Who's the victim?
The cold stone wall pressed against Perseus' body. It was his only way to ground himself and reassured himself that what was in front of him was no illusion. His breaths were short and staggering from the fear gripping tightly around his diaphragm. The entire cave was filled with the stench of rotting flesh and the excrement of bats.
Sickly green snakes slithered across the head of a pale woman. Illuminated by the light of Perseus' fallen torch, he could see her through the reflection of his shield resting against a statue of a man dressed in royal armour. Each gasp of breath from her was dry, and the air scraped against her parched throat.
Perseus swallowed down the rising fear boiling in his stomach. The handle of Hermes' sword was drenche…
Fear is powerful
There was nothing left of the wild chamomiles that bloomed for the gods. East winds that used to carry the fragrance of the woods and the sounds of the wild were silenced.
Instead of freshwater feeding Gaia's soil, blood rained from the battle. Men, some barely old enough to be called youths, lay gutted open like offerings to Zeus. The victors, those favoured by Nike, marched off to celebrate, whilst the Keres flocked together to feast on the flesh of the fallen and gnaw at their naked bones.
The young Phobos, a deity entering his youth, stood beside his twin brother Deimos. Their father returned to his chariot. Words could not describe the emotions that flooded through the boys' minds as they stared at the dead.
A bloody hand grabbed onto De…
Occasionem carpe
"Occasionem carpe," Mother used to whisper into my ear.
Seize the opportunity.
I stood in the open field filled with wildflowers for it was Persephone's time to visit her mother, Demeter. Apollo had ridden off with his chariot and it was only Selene and I. Even the winds Zephyrus blew, were warm as they danced through the grass.
"Caerus, I will seize thee," I warned.
The night before had been peaceful. I was at a music festival, watching the youths and maidens dance to the music and chants, celebrating Persephone's return. Within the gaggle of dancers, I spotted a heated gaze. A youth, with burning blue irises and pomegranate red lips, watched me as I stood with my companions.
One of the girls around me dared to call the youth's attention towar…
Cold Love
The myth of Pygmalion and Galatea, but if Aphrodite ignored the man's wishes.
In an old shed with mould covered walls and broken doors, sat a lonely sculptor. The stench of sweat and rotting wood danced around him. He sat to admire his work, searching for an imperfection. The sculptor’s chisel fell to the ground. Awe and fear scattered across his face. His masterpiece was finally complete. There were no imperfections. Before his hollow- eyes stood his marbled love. She stared at the sculptor with emotionless eyes. The man crawled across the filth to touch the plump thigh of his sculpted lover.
Upon his lover’s bleached skin remained the sculptor’s grimy fingerprints. For the first time in years, the sculptor smiled, causing his dried lips to…