cushions, propped on one elbow like a roman emperor at a dinner party. He is rocking a tunic and toga combo, cream silk and trimmed with embroidered pink hearts and he has a matching headband over which tumbles an abundance of blonde curls and the outfit is completed by strappy leather sandals. Over his shoulder is slung a quiver of arrows and in his one hand he holds a curly bow.

With his free hand he reaches back over his shoulder, withdraws an arrow from the quiver and holding it by the flighted end, uses the pointed end to scratch his arse.

Well he says. I’d begun to think you weren’t going to wake up. Which would have been a shame because we always have so much fun together and I’ve got an awful lot planned for us. I’ve even got a vomit pencil.

What’s a vomit pencil? I asked.

You figure it out, he said. The clue is in the name. Be honest, it’s got you interested. Sparked your curiosity.

Is it a pencil made of vomit? I asked.

Aha, he said. The route one approach. Very good. But wrong. Quite the opposite in fact.

Vomit made of pencils?

Don’t be facetious. Keep trying.

It was true, what he said about our relationship. We got on okay as a rule. A couple of mistakes like the fuck up with the fish and the monkey and the unfortunate incident with the cheese and onions, but you’d have needed to be some kind of oracle to predict them.

You look different, I said. What’s changed?

Omnia mutantur. You know what I mean?

I haven’t the foggiest. Is it Greek?

It’s Latin. You were close. It’s Ovid. Stuff changes. Which stuff? I hear you ask. All stuff I reply. All things change and we change with them. So get used to it. But don’t get too used to it because there’s always a chance that soon it won’t be here. That’s the thing about mutability. It varies.

Take me as an example. I don’t look it, I know that, but I was launched onto an unsuspecting world sometime around 580BC in the book of Ezekiel. I was in one of his visions. He was always having them. That’s pretty much all there is to his book. Just one vision after another. He just used to sit there cross legged saying Guess what I’ve just seen. Guess what I’ve just seen. But if you asked him what it was he’d just go all silly on you.

Well, anyway. On the occasion of my biblical debut I wasn’t the charming, chubby legged rosy faced butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth putto that you see reclining before you now. Oh no. I was some sort of raging thing, part beast, part machine, with four faces, (of a man, an ox, an eagle and a lion if you’re interested) and four conjoined wings arranged vertically in pairs and four calf feet made of brass, I’m not making this up you know, check in the book if you want. So there I was, looking like a refugee from fancy dress night at the veterinarian’s amputation party.

I entered the scene in some kind of whirlwind thunder storm of amber coloured fire and out of the fire came forth lightning, which I grabbed hold of.

At that time I looked like a man, which is pretty good for a little fat kid who had barely learned to walk and I had four faces, one of a man, one of a lion, one of an eagle and one of an ox and four wings each with a hand on the underside. My wings were arranged in two pairs, one pair held aloft looking all regal and enveloping like it was the oscar for weirdest androzoological hybrid and one wrapped around my lower limbs for the sake of maintaining my dignity and shiny brass cowfeet, (I hope you’re paying attention because there’s going to be a short quiz after the interval).

On my underside were wheels, four in number and the wheels turned as I moved so that wherever I went there was a trundling of wheels.