Dionysus
Substack exclusive flash fiction
Content warnings: none.
The evening breeze brushed his useless eyeballs.
He swirled house white in his mouth, rubbed it against the roof of his mouth. The day hung off the edges of his lips. Prune, clean, dig… like yesterday, like tomorrow.
With his palms against the windowsill, he rolled his shoulders. Skin hissed, ready to crack. The days were still sultry, the grapes too firm for picking.
“Blindman’s Wine”, his product was called. A tourist attraction, a compassionate buy.
An asthmatic engine cough made his ears perk — Lora, finally home from the dig. Keys rattled downstairs. Tap-tap-taps up the stairs. The door creaked, a light switch clicked and her smell reached him — sweet, sweaty dust.
“Sorry I’m late. How was your day?”
“Same. Any finds?”
Her breath came close, palms landed on his shoulders. “We found it.”
“Really?”
He cupped her cheeks, thumbs tracing her face. She was smiling.
“I can’t believe it. Dionysus’s temple! Everyone went crazy — diggers, archaeologists.” Words cascaded out of her between quick, shallow breaths. “Ministers and TV crews are arriving tomorrow… oh, I wish you could see it…”
Of course, he would never see it.
“I’m sorry”, she whispered. “Come… I’ll show you!”
“No, Lora… you’re tired. Big day tomorrow!”
“Don’t be stupid!”
She grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled. His back protested, but he raised arms, the shirt slipping off.
She made him lie on his stomach and straddled him. Her weight shifted to one side; clattering came from the nightstand. Zip-zip-zip, a lighter went and a candle wick crackled, releasing the smell of melting wax.
“Let me show you.” Her weight came back square on his waist, and he heard dipping in the wax, plok-plok-plok.
“The road to the city was from the west. Cobbled, steep…”
A hot brush stroked a rib on his left. He shuddered.
“It led to the city gate up here.” More strokes, plok-plok-ploks. “The Thracians carved the city in the volcanic rock of the plateau…” The wax cooled on his back, sticking like a stamp. “They had baths, palaces, courtyards…”
His back became the plateau. On it, the Thracian city emerged. He sank into the matress.
“The temple was right here...” She drew an oval, his spine tracking its long axis. “An oval hall…” Plok-plok-plok. “Orpheus worshipped Dionysus here.”
Lora placed the candle back on the nightstand.
“The god of wine and nature, seasons and transformation. Generations worshipped Dionysus, and he brought them wine and yield.”
She slipped from his back and knelt beside him. Loose strands of hair fell on him.
“I imagine Dyonisus looked just like you. The wine god…”
Lora breathed in and blew across his back. She started at his waist. Small hairs rose under her breath — but not those under the wax. The wax clung to him, smooth and sealed. She kept blowing—slow and steadily across the drawn contours. Goosebumps bloomed in the unwaxed spaces as she breathed life into his city.
His back was the mountain. The wax was the city, at its centre — Dionysus’ temple. His goosebumps were people roaming the streets. Lora’s breath was the wind sweeping the Rhodopes, and the mountains and his city shimmered in the sun. And he could see it.
Author’s note: This story has been rejected by 23 magazines.
You really have to wonder sometimes, who these children are who hold the keys to the kingdom. Lovely, lovely story, which reminds me of Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral.”
Loved it.
The author's note felt like a slash against the skin...
This is not right that it has been rejected, this is not correct. I don't know whether this injustice will ever be corrected but your literature belongs to the bookshelves. And I mean those bookshelves that still make you feel that books hold content that's larger than you.
If I had read this story from those shelves, I would have just held it afterwards and remained silent. But this is a different space, and I know my comment might nudge this story to other readers, so that's why I'm writing it.
You managed to combine all that you so masterfully do in one story -- the plot, the idea, the deep, dreamy writing. A blind winemaker who learns about the temple of Dyonisus from the hot wax on his back. This is not even poetry, it's some kind of cosmic painting I don't even have the term for.
It's amazing, Stefan. Thank you for sharing.