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    Garden of the Goddesses
    Garden of the Goddesses
    Garden of the Goddesses
    Ebook238 pages3 hours

    Garden of the Goddesses

    By Zimbell House Publishing, Lewis J. Beilman III, Lisa De Luca and

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Garden temples, ancient aliens, mythic gods and creation tales are but a few of the whimsical short stories spun in this anthology by six emerging writers; all with unique approaches to story-telling.
    Zimbell House Publishing is committed to helping new writers become quality authors.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZimbell House Publishing
    Release dateApr 23, 2015
    ISBN9781942818311
    Garden of the Goddesses
    Author

    Zimbell House Publishing

    Zimbell House Publishing is dedicated to promoting new writers. To enable us to do this, we create themed anthologies and send out a call for submissions. These calls are updated monthly, typically we have at least four months worth on our website at any given time. To see what we are working on next, please paste this link into your browser and save it to your bookmarks: http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/contest-submissions/ All submissions are vetted by our acquisitions team. By developing these anthologies, we can promote new writers to readers across the globe. We hope we've helped you find a new favorite to follow! Are you interested in helping a particular writer's career? Write a review and mention them by name. You can post reviews on our website, or through any retailer you purchased from.  Interested in becoming a published author? Check out our website for a look behind the scenes of what it takes to bring a manuscript to a published book. http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/publishing-services/process-behind-scenes/ We hope to hear from you soon.

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      Book preview

      Garden of the Goddesses - Zimbell House Publishing

      Copyright

      This book is a work of fiction.  Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.  All characters appearing in this work are the product of the individual author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher. 

      For permission requests, write to the publisher:

      Attention: Permissions Coordinator at the address below.

      Zimbell House Publishing, LLC

      PO Box 1172

      Union Lake, Michigan 48387

      © 2015 Zimbell House Publishing

      Published in the United States by Zimbell House Publishing

      http://www.ZimbellHousePublishing.com

      All Rights Reserved

      Tradepaper ISBN: 9781942818168

      Digital ISBN: 9781942818311

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2015904885

      First Edition: April 2015

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4

      Dedication

      For Goddesses Everywhere

      Acknowledgements

      Zimbell House Publishing would like to thank all of the writers that submitted their work for this anthology. 

      We would also like to thank all of those on our Zimbell House team that worked so diligently to bring this anthology to press.

      Edesia

      David W. Landrum

      "When people ask me how to find happiness

      in life, I tell them, first learn how to cook."

      —Charles Simic

      F oodie literature has only come along in the last twenty years or so, Holden Meyers told Dorinda Carter, but I feel like the genre’s already been exhausted—just like the novel is dead.

      She laughed.  There’s hope for your book then because the novel isn’t dead.  Every ten years somebody writes a new article about the ‘death of the novel.’ They say every possible novel has been written, all plot lines exhausted, all narrative schemes exploited—and people are still reading novels and they’re still being written.

      Dorinda liked to lecture him.  She was enrolled in an MFA program and her head swarmed with literary information crying to be expressed.  She wrote poetry, not fiction.

      The novel isn’t dead, she continued, and neither is foodie literature.  It’s just waiting for a new expression.  That’s what you’ve got to do, Holden—give it a new expression.

      He said he would take her out for a meal tonight.

      Holden worked in a kitchen though he had not attained the status of chef.  He hoped he might eventually apprentice under Claudia or even August, the two chefs where he worked.  Hazy dreams of owning his own restaurant or of being a TV chef featured in the back of his mind.  He tried to keep his focus on realities, not dreams, work hard, and prove himself to the two capable masters at Oyster House.  He loved to cook.  Being on staff at the restaurant, he had learned how a kitchen in a large eating establishment functioned—and the Oyster House had a reputation for excellent food and wanted to keep the name they had earned in the fifteen years they had operated.  Holden perfected his skills and looked for the day when he would be asked to train as one of their chefs.

      As he walked home, he thought about his love, not for Dorinda, with whom he had a spotty off-on relationship, but for food and preparing it.  He had learned how cooking involved recognizing textures and evaluating surfaces.  It entailed the ability to look at a dish and know it was properly prepared.  It involved understanding how finely or coarsely to chop vegetables and what proper chopping looked like.  To be a successful cook you had to judge the appearance of things as they cooked.  It was visual, not cerebral.  You did not merely think about ingredients.  You watched the ingredients change in pans or on spits.  Like an ancient alchemist, you were conversant in the sorcery of transformation.

      Though it was not magic, at least not in the way the word was usually used, it might be sorcery.

      Holden lived in a brownstone at the intersection of Eastern and Cherry Streets.  A lot of hipsters lived there.  He didn’t like the term and did not put himself in that category but knew most people would place him in that particular demographic pigeonhole.  He was young, did not own a car, dressed in style, and, despite his vocation, read poetry and philosophy.  The place he lived in abounded in people like him.  Steve, who worked in web design, lived across the hall from him.  Miranda and her husband, John, both in local TV, had just moved into the third apartment in his hall.  Greg, a poet—he knew nothing else about Greg—lived next to him.  Down the hall lived Rosie and Edesia. 

      He had only spoken once with Edesia, and that was last week when she came up to him as he sat on the porch of their apartment and enjoyed the breeze.

      I’m Edesia, she said.  He was curious about her.  She and her roommate seemed a little reclusive and even secretive in their behavior.

      Holden.

      He wondered if she would deliver the quip he had heard too many times, Holden Caulfield, the Catcher in the Rye? She did not say this and, as far as he could read her gaze, the thought did not enter her mind.  He asked if she had lived in Grand Rapids very long.

      Not long—a few months.

      Did you come here for a job?

      I got a job teaching Latin at Grand Valley.  They have a classics program.

      Where did you go to school?

      University of Rome.

      Wow.  I’m impressed.  Do you speak Italian?

      My family is Italian though I’ve lived in the States a long time.  We spoke Italian at home.  Rome is a good place to learn Latin.

      I guess it would be.

      You?

      He laughed.  I’m not in such a respectable line of work as you are.  I cook at a restaurant.

      An odd look came into her eyes.  He could not quite read it.

      I think that is a very respectable line of work.  Which restaurant?

      The Oyster House.

      That’s one of my favorite places.  I’ve probably eaten some of the food you cooked.  Rosie, my roommate, supplies the wine there.

      Does Rosie own a wine shop?

      She works for a distributor, but she is a wine expert, so she works mostly as a consultant.  She looks at menus and suggests vintages that might go with the food.  She’s very good at what she does.

      Did she train somewhere?

      No.  She just knows a lot about wine.

      They passed a pleasant hour chatting.  Holden found women who incessantly exuded cheerfulness annoying, but Edesia’s amiability seemed natural and real.

      How did you get to know Rosie? he asked.

      She shrugged and smiled. 

      Holden had not seen her since then.  She left every morning at six a.m. and came back late.  Rosie, her roommate, kept more erratic hours.

      He read, relaxed, wondered if he would get lucky with Dorinda before she left for her residency at the University of Colorado and got ready for work. 

      Holden saw Rosie at the Oyster House a few days later.  He had glimpsed her once or twice coming out of the complex or walking with Edesia.  She wore her blonde hair short, had brown eyes and a face similar to her roommates—long, straight nose, wide mouth, square shape.  She was tall and athletic-looking.  The moment that impressed Holden and changed his viewpoint came when he saw her flirting around with James Pulumbo, a restaurateur friendly with Penny Comstock, who owned the Olive House.

      He had taken a break and caught sight of Rosie laughing with James.  Holden stared when James came up behind Rosie, put his arms around her, and nuzzled her.  She closed her eyes in pleasure and let him run his lips over her neck and jaw; he looked like he wanted to kiss her and she looked like she would have let him, but they heard someone come through the kitchen door and broke off their embrace.  Holden went back inside to cook.

      Dorinda called him up.  After he had shut off his phone, he smiled.  He had got very lucky.  She wanted to stay with him before she left for Colorado.  Dorinda lived with her parents and could not invite him over.  He said he would be more than happy to have her as a guest.

      That night he ran into Edesia and in the course of their conversation, told her he had seen Rosie and James.

      She has a date with him this weekend, Edesia said.  Rosie goes through boyfriends like she goes through wine.  Like her bottles, they end up in the scrapheap.  She’s very particular about her men.

      He went into his apartment remembering how she had shown the most enthusiasm and interest when he said he was a cook.  Maybe she was a foodie.  Maybe he should tell about the project he had in mind.

      The weekend with Dorinda turned out good. He had adopted the terms good and regular (not good and bad) to describe the intimate times with her.  Dorinda could be moody.  He never knew what her disposition would be.  Unlike other times when she seemed to brood or fuss rather than enjoy intimacy with him, the weekend unfolded a menu of sensual delights.  Wanting air, light, and food after a prolonged stay in the darkened bedroom, they found a table outside of Brewery Vivant and saw Rosie and Edesia.

      They were walking with arms interlaced.  The two of them stopped at Holden and Dorinda’s table.  When Holden introduced Dorinda to Rosie, she was delighted at her name.

      It means ‘from the Dorian tribe,’ Rosie said.  Very pretty.  Holden noted she seemed a little drunk.  He invited the two of them to sit down.  Dorinda didn’t quite know what to think of the two women or of the fact that they were Holden’s friends.  The conversation drifted here and there until they struck on the topic of Holden’s unwritten book.  Edesia seemed interested.

      A book on food.  What, in particular, would you write about?

      I’m not sure, Holden answered.  Then a laugh burst from his throat.  Maybe that’s why it isn’t written and might not ever be.

      If you could write one thing in relation to food, what would it be?

      Realizing the group had their eyes on him and expected a response, he answered.

      I read a book called Eat My Globe.  It was by a Bengali Brit—

      Simon Majumdar.  I’ve read it, Edesia put in.

      You’ve read it?

      I read a lot of books about food.  Please continue.

      Well, he said, feeling nervous with six eyes on him.  I’d like to do something like Majumdar does.  He went around the world sampling foods.  Only I’d like to do that locally.  I have a scheme to eat at the fifty-two top restaurants here in town, one a week and write about that.  But not just about food. He stopped a moment to gather this thought because he had warmed to his subject.  Not just the food, he went on.  I’d write about the building where the restaurant is housed, its history—some eating places here go back to the 1800’s.  I’d profile the owners, the chefs of course, then the food.  And I’d take along—he stopped.

      Take what along?

      He had gone too far too fast, but the way Edesia was looking at him he knew he had to finish what he meant to say.

      Take along friends—companions.  That term originally meant ‘one who shares your bread.’ Every restaurant I ate in I would take a companion.  I want to call them ‘breadies.’

      A girlish, slightly malicious laugh burst from Dorinda.  Edesia, though, gave him a look of appreciation and grace.

      Holden, that is marvelous.  It’s beautiful.  As a Latin instructor, I can tell you that ‘breadie’ is a perfect translation of companion.  I’ve seen it translated ‘bread fellow’ or even ‘messmate,’ but ‘breadie’ captures the true idea of the term.  The diminutive ending implies intimacy.  It’s sort of like ‘roomie,’ which is much more familiar and loving than ‘roommate.’ Your expression of the concept is altogether poetic.

      Edesia’s paean to Holden’s use of language silenced Dorinda.  As a poet, she reacted to anyone praising language.  She asked if Edesia was working on a degree.  She responded with more detailed information on her education:  undergraduate at the University of Bologna; Masters at the University of Cagliari—Small, and a little obscure, she said, but a very good school—and a Doctorate in Literature degree at the university of Rome—the equivalent of a Ph.D.  I had to take a few classes here in the States to be able to call myself a Ph.D., she said, but they were worth the time.  Did you say you were working on a degree?

      Dorinda explained what a Master of Fine Arts was.  Edesia listened attentively.  Again, her demeanor communicated grace.  Dorinda seemed embarrassed.  Holden knew her well enough to see she had been shamed by her sarcastic attitude toward Edesia and because the degree she was working on seemed lightweight in comparison to Edesia’s academic vita.

      What’s preventing you from writing your book, Holden? Edesia asked.

      Time and money.  I work a lot of hours at the Oyster House.  And I would feel obligated to pay for everyone’s meal if I took them along with me.  That would get expensive.

      They drank Brewery Vivant’s Belgian IPA.  Rosie said she did not like beer and ordered wine.  Alcohol relaxed them and loosened their tongues.  When Rosie and Edesia left, Dorinda commented on how nice they were and said their visit had not seemed like an intrusion.

      Is Rosie an alcoholic? she asked.  She drank almost two bottles of wine.

      I don’t know.

      Are they a couple?

      Edesia said she dates guys.  I saw Rosie smooching around with Jim, the guy who runs Petroni’s.

      Just ‘roomies,’ eh? The way she intoned the word indicated she now felt some annoyance over their previous conversation about Holden’s unrealized book and his references to ‘breadies.’

      They went back to Holden’s place.  Edesia was nowhere to be seen.  Rosie sat on the porch and was drinking herself into a stupor.  Holden and Dorinda went outside around two a.m.  after a round of sexual gymnastics.  Rosie was still there, but when she spoke to them she seemed completely sober.

      In ancient days, people drank a lot of wine, she said.  At the banquets in Rome the revelers drained amphora after amphora.  It was marvelous.

      Wine consumption is way up in America, Dorinda offered.

      That’s encouraging—not to say good for my business.  Nothing like classical times, though.

      Wasn’t wine weaker back then?

      People who didn’t have a lot of money watered it, but the real stuff was very strong.  Chian wine from Ariusium was the best.  There was nothing like Setinum, though.

      Setinum?

      It was a wine made from grapes grown in central Italy.  Most of the high-class people liked Falerian.  I always thought Setinum was better; Alban too.

      Can you still get it?

      You can get modern versions of all of them.  The Setinum of today is nothing like the ancient version of it.  Nero built a canal where most of the grapes used in that type of wine grew.  When that happened, it was pretty much the end of the vintage.  They still have wineries in Setinum, but what they produce is nothing like the original.

      You seem to know a lot about ancient vintages, Dorinda observed.

      It’s my calling to know about wine, Rosie answered.  And to drink it.

      Holden and Dorinda went back to bed.  She must have Asperger’s Syndrome, Dorinda said.  That’s a mild form of autism where you get obsessively focused on some piece of trivia.  She’s fixated on ancient wine.

      It’s her occupation.  She should know a lot about wine.

      She seems to think she really lived back then.

      He and Dorinda had breakfast with her family.  She had rebelled against their religious strictures and they were visibly displeased that she had spent the weekend in Holden’s bed.  The parting crackled with tension.  He drove her to the airport and saw her off on her flight to Colorado.

      He returned and got ready for work.

      After a night boning chickens, making stock and rolling pasta, he found a note slipped under his door.  The calligraphy-like writing invited him to a soiree at Edesia and Rosie’s apartment the next afternoon.  He saw Rosie at her usual practice of getting looped on the front porch of the complex and told her he would be there.  He was working the day shift at the Oyster House and could attend.

      Holden spent more money than he should have on a nice bottle of wine, dressed up and tapped on the door to the apartment across the hall.

      Rosie let him in.  The place was the largest in the brownstone (he had looked at it when the manager showed him around but thought it too large for one person).  As he stepped in, he noticed the two women had their own bedrooms.  He saw a table in the living room but no chairs around it.  Several benches lay stacked in one corner.  Paintings hung on the walls, mostly landscapes and still-life paintings of fruit or animals, a lion, and a white horse.  A shelf by the door bulged with volumes.  Many of the books were in Latin.  Someone, Edesia no doubt, had a set of Loeb classics, both Greek, and Roman.  The bottom shelf bent under the weight of several large cookbooks.  Edesia came out of the kitchen.  Hair braided elaborately, sandals on her feet, she wore a sleeveless white dress that fell to her ankles.  She smiled and, to his surprise, kissed him lightly on the lips.

      Salve, she said.  Holden looked puzzled.  Latin—‘I greet you’—literally, ‘I salute you.’

      Thank you.  I’m happy to be here.

      Sorry, I didn’t give you a proper welcome.  When I cook, I get absorbed.  The doorbell rang.  Some of my other guests are here.  She let in a man who looked to be in his sixties and a black woman with spirals of coifed hair, both colleagues from her work.  The man taught Latin and Greek, the woman literature.  Rosie came in and poured wine

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