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FOR THE LOVE OF APHRODITE (Brontes the Cyclops)

Short story By: Vengie

For Guitar Player's Magical Creatures Contest


Submitted:Aug 18, 2010    Reads: 204    Comments: 8    Likes: 8   


1. pertaining to a sense of the beautiful or to the science of aesthetics.

2. having a sense of the beautiful; characterized by a love of beauty.

3. pertaining to, involving, or concerned with pure emotion and sensation as opposed to pure intellectuality.


1. A deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person, such as that arising from kinship, recognition of attractive qualities, or a sense of underlying oneness.

2. A feeling of intense desire and attraction toward a person with whom one is disposed to make a pair; the emotion of sex and romance.

a. Sexual passion.

b. Sexual intercourse.

c. A love affair.

It is ironic. To be so ugly and love someone so beautiful. To expect her to overlook my flaws as I loose myself , spellbound by her perfection. Aphrodite. My Goddess. My obsession. My love.

The Love of my life who will never be mine. I saw her the day she was born, and I reborn, yet our paths have not crossed since. It is torturous to feel so much after such fleeting association. As cruel as being thrown down to the depths of darkness in an underground abyss.

I should know. For I am Brontes........

My mother was born from before. Before humanity, before the universe, before anything. Submerging from the vastness and darkness of Chaos ,Gaea, my mother appeared. An embodiment of the living Earth, her deep breasted form rejoiced in the birth of creation. But she was a mother deity and soon found her solitude tiresome. To end her isolation and evoke her maternity she created a consort, Uranus and soon after crafted the universe.

I wonder if my life would have ended differently, had she chosen more wisely. What did she really look for in a mate and did my father encompass it? It is too late to ask now; ask from down here where no one goes.

First came my brothers and sisters, the Titans. Athletic and beautiful, they passed inspection. Their physical form ensured that they would be adored. They passed the aesthetics test and could be rewarded with our father's love. What of me and my brothers? Were we really that different? Strong and athletic too; articulate and intelligent. Does the absence of one eye really make so much difference?

Apparently so. A Cyclops; a single eyed creature,a monster, a discarded being. My initial punishment was not isolation. If maternal love is all encompassing and unconditional, paternal hatred can be scathing and murderous. Uranus devoured us. Ate us whole. Consumed our life source and stored us in his digestive system, close enough to his cold heart. It was horrific watching him engulf my brothers. Swallowing them away with maniacal intensity. As if that would solve the problem. It did for a while.

Gaea was a mother. Where others saw disfigurement she saw hope and dreams. Where her husband saw mutation, she saw progeny. At first Gaea mourned her lost boys, the children she nurtured with her life giving womb. When the pain dissipated, fury took over. A rage permeated her entire being, burning like the fire she created at the beginning of time.

My father was foolish and arrogant. Equipping him with intellect instead of vanity could have prevented his downfall. Would I want such a thing? Do I seek his approval, instead of his repulsion even now? My mother channeled her anger into revolution. A conspiracy calculated, one that would provide her with both vengeance and the live return of her lost children.

The Titans, like most children, were a product of mother and father. They would not betray one to placate the other. They would not betray one to avenge the brothers that they too resented and considered an aberration. Gaea's plan seemed destined to fail. But Destiny wasn't in the mood for failure.

Cronus volunteered. Cronus my brother. Cronus my hero. Cronus my incarcerator.

Unsuspecting Uranus slept in his bed,accompanied by Darkness, awaiting the arrival of his wife, but without much urgency. His belly warm with wine that worked like a river bathing his horrendous sons. He felt euphoric. He basked in his cleverness, his contentment, his conceit. Hubris is never rewarded, and forgetting who his maker was, was foolish indeed.

Upon Gaea's instruction, Cronus drew a sharp sickle and carved a line into his father's abdomen,

enough to cause pain and torment, but without the power to kill. From the hole a deluge of blood poured to the bed, running towards the other gash. The gash that rendered him imperfect. Whilst I still had my lone eye, my father had nothing remaining of his manhood. The impudent fool was now impotent. Nothing left but a monstrous scar and a pool of blood.

My victorious brother smirked and threw the genitals out the window, as if they vermin rather than the things that helped him enter the world. What occurred next was beyond amazing, and if it wasn't for my need to maintain faith for my own mental survival, I would imagine it was a dream. Just a dream that emerged when I was in the boundary between life and death after my father's attempt at infanticide.

From those coarse organs (saturated in blood and smelling like rotten meat) arose a miracle. As they met the sea, the water frothed and boiled until a woman emerged from the bubbles. She looked like a woman. But to call her such does little to illustrate her divinity or her perfection. The term perfection itself seems insufficient to demonstrate the extent of her flawlessness. Everything that was good and pure and radiant paled in comparison to her glorious facade. She was magnificent.

I stood in awe, staring. Transfixed. Overwhelmed. Enchanted. Obsessed. In love.

She returned my gaze. What was her expression? It was not one of hate. It was not one of revulsion. It was not one easy to interpret. There was a pleading behind her beautiful eyes, was she expressing remorse for what had been, or what was to come? How did she know either past or future? Was she prophetic?

For that moment, we were as one. She was my Aphrodite. And I her Brontes the Cyclops. There was no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There was no hierarchy. Just us. Just us and what we had to tell each other. If we were ever to be given the chance.

Cronus may have been my saviour, but not for long. He gave us the gift of salvation to appease our mother, but that did not mean he shared her sympathies. One moment my eyes were locking with my beloved, the next my whole being was traveling through time and space into the bowels of the underground where there is no light to see my wretchedness. An incidental cruel irony , as no one ever travels here to even sense the existence of my unsightliness. No one shares this space beyond me and my brothers.

I wonder if they can. I wonder if we are somehow unreachable to others as we are imprisoned ourselves. I wonder about mother and how her maternal devotion removed us from the claws of death, but did nothing to prevent us being lost to her forever again in a parallel existence. Did she cry for us? Did she scheme against Cronus for banishing us, just as she schemed against our father? Did she feel paralysed, not wanting to side against any of her children? Did she actively side against us, choosing the beautiful ones over those of us deemed imperfect?

But mainly I dream about Aphrodite. What might have been. What still may be if I am foolish enough to allow hope to distort my already fragile psyche. I dream about Aphrodite and what words were unwritten behind those eyes.


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