After a day of tinkering for Hephaestus, he realizes the sun is setting when his automatons start buzzing, flying around to close curtains and turn on lights. It's then he realizes he hasn't eaten since morning.
His Repair shop never gets too busy in these country crossroads, but he gets lost in his ideas and projects. And after sitting for so long, his legs ache. One golden automaton chirps and brings his cane. It's still a good day for his limbs. After stretching and encouraging blood flow to return, Hephaestus can tolerate using just the cane for balance.
The moment he opens his workshop door, he's blasted with aromas of earthy flavors. His stomach delights in reminding him that it is empty. Being deities meant they did not need food in the same way, but their mortal forms craved it just the same.
Still Hephaestus frowned.
It meant Ares was in the kitchen.
Hephastus lumbered through the hall to the kitchen, wrinkling his nose as he entered. Ares hadn't burnt anything in centuries, but he had a heavy hand with spices. Hephastus resigned himself to a large meal. Ares hadn't done more than reheat leftovers or takeout in months. They were either finally finished with those, or Ares was in a mood.
A shrill whistle announced an incoming call to Ares's phone. Seemlessly he answered it and just said, "No," before hanging up. The whistle started again. Ares scowled and hung up without answering.
Definitely in a mood.
Hephaestus took the opportunity to dip a spoon into the tomato sauce for a taste. It wasn't bad, just not what he was in the mood for. "Too much garlic." He turned away to see what alternatives hid in the refridgerator.
Ares grumbled over the pot. The only clear words were "No such thing." Ares did open the oven to reveal roasted squash. This caught Hephaestus's attention. "This is for tonight. The sauce is not for you. Now, steak or pork?"
Hephaestus had to laugh. "You made both, didn't you."
"Couldn't decide. Didn't see you down here making dinner either." Ares eyed the multi-armed flying automatons. "Set the table. It's almost done." Millennia had a way of changing the world. Ares fell in line and changed right along with it. Unlike most of their family.
We all know the Greek Gods are known for fits of jealousy, rage, murder, unfair punishments, infidelity, and much more. What if they were punished? Born again into unknown bodies, stripped of their heritage, and had to walk the world alone? They still have their memories and knowledge, but weak mortals with no power can’t accomplish great deeds, right?
Hephaestus > Brenton
Hephaestus: God of Blacksmiths and Fire
Brenton: Name meaning “dweller near burnt land”
He never thought himself handsome. Not when he was a God, and not even now, as human, still cursed to cringe at his own reflection.
His parents always called him handsome, cute, stud…anything they thought parents ought to tell their kid with self-esteem issues. But having an eon of namecalling and stigmatism constantly lurking in the back of his mind, no words were sweet enough to affect his bitter mindset.
Another thing that never changed is his handiness. His dad was ecstatic that he picked up slack in the family-owned auto shop so easily. ‘I knew we were destined to get you.’
He knows too much about destiny.
“Brenton,” His mother called from her room. “Can you be a dear and open the windows for me before heading to the shop? It’s a nice day.”
“Sure thing,” He answered while getting up from the table to do as she asked. When he finished, he poured another cup of coffee (he’s always tired these days) He set his coffee down next to the pile of bills, and tapped his fingers next to them, staring at them as if his anger could rip them apart.
“You’d think disability reductions would help, huh?” His mom rolls in on her wheelchair and stops so she’s behind him. He feels her hand on his back, attempting to soothe him. “If we could manage on our own, you wouldn’t be working to the bone and still living with your parents at twenty-three.”
Brenton was quiet for a few moments, trying to feel every brush of his mom’s hand over his back, store it in his memory, “I’ve got the rest of my life to do what I want.”
What he didn’t say was that he didn’t really think about his future. He always pictured it staying exactly the way it is. Wake up, help Mom around the house, help Dad in the shop, go home, sleep. Rinse and repeat. Brenton was content with this. He figured that as long as his parents wanted his help—not that they’d admit to wanting it—he didn’t need to think about untraveled roads.
“I should probably get going,” Brenton grabs his mom’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “You rest, and when I get home I’ll help out with your pottery.”
Another form of income for them; with all the organic/all-natural fads happening, homemade decor popularized, too. His mom is able to bring in some extra money through her vases, but Brenton has a knack for pumping them out faster and his painting isn’t half bad either.
I’m good with my hands, if not anything else.
He puts his heavy boots on and heads to Cliff’s Auto Shop, just below their apartment.
“Son, you wanna go get us some burgers for lunch?” His dad grunted while messing with the engine.
“Sure.” Brenton wiped his hands on the rag and mentally noted where he left off with the car battery.
There’s a nice (and by nice, that means cheap) burger place just a block away. He looked at his reflection in the store windows he walked by and sighed. He tries not to let his looks bother him, but he really can’t help but feel hopeless.
He smiles at the clerk when he walks into the burger joint, “Hey, Don.”
Don looks up from the grill behind the counter, “Bren! The usual, I presume?”
“Yep,” Brenton shoves his hands in his pockets. “How’s Kate?”
“She’s good, responding well to the medicine.” Don smiles as he flips the meat.
“Good.” Brenton was never an avid conversationalist, but those who’ve known him since he was a kid don’t seem to mind or think him rude.
Soon enough, the burgers were ready and put in a bag. Brenton handed Don a five and bid him farewell. He held the warm bag of food at his side, not wanting to get grease from his clothes onto the bag. As he walked out, the bell on the door jingled. Only a few steps later, it jingled again. He looked back to see if it was Don letting him know he forgot something or has more news he didn’t tell Brenton.
There’s a woman. Someone who certainly doesn’t look like she belongs in that place. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, with a white blouse. Her curly hair is pulled into an elegant bun and her dark skin is free from any dirt or grim.
“I was hoping to talk to you,” She gasps as her heels click up to him, and she’s struggling to catch her breath.
“Yes?” Brenton asks suspiciously, trying to think of any reason he would be in trouble.
She hands him a card, “I work for a modeling agency and I think you’d be interested in my offer.”
He looks at the card, Pyre Modeling, then he looks around for a camera crew. When that wasn’t found, he looks back at the woman. Catherine, according to the card.
“I can answer any questions you might have,” She supplies when he says nothing.
“What were you doing in that joint? You’d get fry grease all over your outfit.” He doesn’t try to sound demeaning, but he really only has one voice setting.
“Is it a crime to want lunch?” She asks with a raised brow. “Besides, I work in the building just over there.” She points to the tall building just behind the apartment complex across the street from Don’s.
“Didn’t know that was an agency.”
“There are other businesses there, too. We’re on the fourth floor.”
Brenton looks at the card once more and hands it back, “I gotta keep a roof over my parents’ heads. Can’t be messing around with this shit. Don’t know why you’d go looking for me anyway.”
He turns around and starts walking, but she runs ahead and turns to stop in front of him. “Are you kidding me? You’re beautiful!”
His eyes widen, “What?”
She shrugs, “Maybe not in the conventional, perfect Barbie Ken way, but you are beautiful.”
When he just stares, she grabs his hand and puts the card back, folding his finger over it. She doesn’t even comment on the black oil stuck under his nails, “Give me a call if you change your mind. We’re not looking for conventional.”
With that, she turns and walks away.
That evening, he was washing the clay from his hands at the kitchen sink. He couldn’t stop thinking about that woman and her words.
Him? Beautiful? No way.
He dries his hands and looks at the pile of bills still sitting on the kitchen table.
Brenton fishes his rarely-used phone from his back pocket and finds the card along with it. He leans out the doorway of the kitchen and makes sure his dad is passed out on the couch and his mom is holding his hand, rubbing her husband’s knuckles as she smiles at the TV.
He makes sure the number is correct and presses CALL. There are a few rings, and he’s afraid that it really was all a lie, like some kind of sick prank.
“Catherine Newman, with Pyre Agency.” She answers formally.
He’s silent a few moments, “You really think I could be a model?”
I’m doing this for my parents, he tells himself, If I’m successful, Mom and Dad won’t have to worry anymore.
But something people won’t tell you, is that it’s okay to make selfish decisions. It’s those decisions that make you happy, keep you alive.
No, it’s not just about staying alive. It’s about living.
We all know the Greek Gods are known for fits of jealousy, rage, murder, unfair punishments, infidelity, and much more. What if they were punished? Born again into unknown bodies, stripped of their heritage, and had to walk the world alone? They still have their memories and knowledge, but weak mortals with no power can’t accomplish great deeds, right?
Hephaestus > Brenton
Hephaestus: God of Blacksmiths and Fire
Brenton: Name meaning “dweller near burnt land”
He never thought himself handsome. Not when he was a God, and not even now, as human, still cursed to cringe at his own reflection.
His parents always called him handsome, cute, stud…anything they thought parents ought to tell their kid with self-esteem issues. But having an eon of namecalling and stigmatism constantly lurking in the back of his mind, no words were sweet enough to affect his bitter mindset.
Another thing that never changed is his handiness. His dad was ecstatic that he picked up slack in the family-owned auto shop so easily. ‘I knew we were destined to get you.’
He knows too much about destiny.
“Brenton,” His mother called from her room. “Can you be a dear and open the windows for me before heading to the shop? It’s a nice day.”
“Sure thing,” He answered while getting up from the table to do as she asked. When he finished, he poured another cup of coffee (he’s always tired these days) He set his coffee down next to the pile of bills, and tapped his fingers next to them, staring at them as if his anger could rip them apart.
“You’d think disability reductions would help, huh?” His mom rolls in on her wheelchair and stops so she’s behind him. He feels her hand on his back, attempting to soothe him. “If we could manage on our own, you wouldn’t be working to the bone and still living with your parents at twenty-three.”
Brenton was quiet for a few moments, trying to feel every brush of his mom’s hand over his back, store it in his memory, “I’ve got the rest of my life to do what I want.”
What he didn’t say was that he didn’t really think about his future. He always pictured it staying exactly the way it is. Wake up, help Mom around the house, help Dad in the shop, go home, sleep. Rinse and repeat. Brenton was content with this. He figured that as long as his parents wanted his help—not that they’d admit to wanting it—he didn’t need to think about untraveled roads.
“I should probably get going,” Brenton grabs his mom’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “You rest, and when I get home I’ll help out with your pottery.”
Another form of income for them; with all the organic/all-natural fads happening, homemade decor popularized, too. His mom is able to bring in some extra money through her vases, but Brenton has a knack for pumping them out faster and his painting isn’t half bad either.
I’m good with my hands, if not anything else.
He puts his heavy boots on and heads to Cliff’s Auto Shop, just below their apartment.
“Son, you wanna go get us some burgers for lunch?” His dad grunted while messing with the engine.
“Sure.” Brenton wiped his hands on the rag and mentally noted where he left off with the car battery.
There’s a nice (and by nice, that means cheap) burger place just a block away. He looked at his reflection in the store windows he walked by and sighed. He tries not to let his looks bother him, but he really can’t help but feel hopeless.
He smiles at the clerk when he walks into the burger joint, “Hey, Don.”
Don looks up from the grill behind the counter, “Bren! The usual, I presume?”
“Yep,” Brenton shoves his hands in his pockets. “How’s Kate?”
“She’s good, responding well to the medicine.” Don smiles as he flips the meat.
“Good.” Brenton was never an avid conversationalist, but those who’ve known him since he was a kid don’t seem to mind or think him rude.
Soon enough, the burgers were ready and put in a bag. Brenton handed Don a five and bid him farewell. He held the warm bag of food at his side, not wanting to get grease from his clothes onto the bag. As he walked out, the bell on the door jingled. Only a few steps later, it jingled again. He looked back to see if it was Don letting him know he forgot something or has more news he didn’t tell Brenton.
There’s a woman. Someone who certainly doesn’t look like she belongs in that place. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, with a white blouse. Her curly hair is pulled into an elegant bun and her dark skin is free from any dirt or grim.
“I was hoping to talk to you,” She gasps as her heels click up to him, and she’s struggling to catch her breath.
“Yes?” Brenton asks suspiciously, trying to think of any reason he would be in trouble.
She hands him a card, “I work for a modeling agency and I think you’d be interested in my offer.”
He looks at the card, Pyre Modeling, then he looks around for a camera crew. When that wasn’t found, he looks back at the woman. Catherine, according to the card.
“I can answer any questions you might have,” She supplies when he says nothing.
“What were you doing in that joint? You’d get fry grease all over your outfit.” He doesn’t try to sound demeaning, but he really only has one voice setting.
“Is it a crime to want lunch?” She asks with a raised brow. “Besides, I work in the building just over there.” She points to the tall building just behind the apartment complex across the street from Don’s.
“Didn’t know that was an agency.”
“There are other businesses there, too. We’re on the fourth floor.”
Brenton looks at the card once more and hands it back, “I gotta keep a roof over my parents’ heads. Can’t be messing around with this shit. Don’t know why you’d go looking for me anyway.”
He turns around and starts walking, but she runs ahead and turns to stop in front of him. “Are you kidding me? You’re beautiful!”
His eyes widen, “What?”
She shrugs, “Maybe not in the conventional, perfect Barbie Ken way, but you are beautiful.”
When he just stares, she grabs his hand and puts the card back, folding his finger over it. She doesn’t even comment on the black oil stuck under his nails, “Give me a call if you change your mind. We’re not looking for conventional.”
With that, she turns and walks away.
That evening, he was washing the clay from his hands at the kitchen sink. He couldn’t stop thinking about that woman and her words.
Him? Beautiful? No way.
He dries his hands and looks at the pile of bills still sitting on the kitchen table.
Brenton fishes his rarely-used phone from his back pocket and finds the card along with it. He leans out the doorway of the kitchen and makes sure his dad is passed out on the couch and his mom is holding his hand, rubbing her husband’s knuckles as she smiles at the TV.
He makes sure the number is correct and presses CALL. There are a few rings, and he’s afraid that it really was all a lie, like some kind of sick prank.
“Catherine Newman, with Pyre Agency.” She answers formally.
He’s silent a few moments, “You really think I could be a model?”
I’m doing this for my parents, he tells himself, If I’m successful, Mom and Dad won’t have to worry anymore.
But something people won’t tell you, is that it’s okay to make selfish decisions. It’s those decisions that make you happy, keep you alive.
No, it’s not just about staying alive. It’s about living.
