Requiem for a Satellite of Zeus

"You gonna kill her? What the Hell for?"

"Nah, there's no need. She'll die on her own."

"You have a strange way of falling out of love."

"Don't I, though?"

The wink seems flippant, but it's hiding a sadness even he can't fully comprehend.

***

Aoede's voice is silent. Unable to sing, she instead writes her concerns on a tablet. It is a depressing lyric, one that springs her mother into action.

How dare this fool try to forget her daughter. Especially after having used her so. A Muse scorned might be something mortals can survive. Her mother is another matter entirely. She is Mnemosyne. This will be too easy.

***

"What are you writing?"

"A story about a falling star."

"Can I see it?"

"Sure."

His friend reads the genesis of the tale, surprised at the description of the woman.

"I thought you were letting her go."

"What? What do you mean?" He grabs his story from his friend and scans the words quickly, coming to the character of the woman. It is her. Described to her finest points. In spite of his intent.

***

Aoede goes about her business, unaware of her own influence in the world of men. Her mother smiles at her, wondering how such a beautiful creature can think she walks about unnoticed. There's a touch of melancholy to the thought, but also an enormous sense of pride. Aoede is not one to settle, even for a fickle poet who once wrote volumes of his lust for her. And, Mnemosyne almost giggles, will again. And forever.

***

"What's wrong?"

"I need to get over her. But I can't. Why the fuck can't I?"

"Muses are rather tricky like that. Should've kept your intentions private."

"How could I? She's beautiful."

"Shouldn't have told her mother, at least."

He needs to write, but is afraid to. Memories, ideas, and impressions of her will threaten to permeate every single letter he puts to paper. Regardless, he writes.

***

Aoede asks her mother what Mnemosyne is laughing at. With a twinkle in her eye, Mnemosyne convinces her daughter that it's unimportant, though both know that's a lie.

Every word written by this fool gives Mnemosyne another perspective with which to interpret her daughter. Another color. Another shadow. It is quite wonderful to know there are those out there who might love Aoede as much as her mother does. Even if they are scarred by that love.

***

He can't forget her. She's everywhere. In heroes, villains, lovers, nobles, peasants, soldiers, slaves. Try as he might, the Muse never fails to find herself in his pages.

His friend was right. He should not have told her mother. For she is Mnemosyne. The Titaness. The mother of the Muses. Memory personified. Any who scorn her shall always remember. And always regret.

Apollyta and Arteseus, Part I

They are our great heroes. Perseus, Bellerophon, Heracles, Jason, Theseus, Achilles, and Odysseus. Men who were also gods, born of the great curse of divine intervention. Or men who should have been. Their tales only survive for us to tell because of survivors. But theirs are not the greatest feats of heroism. None saved the entire world. None prevented a new war between god and titan. None were as worthy as some whose names failed to be repeated and passed on.

It is two of these names I wish to speak of. Children of gods, one unlikely so. They and their party never returned from their great undertaking, and their souls consigned to a segregated valley in the underworld. Hades, in an act of uncanny benevolence, ensures that they continue to exist in peace. Though the lord of the underworld also ensure that their memory continues to exist in silence.

With great fear and care do I record the events of Apollyta and Arteseus. The greatest heroes Greece has never known. I have seen them here, only once. Having heard their tale from Chrysaor, the forgotten brother of Pegasus, I bribed Charon with drachma I smuggled into the afterlife to sail me past their abode, beyond even the rivers of Cocytus and Lethe. Only by sheer serendipity did I encounter Persephone during my escape from the wrath of Hades. The arrogance of man still lives inside me, and I wish it did not. Breaking the laws of the underworld cannot be recommended, especially of one in my situation... but that is another story. Perhaps my telling of this one will grant me favor to have my own retold.

Or perhaps not.

***

"You promised me chastity, father." The goddess is angry. A broken promise from the king of gods is not something to be endured lightly. She is well aware that he may not receive her defiance with humility - he rarely does - but six promises were granted her upon his lap, and one has been shattered.

He grasps his thunderbolt, pretending to admire it as he considers smiting his daughter. She does, however, have a point. A promise was seemingly broken, and under his very reign. He knows he had nothing to do with it, but he knows not who did. Still, as king, interpretation of his word is reserved for him and him alone. And there is an interpretation that leaves that word intact.

"Are you not still chaste?" he asks, glaring at the floor of the temple. His gaze is not to the polished marble beneath his feet, but to the world beneath his sky. The world he granted to his brother upon their victory against their ancestors. Only his brother would have such gall to oppose him in this manner, but even this makes little sense to the king.

"I have given birth." She tries very hard to control her tone, but the sudden realization of her father's implication forces a fiery unevenness in her voice.

"But you have not been seduced, nor violated."

"Father, I have given birth." She is incredulous. How could he not understand?

"Your sister was birthed without companionship." He stares at the sea, recalling the tale of his grandfather's castration. It is a fine tale, and one unnecessary to dispute with the truth of the matter, particularly now. The tale is too fine an evidential rhetoric. "The promise has not been broken. Leave me."

"Father..."

He pounds the thunderbolt into the floor, silencing his daughter immediately. "You have six promises. All are kept. Leave me before I learn to become a liar."

The goddess averts her eyes from her father's gaze and slouches into an unspoken submission. She should know by now that there is little use in debating the king of gods. "May I ask a question?"

He smiles at the irony. "You may."

"What do I do with the child?"

She will not raise the boy, this much the king of gods knows. And he, the lover of man, will not allow his grandson to perish. The mystery behind his birth must still be solved. Thankfully, the timing of the birth coincides with the birth of another of his grandchildren.

"Give him to your brother. Inform him he is to place the children to be raised as siblings. Now go."

Somewhat satisfied that her predicament has been partially alleviated - though nevertheless still angry - she nods and cautiously backs out of the temple chamber.

The king of gods turns to study the map of the world he has made his home. Something is amiss. His thunderbolt flickers as if in agreement and he acknowledges its counsel. "Another war is coming." The bolt flickers again.

"Messenger!" the king calls out. In an instant, the god with winged sandals appears. "Fetch your uncles and your inept bloodthirsty brother. We have things to discuss."

*To be continued...

Gaia's Lust

They say the night is to be feared. She thinks they are all idiots. It is under the stars that the Earth feels free. She relishes her clear skies, her crisp air. And her children seem to finally admire her. Sometimes, she wishes the Sun would fade away. Then perhaps her children might sleep long enough to allow her to recover. She is an old woman, after all, though still beautiful. She is Gaia. And she misses her lover, Ouranos.

If only that blasted Apollo would go away, the intrusive bastard. She much preferred Helios. At least he respected his grandmother. That ingrate Zeus, on the other hand... what with his favorite toys and desire for control. And creating Pandora as a punishment to man. Arrogant and stupid, the god of lightning. Though ultimately responsible for her current woes, Gaia secretly relishes the fact that Pandora opened that stupid jar, for it caused Zeus as much distress as his... men... have caused her.

Oh, for the days when Chaos reigned supreme. Everything in its proper order, working as it should. How hypocritical of humanity to attribute the name of her mother/father to confusion and unpredictability. It was only within Chaos that Gaia made love to the sky.

She still longed for Ouranos. Not out of love, but pure lust. A desire incorruptible by feeble emotions such as anger or fear. Or jealously. The blanket of his body wrapped around her green and blue dress. Above her, beside her, beneath her. How he carried her while penetrating the silhouette of her body. How he never paused in caress as her body quivered beneath his overwhelming weightlessness. Oceans and floods would come and go. And her breath would be loud, violent, and often wet. She wanted him everywhere, again and again, and all the time. The extended orgasm of time and tide as life fertilized within her and sprung from her loins. Constantly pregnant, yet constantly fucking.

If only humans knew what that was like. They'd be too busy to scar her delicate skin. Perhaps, because of the scars, Ouranos no longer finds her desirable.

Gaia sighs, resigned to the fact that it's all inevitable. Apollo is not her enemy... only one diurnal species of life is. An acne on her glorious visage.

Diurnal. She sighs again. Let there be light never seemed so evil a proposition. She should beg Ouranos to send her another rock. Or trick Zeus into showing her Pandora's jar. It is rumored that Hope remains within, after all. And Gaia is very much in need of some. And is very much in want of sex.

The Heartbroken of Narcissus

Your buried past
above ground, once
when it all began
with a whimper

A pity, then
you did not think
among instinct
to write it down

I wonder, then
in all your vanity
was she your lover?
or just survival?

Did you speak?
or did you whisper?
those who care
still listen

to the echoes left among stone
left among stone

The Tenth Daughter of Memory

As most are aware, it is generally accepted that there are nine Muses in Greek Myth. Sure, there are versions in which there are only three, versions with four, and versions with seven, but let's just work off that there were nine, okay?

Anyway, by the time the various authors of the stories and legends decided to settle on one version (if that's how it happened... I'm thinking there was some bloodshed involved... it was a religion, after all), there were nine. These nine muses were, as follows:

Calliope - Muse of Epic Poetry
Clio - Muse of History
Erato - Muse of Lyrical Poetry
Euterpe - Muse of Music
Melpomene - Muse of Tragedy
Polyhymnia - Muse of Choral Poetry
Terpischore - Muse of Dance
Thalia - Muse of Comedy
Urania - Muse of Astrology

These nine goddesses were the daughters of Zeus (of whom everyone should be familiar with) and Mnemosyne, the Greek goddess of memory.

So, what does this have to with anything?

Well, it's how the name for a little blogging group I helped start came out: The Tenth Daughter of Memory.

What do we do there? We write blogs based on a common theme or topic that is picked by the "winner" of the previous theme or topic. It's fun, creates high-quality stuff, and affords bragging rights to the blogger that takes the most votes. More importantly, it helps inspire people who suffer from writer's block and (for those familiar with my rants) "lack of writer's mood."

Come try it out... if you're not afraid. There's a new topic up today.

A River in Epirus

Her kiss was sweet in a way that it has never been before. The man smiles at the woman and gently places his thumb on her chin.

"Will you miss me?" she asks.

"I always miss you."

Behind them a limousine pulls up, for the man was a wealthy man and his payrolls control much of the city. No driver exits, but the passenger door opens anyway. This shocks the woman and she peers into the compartment, but sees no shape nor movement. The man takes no notice. He smiles again and she returns it, hesitantly. He can tell that something is wrong, but she's just a throwaway, and her emotions concern him not. He enters the vehicle without so much as a wave goodbye.

The limousine pulls away and the privacy barrier lowers slowly. As the man tastes his lips, there's hint of something obscure on them, he realizes that he does not recognize the driver.

"Where's Smith?

The driver turns and winks, he looks friendly enough. "He's sick today, sir. There's something going around. How are you feeling?"

The man ignores the question, but notices his forehead burning up. He turns on the air conditioning in the compartment and shakes his head in the cool air. The driver smiles widely at him. The man hits the button to raise the barrier, but nothing happens.

"Driver," he says, "raise the barrier, if you don't mind."

"I do, actually," the driver responds, continuing to smile but returning attention to the road.

There's an attempt at rebuke, but something catches the man's throat and he loosens his tie.

"What does your wife think of your trysts, sir? She can't possibly approve."

Grunting, the man forces his voice to work. "None of your fucking business, puke. Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, sir." A mocking nod accompanies the driver's words. "But you do not know who I am."

"Whoever you are, you're an insignificant fool. I'll have your job."

"Oh, I doubt that. My job has been the same since before you were born."

A closer examination of the driver reveals the face of a man who could not be older than 35 years of age. The man takes a deep breath, noticing for the first time that he can smell whatever it is that he's been tasting.

The driver laughs. "Sure, the medium has changed, as has the mode. But I still go back and forth to the same place, carrying poor saps like you."

"Poor saps?" The man is barely able to speak. He glances in a vanity mirror: his skin is deep red and clammy.

"Yes. Many men who have crossed the river did so because of poison. You are not the first, nor will you be the last."

River? Poison? That fucking bitch! Did the harlot know he was going to leave her like he did all the rest? The man glances through watering eyes at the driver, who shakes his head as if reading the man's mind.

"Your wife left this for you."

The driver hands the man an envelope. There's something heavy inside. Through struggled breath and clenched teeth, the man opens it. It's a coin. One unlike he's ever seen.

"What is it?" asks the man.

"Just an old piece of silver," responds the driver, not turning his head.

"I see that, you fuck. What's it for?" Left arm heavies and breath continues to labor.

"Your mouth."

"What?"

"Put it in your mouth." The driver turns this time. His eyes no longer human, reminiscent of fire; smile demonic. "It's my fare."