CREATIVE MELANCHOLIA

He stepped back from his creation and allowed himself a phantasmagorical moment: fire-flash success, homecoming parades, applause, back-slaps, pretty girl hugs and you the MAN high fives.

She looked over the creation with that quizzical look, said it was nice, and asked him to remember to pick up milk on his way home from work.

They said nothing, regarding the creation, as they tossed it aside and generated their standard rejection slip.

He lugged his creation up the well worn steps to the attic, added it to his crowded menagerie, and wondered what might come of it all after he was gone.

EROS DELIVERS

THE CYCLOPES

APHRODITE

HUNGRY CRONUS

NARCISSUS

LEDA

DIVINE APPETITE

Cronus overthrew his old man, Uranus, so was forever nervous of his own offspring.

His power lead him to eat his kids. A little trickery and lucky Zeus escaped.

THE CYCLOPES

Those one eyed freaks learnt their skills underground;

prisoners who Daddy never loved;

resentment fuelled the fire of those blacksmiths.

DIVINE OFFSPRING

No one to date but the first born son: Gaia gets it on with Uranus.

There followed the ego-centric Titans and some mighty ugly monsters.

Uranus locked the scandal undergound.

APHRODITE'S ORIGINS

Cronus castrated his old man, Uranus, just to make mother Gaia happy.

His old wedding tackle fell into the sea.

Aphrodite rose from twisted love and violence.

LEDA

Zeus, the master craftsman in the art of subterfuge, feathered over his divinity.

Olympus thrives on all our secrets and, gods knew, Leda liked a little swan.

A live feather boa and a surprise entry; when gods come, it can be a beastly business.

SISYPHUS

As soon as he got it up, it was back down again;

the ultimate dilemma for a control freak.

If only he'd been kinder to those who crossed his borders.

Back up that hill you go, King Sisyphus.

ZEUS

Zeus.

Migraines.

End of story.

IF YOU'RE GOD THEN EAT YOUR BREAKFAST

Here's the thing they don't tell you about divinity when you're training: it's essentially a juggling act, right? You've gotta keep the whole lot propelled into continual existence. So nimble hands and keep your wits about you. Right?

I knew one god, dropped an entire planet, the whole thing just smashed to pieces; five major civilizations scattered like broken eggs on the cosmic floor.

Of course he was embarrassed. It wasn't as bad as being knocked off by your mortal underlings but still. I said to him, "Franky, you've made a right fucking mess of things there, haven't you?" And you know what he said to me?

"Sorry Barry. I was in such a rush this morning, I didn't have time for breakfast so me head was a bit dizzy when I clocked on for work."

So lesson one: if you're intending on making a success of this divinity business then make sure you get some breakfast into you. Right?

HIS OWN PRIVATE EDEN

Little big man’s built another nest: torn fashion magazines, yoghurt and a pair of musty socks.

Yesterday he waltzed into a crowded food court: hands waving alleluia in the sky; pants down around his ankles; privates dancing carefree in the breeze.

Little big man doesn’t subscribe to wearing underwear.

He’s in his own private Eden. Lucky bastard.

BROKEN MORNING

The sidewalks were covered with glass but the trains were still innocently efficient.

Stars were simply objects in the sky. Old women stitched nothing more than patches.

Nothing would return to what it was. Brute night was gone but grace had long departed.

HABIBTI

She was not a cat. She just had long hair. He found strands on the bed, or on the couch, after she'd left. She laughed when he said the cat’s visited me again.

They met once a month in secret. She was afraid of honour killings. He was afraid of losing her.

He called her Habibti despite the colour of his skin. She called him Baby despite her far younger years. They made love and watched DVDs. They ate chocolate.

And then she caught a bus, and then a train, back across the city to where she lived.

She never talked about their future. He never talked about her silence.

END POINT

The surprising thing about his discovery was that he was not surprised.

He already knew his life had followed a certain trajectory. And he knew this had always been his nature but he had never been so alone, in the skin of his predicament, as he was on that morning. 

Even the cold surface of the mirror failed to recognise him.

He shook his hand, in front of his face, hoping that movement might translate into visibility. 

It didn’t. 

He opened the bathroom cabinet, took out shaving foam, and covered his face.

The foam became a cloud of indeterminate shape and meaning suspended in mid-air.

He clawed the foam off his face, took up the canister and threw it at the mirror. Shards fell into the sink and he slumped to the floor and started sobbing. 

It was winter and the tiles were cold and nothing could be heard but the dripping tap. There was a scent of shaving foam in the air and a broken mirror that would be easily replaced.