Aphrodite-A Novella

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
One week in a snowy December long ago, she came into his life and went, like the sea-foam itself. Some called her magical. Others called her insane. And he still doesn't know who she was. A journey to find out about the woman he never really knew enough to love, and in turn find more about himself. What is truth? What is love? And who really was the girl who called herself Aphrodite?
"Truth is just a strange sort of fiction; unyielding in its cruelty and its evasiveness, and yet so translucent and open in all its dealings. Now, I understand that truth is an extremely subjective matter. I now consider myself a man of fiction, which is the only reliable thing in the world."

Submitted: May 13, 2011

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Submitted: May 13, 2011

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~~Aphrodite~~~

I still don’t know who she was.

Ironic, really, seeing as how involved I had been in her life, I still didn’t know who she was. No address, no family. Friends and coworkers were as numerous as the days I spent with her, which, contrary to what you may think, were not as much as they should have been.

Seven days was all I knew her for. One-hundred and sixty-eight hours. Ten-thousand and eighty seconds. Countless breaths. Thousands of tears. Smiles, too- dozens of them. It feels like I spent a life-time with her in those seven days, so short and fleeting, and yet so interminably long. I hardly know a thing about who she really was underneath all those lies; those wondrous, beautiful lies that made her laugh her tingling, bell-like laugh.

It isn’t as if I knew nothing; perhaps my point is that I am still unsure as to what is true and what is not. Truth is just a strange sort of fiction; unyielding in its cruelty and its evasiveness, and yet so translucent and open in all its dealings. Now, I understand that truth is an extremely subjective matter. I now consider myself a man of fiction, which is the only reliable thing in the world.

Her favorite color was blue, and she liked flowers. All of them, except for roses. She couldn’t stand those. Tchaikovsky made her laugh, and Mozart made her cry, and she never explained it at all.

She was a free spirit, a pure soul unlike any other I’ve met before. A one-of-a-kind. In her time on Earth, we tried to change her. We all did. I did. And it’s taken me this long to realize the mistake I made. She taught me things, such priceless lessons, that I will never be able to tell of. The English language, which has a word for everything, cannot describe the lessons she gave to me. Of course, that is to be expected. There isn’t a word to describe her, either. Many have tried to label her, but all have failed. She is one of those people you can’t slap a word on to summarize their whole being. She was special.

I know that for a fact. That’s one of three things I know of her to be exactly true. Secondly, I know that she died two years ago today. December.

Most of all however, above all else, this I know to be true:

She called herself Aphrodite.


© Copyright 2018 Anne Shepard. All rights reserved.

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