telling the same old story

I must learn to update here more often.

I'm reading Weight by Jeanette Winterson right now. It's a re-telling of the myth of Atlas and Heracles and I'm definitely enjoying it more than Margaret Atwood's The Penolopiad, as much as I like Odysseus and Penelope.

As I've mentioned elsewhere, it's one of those things that worries me; all these ideas that we think are original - re-telling mythologies in a modern light - are never original, are they? Roswitha has written some stunning stuff which can be found on her blog - Intended, for one, and All These Things That I've Done, for another.

Personally, I quite enjoy rewriting stories from myths but has it all been done before? I like to think: not quite like this.

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title: bonfire of the vanities

rating: pg

prompt: you hurt the one you love, 750 words.

summary: a modern-day retelling of the death of dido of carthage, with apologies to virgil, yo.





Dido leans against the doorframe and watches Aeneas pack. He looks at the gun holster at her hip, knows that the royal crest is engraved on the barrel and on every bullet and wonders if he should ever turn his back on this woman.



“Sweetheart,” he begins before faltering. It is difficult to address a face that looks to be graven in alabaster; he has never been good at praying to statues, even though he has been carting two of the blasted things across the globe. He hopes to sell them, unfriendly household gods. If they had been made of gold, he would already have melted them down. His father tells him that he is just jealous that they have taken better to exile than Aeneas.



“Darling,” he tries again. “You know that I love you but I have to go.”



She arches an eyebrow but makes no comment. He ignores the tears that roll down her cheeks because she ignores them. Two days ago, he would have held her and she would have allowed it. He could have licked the salt drops. He could have turned his back to her in bed and known that she would not put a bullet in his spine to stop him from leaving.



“It’s Mercury. You know I have to go when and where he tells me.” Aeneas, lapdog of the gods, speaks again and Dido looks away.



A servant comes in to inform Aeneas that the plane is ready for departure whenever he is. Aeneas picks up his bag and looks around the room to ensure that he has left nothing behind. It is the instinct of the traveller who has spent countless nights in motels and never leaves a forwarding address.



He has not even left the room before the men come in to strip it of its trappings, anything and everything Aeneas might have touched. If he did not have such a strong grip on his bag, he thinks they might take it from him. Within minutes, the room is bare and Dido still watches him.



She did not scream and shout as he thought she might. She did not even mention the pre-nuptial agreement that was never signed. Aeneas expects divorce papers sometime in the future. He may not know his precise destination but that would hardly deter Dido. It could be fought, of course, and the marriage nullified; Aeneas believes that there is enough evidence to say that it was not legally-binding.



The flaw, and there is always a flaw, is that Aeneas thinks that he did love her. Upon Mercury’s arrival, however, Aeneas’ enthusiasm for marriage died a quick and painful death; Mercury has that effect on many people, Aeneas suspects. He also suspects Mercury of being high on amphetamines for most of his waking life; he is certain the most highly-strung individual of Aeneas’ acquaintance although his sister-in-law must come a close second.



He is driven to the airstrip in a limo stripped of royal markings. Aeneas is surprised that the security guards did not stop him. He had Misenus check that there were no explosives attached to the ignition although he supposes that Dido’s chauffeur might still drive him down a quiet country lane and slit his throat.



They see the fire shortly after take-off. Billows of black smoke rise from the palace courtyard and the pilot has to bank the plan sharply to the left. Aeneas’ hand is wrapped around a large glass of whiskey and he is cursing Mercury and Jupiter under his breath.



“She is burning everything I ever touched,” he says.



“Vanity, vanity,” says Iapyx. The good doctor does not even look up from his book which is some trashy whodunit. Everyone knows that Iapyx will skip to the last page to find out how it ends.



When they land, every television in the airport is tuned to footage of Dido’s dramatic suicide. “… reporting from Carthage … tragedy strikes … first husband … second husband … shot herself … burned alive …”






Many years pass, full of histories and myths about twin boys brought up by a wolf or a prostitute, about fratricide and aqueducts and centurions and Kings of England, before Aeneas meets Dido again, in a strange bar in a strange country. He raises his glass to her and she turns away and walks, one high-heeled foot in front of the other, towards the other man.


Aeneas may be dead now but that still smarts like a bitch.