Spoonfuls.

The chair has finally arrived. A little marmalade dollop on my vanilla cream room.

West of the moon.

Psyche in the air. Boreas never really minds when he winds.

Prove it.

Semele. Really the Doubting Thomas of pre-Christianity. Just another someone for whom the divine "cuz I said so" didn't quite cut it. And why would it? What percentage of Bronze Age maids came wandering out of those sacred groves actually filled with Olympian seed--and what percentage found an easy excuse embedded in their nurses' stories? For that matter, how many farmlads, old perverts, wily centaurs, rootless veterans donned the mask of a lusty Hermes or Apollo to satisfy their own needs? Clay and paste have about as much legitimacy in a darkened grott as gold leaf.

So she asked. For certainty's sake. For pride's too. To silence her whispering sisters. "Show me your true face." If he was a fraud, she'd endure the burden of shame, but also the satisfaction of watching a local lech ripped apart by horses. Or whatever. If he was the god, she'd be vindicated, and perhaps emblazoned with some unearthly signature.

So Zeus emerged unwillingly. The touch was given. The mark made. Unfortunately, it happened to be a sootspot on the palace flagstones in the vague shape of a girl. Bright reward for a skeptic's narrowed eye.

See how they run.

So our wandering story comes to a sharp end. And is consigned to a fate of spinning tall tales and refusing medication in the amputee ward.

Nada.

Rounding that corner.

There's gonna be a beatdown.

Air on the C string.

"Pack up the gouda, Mother. We're moving on up."

Dancing attendance.

Fleets in the sheets.

Great Phoebus.

Unfinished symphony.