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Stories
by Gwen E. Kirby
The women of Troy might listen. They know that Cassandra's curse is their curse as well. That Apollo spit in her mouth, but it was only spit.
Here is what she might show them.
Tampons.
Jeans.
Washing machines.
The cordless Hitachi Magic Wand.
Elastic hair ties.
Mace.
Epidurals.
And here is the best thing of all, the thing that makes Cassandra smile as the men storm her temple, exactly as she has always known they would: someday, Trojan will not be synonymous with bravery or failure, betrayal or endurance, or the most beautiful woman or the most foolish of men. A Trojan will be carried in every hopeful wallet, extracted with abashed confidence, slipped over the shaft, rolled to the base. Perhaps the Trojan men would laugh if they knew, or be humiliated, or pause to think about the indifference of history and the hubris of the man who hopes to be remembered. But the women, once they saw that blue streamer unfurl, the women would rejoice, would wave it over their heads like a new flag, like a promise of better things to come.
Excerpted from Shit Cassandra Saw by Gwen E. Kirby. Copyright © 2022 by Gwen E. Kirby. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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