The Foot’s Revenge
With his usual sort of wobbling grace, Cupid drifted through the soft afternoon clouds. Sunlight gleamed on his wings while he tried to juggle his bow, a handful of arrows, and a half-eaten honey muffin. It was not his finest display of coordination.
He tipped forward, then sideways, then backward. His quiver clattered. His bow slipped from his fingers. His arrows swirled like startled dragonflies. In a scramble to catch them, Cupid lunged toward his bow. The string snapped upward. A single enchanted arrow shot straight back at him, glinting in the soft light, and buried itself in the top of his left foot.
Cupid wailed. He hopped. He clutched his foot. Then he blinked in confusion as a sudden warmth pulsed through him. His mouth stretched into a foolish grin.
He had fallen in love. Deep, powerful, magical love.
With his own foot. He cupped it in his hands with awe.
“Oh, look at you,” he whispered. “Your arch is magnificent. Your toes are perfect. That wiggle could charm the stars.”
His right foot stamped in annoyance. Cupid did not notice. He was too busy stroking the top of his left foot in admiration. He even tried to offer it a bite of his honey muffin.
By sunset he had placed his beloved foot atop a tiny silk cushion stolen from a passing cloud palace. He polished its nails. He decorated each toe with sparkling dust plucked from the trailing tail of a comet.
His right foot began to pout. It huffed and started stomping at the clouds. The huffs grew louder with every minute and the sulky thumps echoed in the mist.
“Do not look at me like that,” Cupid murmured to the neglected foot. “You will always be important too... I think.” His gaze drifted back to the left foot. “But have you ever seen such beauty?”
As night settled across the heavens, something peculiar happened. The enchanted left foot twitched, then wiggled, then flexed all five toes with startling energy. Cupid leaned closer, entranced.
“It’s about time you paid attention to me,” the foot said, clearly irritated.
“I’ve been stepped on for centuries. I’ve been slammed into table legs, scraped against rocks, and jammed into sandals that smell like forgotten cheese. And what thanks do I get? None.”
Cupid stared with unfocused adoration. “You are perfect when you are angry. Truly stunning.”
“Do not try to sweet talk me. I want justice.” The foot’s tone deepened. “You owe me centuries of appreciation.”
Cupid gulped. “I do appreciate you. I appreciate every nail, every crease, every delightful wrinkle.”
“Then prove it,” the foot demanded. “You will pamper me. You will rest me upon feather pillows. You will provide daily pedicures and bath me with lavender oil from Olympus.”
Cupid nodded vigorously. He could not resist. He gathered an armful of cushions and arranged them in a throne shaped mound. He lifted his enchanted foot with careful reverence and placed it upon its new kingdom of softness. Later that day he flew from cloud to cloud in search of lavender oil.
By morning, Cupid was exhausted. His arms ached from carrying bottles of oil back from Olympus. His wings sagged. Yet the foot wanted more.
“I have decided on my next goal,” said the pampered foot. “ I will take your job.”
Cupid dropped the bowl in shock. “My job? But I am the god of love.”
“Not for long. I am better suited for the role. I know the feeling of being overlooked. I understand longing and pain. These things shape a true master of romance.”
Before Cupid could stop it, his foot reached with surprising agility. Its toes curled around his bow. It snatched an arrow from the ground. Still perched on its pillow throne, it fired into the winds.
Cupid gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Introducing the world to a new era. A glorious age of long overdue admiration.” The foot shot another arrow. And another. And another. The clouds rustled as the arrows found their targets across the world below. Cupid was horrified.
In a distant bakery, a group of bakers suddenly swooned over the crusty heels of their freshly baked bread. They cradled loaves with teary devotion. In a glittering throne room, a king tossed aside his royal duties to polish his slippers with obsessive focus. In classrooms across the world, teachers abandoned arithmetic and history to compose poetry about socks. Students could only watch with amusement as their teachers recited odes to cotton fibers.
Cupid covered his face with his hands. The chaos spread faster than a spilled jar of stardust. “This must stop.” He wanted to snatch the bow from his foot, but the enchanted arrow still fluttered in his heart. He could not bring himself to fight the object of his affection.
His right foot, forgotten and insulted, finally spoke up. “I cannot believe this. You listen to that spoiled heel and ignore me? We used to be a team. Remove the arrow now. Do it before that tyrant covers the world with its misplaced notions.”
Cupid trembled. “I cannot hurt the foot I love.”
“Pull yourself together. You cannot spend eternity giving in to the demands of your own demented foot.”
Cupid hesitated. His left foot fired another enchanted arrow into the sky. A distant chorus of people praising shoelaces drifted up through the clouds. He finally realized his right foot was correct.
He took a deep breath. He braced himself. He tightened his muscles. Then, using his right foot and the most dramatic twist he had ever performed, Cupid kicked himself squarely in the left ankle.
The enchanted arrow ripped free. It clattered across the cloud with a soft metallic ring. The dreamy fog lifted from his mind. His beloved foot gasped once, then fell silent.
Cupid stumbled backward. The world below steadied itself. Bakers returned to their ovens. Kings remembered their duties. Teachers snapped back to their lessons with only mild embarrassment.
Cupid stared at his feet, both of them now quiet and unmoving.
The enchanted foot no longer spoke. It did not demand cushions or oil or silk socks. It wiggled only with ordinary life, no different from any other foot. Cupid felt an unexpected tug of sadness. Then he sighed with relief.
He knelt on the soft cloud surface and placed a hand on each foot. “I am sorry I took you for granted. Both of you. You have carried me through everything. From this day forward, I promise to take better care of you.”
His feet remained silent, but he sensed a quiet acceptance. He spoke a respectful thank you to each foot. It felt like the right gesture.
Peace had returned to the clouds. Cupid knew that there would always be people who would love the heels of baked bread even without the magic of his arrows. But no kingdoms were obsessing over slippers, teachers were no longer spending all their time writing odes to socks, and shoelaces were no longer being praised.
Cupid wiggled his toes goodnight and decided that any foot capable of starting world chaos probably deserved an extra cozy sock. And although his feet never spoke again, Cupid sensed a gentle contentment as he drifted into sleep.
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Clyde Verhine ~ February 2025
