Free Love or Fate by Clea Hantman Page B

up. It’s just that I think we can make the best of this.”
    “What do you mean?” asked Era.
    “I believe if we focus on the good from our lives, remembering fun and joy and love and laughter, it will make this unbearable reality a little less cold.”
    “What do you mean, focus?” I asked. “How do we focus?”
    “Well…” Polly thought for a moment. “I think we should take turns telling a story about something that happened to us back home. Even if we think we’ve told it before.”
    “Like the story about how I summoned Cupid to help me win the attentions of Percival?” asked Era, excited by the prospect of retelling a tale she’s told a thousand times, about when she wore the mostbeautiful silk gown and kissed one of the handsomest gods in all of Olympus.
    “Exactly,” said Polly.
    “And I know, when we’re tired of telling stories,” I suggested, “we can sing! That might drive the Furies crazy!”
    “Yes, yes, we can sing,” said Polly. “But we mustn’t think about what will make the Furies mad or glad or any such thing. We should do it strictly for ourselves. For each other. And one day, if we get out of here…”
    “If,” I said sadly.
    “No, one day, when we get out of here,” said Polly, “we will be that much more thankful for our wonderful lives and for each other. What do you say?”
    “Yes!” cried Era and I.
    “Now, let’s take a look at this scroll they left us.” Polly picked it up and started to read it. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s a list of thirty-two thousand, three hundred and twenty chores. But hey, that’s fine—it’s not a list of thirty-two thousand, three hundred and twenty- one chores, and that’s a good thing!”
    I tried to be as upbeat as Polly, but that was too much. She seemed to sense this as she moved on to read the list, a little less perkily.
    “Okay, let’s see what it says. ‘Chore number one,’” and then her smile faded.
    “What does it say?” asked Era.
    “Is it really that bad?” I asked, knowing full well it probably was.
    Polly just winced and read on, “‘Chore number one: clean up dead squished toad.’”

FOURTEEN
    A pollo went back in the direction from which he had come, in search of a Secret Society Witch Tart. Only problem was, he didn’t know what they looked like. Nor did he know where exactly to find one.
    Before coming to the lair of the horrible, squawking creatures he had met before, he made a sharp left into a new hall. Down a new corridor he ran, this one well lit, until he happened upon a very large earthworm. Very large. The earthworm was over five feet long and at least two feet wide. It was wearing a top hat. He had no idea why or how a giant earthworm would have ended up here in Hades, but there was no time to think about that.
    “Excuse me, sir,” said Apollo.
    “That would be ma’am,” said the earthworm angrily.
    “Oh, excuse me, it’s just, well, the hat and all,” said Apollo awkwardly.
    “You have some nerve commenting on my hat. Have you taken a look at your ridiculous outfit?”
    “Yes, I know, I am wearing a rather odd outfit for Tartarus, but believe me, back on earth, well, in the future, in the United States, well, Georgia, in this one high school, this football uniform is a very respectable choice of clothing.”
    The earthworm made a “hmpf” noise and started to slither away.
    “Wait, I need to ask you something.”
    “What is it? I haven’t got all day,” said the worm impatiently, still slinking down the hallway. Apollo followed her.
    “Do you happen to know where I can find a Secret Society Witch Tart?”
    The earthworm gasped. “No, that’s secret.” She continued to move away from Apollo as fast as she could. Which wasn’t all that fast—earthworms aren’t known for their speed.
    “Look, it’s tremendously important. I’m a god, a very important god. Maybe you’ve heard of me—Apollo is the name.”
    “Of course I have heard of Apollo, and such a god would not