Venus sits on the end of my bed. Her flaxen hair cascades in ripples over her shoulder. It’s long enough to cover half of the room. The sound of Schwanenlied on piano and the smell of roses permeate the air. Her seafoam velvet dress is sometimes replaced by a stormy blue chiffon or an aqua silk charmeuse.
Each morning, she hands me a large conch shell. “Tell me a love story. Speak it into the shell so when mortals cup it to their ears the story will carry them away.”
I pull the covers over my head. “Love is dead.”
“All things are reborn through love.” She pulls the covers back so she can see my face again.
“I have nothing to write.” I speak too loudly.
Her soft blue eyes turn gray. Their ferocity tells me she has the power to destroy and she’s growing impatient with my resistance. She begins filling my head with ideas. I try to block her.
“Is this about what’s his name?” Venus’ deep red lips form into a mischievous smile. “Want me to send Cupid after him? Make him suffer?”
“It wouldn’t make a difference,” I tell her.
She bounces on the bed, causing it to undulate like waves. “Come on. You tell the most amazing love stories.”
“You say that to every writer.” I pick up the conch shell and run my hand along the surface.
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” She shrugs.
“I’m tired of telling other people’s love stories. Where’s my love story?”
“Love is everywhere,” Venus says.
I sigh. “Fine. What do you want to hear?”
“Tell me the one about the woman who said love is dead and then death seduced her and took her to the shadows.”
“The prince came to rescue her. He took her back to the castle and she became a princess. Then he demanded that she produce an heir so he could be king and have power over everything. After she had babies, he lost interest in her. He kicked her out of the castle and found a new queen.”
“No,” Venus says. “That’s not the one.”
“Maybe the one where she decides she doesn’t want to have babies, so she rebuffs the prince, finds her own way out of the shadows, but then no one loves her because a woman without a prince or heirs is invisible and so she lives alone outside the walls of the castle and then she gets burned as a witch.”
“Come on,” Venus says. “That’s not even a love story.”
“I can’t do it.” I look away from her.
Venus leans over me. A warm, amber light envelopes us. Her face is close to mine and for a moment I think she will kiss me. She is beautiful and terrifying. She moves her mouth to my ear and whispers, “Write me a love story.”
The smell of roses becomes so intense that I choke. I know what she’s doing. She wants to break me open. I resist. I don’t think I can survive being broken. Again.
“OK,” I say finally. “Maybe she walks through the shadows and finds other people who need help until they build a beautiful community and people fall in love and they all live happily ever after.”
“Hmmm.” She narrows her eyes. “I can tell you’re being sarcastic, but you’re moving in the right direction.”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“You said love is dead. Start with some zombies or make it a ghost story.”
An idea takes shape. I sit up and begin writing an undead love story.
Venus recedes into the daylight. She continues to appear early every morning to see that I’m doing the work. In spite of my resistance, the words flow from my fingertips as though Venus herself is typing them.
When I finish the story, she finds me sitting in the dark, hungry because there’s no time to prepare food or eat. My clothes don’t match and my hair is wild because there is no time to concern myself with appearances. Everything goes into meeting her demands.
She regards me with a side-eye, then puts the conch to her ear.
“Ooh, this is getting good.” Her expression softens as she listens. She sighs when she gets to the part where the lovers meet. She gasps in fright when they encounter death. She moans when they finally kiss. She smiles at me when she gets to the end. “There it is.” She points at the shell. “They fell in love.” She crosses her arms and stands up. “You said you couldn’t write it.”
I stare back at her. I’m too worn out to speak.
She waves me away. “Now go fix yourself up. You’ll have to start on the next one soon.” She recedes into the gloaming, carrying the shell.
I rest, eat, and enjoy the sun and flowers of late spring emerging in the garden. Later, I go out into the cold night air, waiting for her to appear again. I haven’t seen her for a few days. I know it’s only temporary. Venus will return, this time in the evening. She’ll keep me awake, her gravity pulling at the tides of my imagination, demanding stories all night long.
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Jessica Trujillo grew up in the Puget Sound region of Washington State. She has a Bachelor of Science degree in Psychology and explores the inner lives of fictional characters through a lens of Jungian archetypes. When she isn’t writing her novel and otherwise living life, she facilitates a reading group for fiction writers. You can find her on Instagram @writersroomtacoma.
© 2025, Jessica Trujillo
Halfway Down the Stairs 