The Rhythm of Immortality

Greek Gods

Aphrodite- she waits on street corners, shivering in her low dress that is falling apart at the seams. She leans her dainty, bruised hand out into the street, hoping to flag down one of many gentlemen who will keep her company for the night. She shakes and avoids looking at her reflection in the puddle of water directly below her. Sometimes her mind wanders back to when she had it all. Money, beauty, love. Surface level at least. When the looks started to fade, at least she had the money to replenish them. Now she works in the cars for measly $20 bills that will ease the shake in her hand. For the moment at least, until the sun comes around and she drops her cigarette.

Apollo- his guitar is heavy in his hands, fingers calloused with hours of playing. His small number of fans here his love songs and picture themselves as said love interest. He only longs for one, the most forbidden of fruits. The one who spends her days hunting down wrong doers. When they were younger, they all played it off as something that happened between young children. The older they became, the more separated they had to become. He plays on.

Ares- for someone who was supposed to love war, he has now come to dread it. It was never supposed to go this far, he thinks as he sees vultures circle over the young bodies that are sprinkled throughout the desert. War was supposed to be between grown men, not children who had just left their mother's embrace. He does his best, whispering into the ears of legal boys, telling them to turn back before they sign away their bodies with blood. No one else believes this. How can they, after they spent so many years watching him split his knuckles and scream for more?

Artemis- she stalks her prey as they stumble through dark alleys. Growing up hunting, she never knew that she would end up turning the gun on the ones who placed it in her hands. Hands that ravaged, and took what they wanted without asking and couldn't be bothered to say thank you after they were done. The pistol is hot in her hands, the smell of gunpowder rising up from her hair. She thinks about her brother's words crooning in her ear, swirling through her brain and it gives her strength. She tightens her grip and thinks about the irony of a predator becoming prey.

Athena- she had always been mature for her age. Coming out of the womb spouting words no one knew. This was how she picked her battles, sharpening each piece of language before carefully throwing it at its' intended target. It was her defense against the ones who mocked her, refused her attempts to join. If she built up a barricade herself, no one would dare try to enter. Cut to her shoving her sign in the air, with her careful language scrawled across a poster board. She screams and screams, and wishes someone might take the words right out her mouth.

Demeter- her greenhouse holds her hopes and dreams. The ones her daughter refused to hold in her own hands when she left for college. She left without so much of a backwards wave towards her mother. They say children are supposed to blossom into large, beautiful flowers, but Demeter sometimes wished she was still a seed that she could hold in her palm. When she receives the call that tells her that no, she will not be returning home for winter break, she walks out to her greenhouse and smashes every last plant to pieces.

Dionysus- slinging shots behind an oak bar never got old. Even if he did, he could keep up with the young kids who weren't even tall enough to reach most of the stock. That's what he tries to out off as he feels his liver shutting down, begging him to stop downing shots that burn and twist inside of him. But sometimes the demons inside twist even harder and bring glass after glass up to his lips. He laughs, he pours, he flirts, he winces, he excuses himself and vomits the dreams he once had disguised in yellow bile.

Hades- his motorcycle feels warm between his legs, but not as hot as she feels pressed against his back. He lets out a whoop of excitement as revs it harder, recklessly even. He feels her tighten his grip on him, which only eggs him on more. Mama's little girl, going from watering her windowsill plants to crying out his name and tangling up his sheets. He thinks about what it would be like to let go, crash into the barrier guarding the open road. Would he fly with wings like angel through the air? Or would he stand above her broken body, splattered with blood and be able to walk away? After all, they say he who conquers death fears nothing.

Hephaestus- his back could be considered a work of art if they framed it in gold and gave it a pretentious name. If it was beautiful, his wife might come back from the streets and stroke it tenderly. Instead, he stumbles under the weight of his own past, as it tells a story out of bumps and gnarls, cuts and burns. He lifts his tool to try and hammer in one last nail but collapses under the weight of his once beloved tool. The fire is the only thing that warms him now. Too often, he feels the chill of death trying to wrap its' slender fingers around his neck. Doctors say he has little time, and he intends to go out on his own terms. Hammer in hand, flames licking at his back.

Hera- her eyes narrow into slits as she watches her husband booze and schmooze his oil into another girl's ear. She laughs, thinking she is special, but she will just end one more notch on the bedpost, one more stain she will have to wash out. It wasn't always like this. Before the notoriety, it was just the two of them, laughing over cheap drinks and stumbling home to their apartment. Once he made a big name for himself, she was no longer enough. The girls needed to be younger, thinner, prettier. She was left behind to clean up the messes and keep the children content. Wife of the year, she thinks to herself. If only they knew.

Hermes- going back and forth between worlds is exhausting. In one, he is the perfect son, grades are well, his girl is fine, just busy is all, the job is wonderful, I know I can't believe they pay me that much either, yes, I must really go, it is getting late, and you know what they say early bird catches the worm and all, yes you guys take care, and the doors shuts blocking out the warmth and throwing him into the world of the night. Here, he delivers packages to seedy places, yes this is the cut you asked for, no I won't take twenty for that, it's worth forty, if you insist I guess I can stay for one pick me up, god that needle feels good going in, if mom and dad could see me now, they would cry and cry. But that is what alternate universes are for.

Persephone- her hair feels like silk as it sticks to her sweat covered back, as she rides into oblivion. He makes her feel alive, and crazy, and all the things that her mother warned her against. What did she know, clinging to her seeds and dirt. Her mother never realized that she needed more, that she wanted to taste death on her fingers and beg for more. And he does all of that and more, to the point where she wonders if she is even human anymore. He feeds her forbidden fruit and she laps it up, wondering if this is what hell is like. If it is, sign her up for eternity.

Poseidon- the animals are crying out as he frantically parts the waves and tries to untangle them from the plastic rings that adorn their necks. His tears are invisible underwater as he watches his ocean disintegrate before his very own eyes. Humans used to worship the large body of water, used to yearn to explore its' depths. Now they see it as their own trash can, to dump their poison in. He comes up for air, gasping. The sea doesn't taste the same anymore. He weeps and weeps.

Zeus- the women who thrash underneath him are more of an annoyance to him than anything else. He hurries up the process, and proceeds to kick her out. None of them satisfy him, no one sates his thirst. The bodies he explores every night hold nothing but emptiness once he dips deep. He sees the pain in his wife's eyes and wonders if she can see the emptiness in his. The hotshot billionaire, with the cars, and the money, and the girls, and the mansion, and the family. Of course, the family, the picture-perfect family. What would they do if they knew he shoved a pistol in his mouth every night and dared himself to pull the trigger?

--delxrxouschxld

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